Dead Wrong (A Cal Murphy Thriller Book 7) by Jack Patterson (ebook reader for pc .txt) 📕

a good look at the basket and hopefully one of you can knock it down.”

The Wizards returned to the court and inbounded the ball. The seconds ticked off the clock:

12, 11, 10, 9, 8…

Ford finally put the play in action and delivered a bullet pass to Jameson. However, the Spurs converged on him, leaving Jameson with very few options. Yet with three seconds remaining, one of the Spurs’ players slipped and created a window for Jameson to pass the ball back to a wide-open Ford. Instead, Jameson saw the reduction from a triple team to a double team as his opportunity to fire up a shot.

3, 2, 1. Buzzzzzz.

Jameson launched the ball a fraction of a second before the buzzer signaled the end of the game. The crowd fell silent as everyone awaited the final destination of the shot—made or missed. He shared their anticipation but he knew the moment he shot it where it was going.

Clank.

The ball bounded off the front of the rim and fell onto the court.

Overtime.

In the huddle, Ford glared at Jameson. “What was that?” he asked.

“What was what?”

“That shot? I was wide open.”

Jameson waved him off. “You didn’t have a chance, man. I saw how far you were from the basket.”

“I was wide open.”

“I got a good look.”

Ford shook his head. “For a blind man.”

Ryman ignored the banter and drew up a few more plays. “We can’t worry about what just happened. We have to focus on what we have to do right now to win this one. We need it bad, so let’s go get it.”

The players returned to the court for an extra five minutes—or more if the teams couldn’t break the deadlock in the first overtime.

Jameson wiped away the sweat beading up on his forehead. He tried to ignore all the insults hurled at him by angry Wizards fans. He thought it was strange how they all sounded like Hank Bingham to him. Instead of dwelling on all the negative energy directed at him, Jameson went on a mental retreat as he zeroed in on KJ

His son’s face appeared forlorn. With arms crossed and a protruding bottom lip, KJ stared at the ground. When he looked up, Jameson caught his eyes. He mouthed, “I love you, son,” and smiled. The corners of KJ’s mouth curled upward; a twinkle returned to his eyes. Then another message. “We’re going to win.”

KJ flashed a thumbs-up sign to his dad and returned to screaming for the Wizards.

Overtime followed the same script as the waning minutes of the game—minus a few made shots. Neither team seemed poised to snatch the victory. But when the Wizards fell behind by two points with fifteen seconds left to play, defeat grew more imminent with each tick of the clock.

Without any timeouts remaining, the Wizards inbounded the ball and charged down the court to set up a last gasp play. Ryman encouraged Ford to drive the lane and go for the tie. It was an idea that collapsed as quickly as the Spurs’ defenders filled the lane and forced Ford back outside.

Five seconds remaining.

Three defenders surrounded him, but somehow Ford squeezed the ball through them with a quick pass to Jameson. He scooped up the loose ball.

3, 2, 1, buzzzzzzzz.

Jameson had enough time to square up and hoist a high-arcing, three-point shot toward the basket before the game ended—and this time with different results.

The ball tickled the net as it went through the hoop, setting off a chaotic celebration in the stands and on the floor.

Jameson reveled being swarmed upon by his younger teammates. It reminded him of what it was like when he was a young rising star in the league. All the adrenaline. All the passion. All the dreams of a championship. As he looked up at the arena lights beaming brightly onto the floor, he felt all of those things were still there—and still within his reach. It wouldn’t be easy, but hope dangled in front of him and served as a reminder that he was still very much alive—and that he belonged in the league no matter what Hank Bingham said.

After Jameson escaped the mob and conducted several interviews with local radio and TV outlets, he returned to a locker room full of high spirits.

Except for one.

Eric Ford sat slumped in his locker, towel draped over his head. Several teammates approached him and he stuck out his knuckles for a half-hearted fist bump.

Jameson wasn’t going to let Ford’s self-imposed alienation create a situation in the locker room. The Wizards’ championship aspirations were on life-support at the moment, but they were still alive. One hot streak and the team might find itself with a three or four seed in the talent-dilapidated Eastern Conference. Either way, once the Wizards got into the playoffs, who knew what could happen. At least, that was Jameson’s take on the situation. And he wasn’t about to let one player’s ego create a toxic environment for everyone.

“Get up,” Jameson said as he yanked on Ford’s arm.

Ford withdrew forcefully, ripping his own arm away from Jameson’s grasp before folding his arms and tucking his feet up near his chest.

“I ain’t playin’ with you,” Jameson said again as he reached for Ford’s arm. “Get up.”

“Leave me alone, Albatross.”

Jameson’s eyes narrowed. “What did you call me?”

Ford stood up. “You heard me,” he said as he poked Jameson’s chest with his index finger. “Al-ba-tross,” he said, reinforcing every syllable with a poke.

“Don’t ever do that again, fool,” Jameson said.

A sly grin spread across Ford’s face. “Do what? This?” he said as he jammed his finger into Jameson’s chest again.

Jameson didn’t hesitate to act. He grabbed Ford’s fingers and then his hand and spun him around. Ford let out a yelp in pain and grimaced as Jameson gained a positional advantage. Ford had no leverage and no way to escape Jameson’s grip.

“Any of this,” Jameson answered. “No sulking, no poking, no accusing, no isolation. And never call me an Albatross.” He crept closer to Ford’s ear and whispered. “Remember