“Yo, James.”
James Jones looked up from tying his shoes. “Hey LeBron.”
“You gotta step it up tonight, man,” LeBron said. “I’m not playing so it’s gotta be you. All you. YGSIU.” He pronounced this as ‘igg-cee-you’. “You gotta step it up.”
James was a little bit put off by LeBron’s attempts at motivational speaking, as well as by LeBron’s apparent idea that a player who hardly ever came off the bench was the one who would be expected to step up, but he didn’t show it. Instead, he held out his fist, which LeBron bumped. “You know it.”
“I need a playmaker,” LeBron abruptly added, his expression going oddly blank before pointing at James’ chest. “You. Playmaker.”
Shrugging his shoulders in resignation, James replied, “Sure. Playmaker. You got it, boss.” LeBron didn’t respond; he just robotically turned and walked away.
—
“I thought I told you to be a playmaker,” LeBron said monotonally after the game to a sweaty James Jones. “I thought I told you to step it up.”
“Well, I sort of did, since I scored twelve more points than my average,” James pointed out, wondering what had gotten into his superstar teammate. “If you want to talk about failure to step up, your man TT scored four points in thirty minutes.”
“Playmaker. Playmaker. Playmaker,” LeBron intoned. “Playmaker.”
James stood up and slung his coat over his shoulder. “I gotta get going, man. See you.”
“Playmaker.”