Out of the timeout, the Ballers put the ball in their guard's hands.
72–72, twenty-five seconds left. No rush—dead even, and nobody wanted to hand the other side the last shot. The guard held it, working the clock down a second at a time, the ball swinging back and forth up top, everyone waiting on that final beat.
The clock dropped into single digits before he made his move—going right at the Team Sasha defender who'd been glued to him the whole possession. But the instant he did, Kendrick left his own man and came flying in from the wing, the two of them trapping the guard front and back. The weak side collapsed in behind them, choking off every passing lane, the baseline man dropping early to seal the skip pass.
The guard's rhythm came apart in the double. Couldn't drive, couldn't find anyone to pass to—and with the clock bleeding to zero, he threw up a hurried shot at the rim—
Off the iron.
