Chapter 50: Championship II: The Final Minutes

The fourth quarter opened with a revelation.

Marcus made the decision he'd been saving all season—the one play, the one lineup, the one adjustment that no opponent had seen because he'd kept it hidden like a weapon in reserve.

He subbed out Dominique and brought in Isaiah alongside Jayden—a three-guard lineup with Darius, creating a backcourt that could shoot from anywhere on the floor and move faster than any lineup Prep had faced.

"Spread the floor," he told them. "Five-out. Malik, you're at the top of the key. Everyone else, find space. When they help on the drive, we shoot."

Blake recognized the shift immediately, his face tightening. He called for man-to-man, but it was too late—the spacing was already causing problems.

Darius drove, drew two defenders, kicked to Isaiah in the corner.

*Swish.*

59-54, Jefferson.

Prep pushed the ball. Washington drove—TJ stayed in front—contested pull-up—

Miss. Malik grabbed the rebound, outletted to Darius.

Fast break. Three-on-two. Darius to Jayden, trailing on the wing.

*Swish.*

62-54, Jefferson.

Blake called timeout, his composure cracking.

---

"Don't celebrate yet," Marcus warned his players. "They've got too much talent to go quietly."

He was right. Prep came out of the timeout with a fury that bordered on violence. Washington scored on three consecutive possessions—a driving layup, a pull-up three, and a transition dunk that brought the Prep fans to their feet.

62-60. Just like that, the lead was two.

"Stay with them!" Marcus shouted. "Don't fold!"

Jefferson answered. Malik posted up on the block, drew the double team, and kicked to Kevin—who had been quiet all game—in the corner.

Kevin caught the ball. Set his feet. The reliable, steady presence who never made headlines but always made the right play.

*Swish.*

65-60, Jefferson. Three minutes left.

---

The next two minutes were agony.

Prep scored. Jefferson answered. Prep scored again. Jefferson answered again. Neither team could build or close the gap.

With 1:12 left, Jefferson led 71-68.

Prep pushed the ball. Washington drove into the lane—drawing Malik as the help defender—and dumped it to Brandon Wright, wide open under the basket.

Wright scored.

71-70. One-point game. Fifty-five seconds.

Marcus called timeout.

The gymnasium was deafening. Five thousand people screaming, the sound bouncing off the walls until it felt physical.

"Run clock," Marcus said, his voice barely audible above the noise. "Make them foul us. We get to the line, we win."

"What if they press?" Darius asked.

"They will. Use the middle of the court. If you're trapped, call timeout."

"And if we can't?"

"Then make a play. You've been making plays all season. This is no different."

Darius nodded. His face was calm—impossibly calm for a sixteen-year-old in this situation.

"I've got this, Coach."

"I know you do."

---

Jefferson inbounded.

Prep pressed immediately—full-court, aggressive, gambling. Two defenders converged on Darius before he crossed half-court.

He spun away from the first. Crossed over the second. Found a sliver of space and pushed through the trap.

Forty seconds.

He dribbled at the top of the key, clock melting. Prep's defense scrambled, trying to find an opening to foul without giving up a layup.

Thirty seconds.

Washington reached in—cleanly, no foul—and knocked the ball loose.

Loose ball. Bodies diving. The crowd screaming.

Isaiah came up with it. He was immediately trapped—two defenders closing.

Twenty seconds.

Isaiah looked for the pass. Everyone was covered. Prep's defense was swarming, suffocating, perfect.

Fifteen seconds.

Isaiah did the only thing he could do: he shot.

From twenty-eight feet. Falling away. Contested by two defenders.

The shot had no business going in.

The ball hit the backboard, kissed the rim, and—

—dropped through.

74-70, Jefferson. Twelve seconds left.

The Jefferson side went berserk. Isaiah stood frozen for a second before his teammates mobbed him.

"DEFENSE!" Marcus screamed over the chaos. "IT'S NOT OVER! DEFENSE!"

---

Prep inbounded with ten seconds left.

Washington caught the ball and pushed upcourt. He was past half-court in two dribbles—this kid was genuinely elite—and pulled up for a three with TJ closing.

*Swish.*

74-73. Seven seconds.

Jefferson inbounded quickly. Darius caught the ball—

—and was immediately fouled.

Free throw line. Seven seconds left. One-point lead.

The entire arena was standing. The noise was unbearable.

Darius walked to the line. He looked at Marcus, who nodded once.

*You've got this.*

First free throw.

Darius bounced the ball three times. Took a breath. Shot.

The ball rattled around the rim—once, twice, three times—

—and fell through.

75-73.

Second free throw.

Same routine. Bounce, bounce, bounce. Breath. Shot.

*Swish.*

76-73.

Three-point lead. Five seconds.

Prep had no timeouts. Washington caught the inbound and heaved a three from just past half-court.

The ball sailed through the air. The entire gymnasium tracked its arc.

It hit the front of the rim.

Bounced straight up.

Came down.

Hit the rim again.

And rolled off.

The buzzer sounded.

Jefferson 76, Jefferson Prep 73.

Back-to-back district champions.

---

The celebration was even more intense than last year's.

Players, coaches, fans, all of them flooding the court. Confetti appeared from somewhere and the arena filled with blue and gold.

Marcus stood at the center of it all, tears streaming down his face, his players surrounding him.

Malik lifted him—again—the giant center crying harder than anyone.

"TWO IN A ROW!" Darius screamed. "TWO IN A ROW!"

TJ was laughing and crying at the same time. Kevin stood off to the side, watching everything with a half-smile. Jayden had Chris in a bear hug, both of them sobbing. Isaiah was up on Travis's shoulders, still looking stunned.

And Marcus Williams, the kid named after his coach, stood by the bench with Morrison's whistle around his neck, blowing it with all his might.

"That's for you, Coach Morrison!" he shouted. "That's for you!"

---

Through the celebration, Marcus caught sight of his father.

The man was still sitting in the stands, the Prep jacket hanging awkwardly on his frame. Around him, Prep fans were filing out in bitter silence.

But Marcus Reed Senior wasn't leaving. He was watching his son.

Their eyes met across the court.

And for the first time Marcus could remember, his father's face held something other than shame or regret. The man looked proud. Genuinely, painfully proud.

Marcus didn't wave. Didn't nod. Didn't acknowledge it in any visible way.

But his shoulders dropped. His jaw unclenched. The fist he hadn't realized he'd been making opened, finger by finger, and his hand hung loose at his side.

He turned back to his team and let the celebration carry him away.

Tomorrow would be complicated. But tonight, they were champions.