by Regina Hart
“Good.” DeMarcus checked his watch. His temper appeared back under control.
Troy ground his teeth. As the head coach, DeMarcus should understand the need to have a good relationship with the media. In some ways, he was worse than the players.
Troy blocked his imaginary list of potential negative headlines and shook the reporter’s hand. “Thanks for your time, Kirk.”
Behind him, DeMarcus’s voice was dry. “Yeah. Thanks.”
Kirk released Troy’s hand. He grabbed his notebook and marched toward the door. “Don’t bother to show me out. I can find my own way.”
Troy stood in the threshold, his back to DeMarcus, watching Kirk stomp down the hall. “Could you get through even one interview without antagonizing the press?”
DeMarcus snorted. “You heard his questions. He was antagonizing me.”
Troy faced DeMarcus. “Do you know why I come to these interviews? Because you always piss off the reporters.”
“That’s not true. Andrea Benson and I get along fine. But you still come to those interviews.”
Troy ignored the knowing glint in DeMarcus’s eyes. He wouldn’t admit he went to those interviews because he enjoyed looking at the New York Sports reporter. “The media have a job to do just like you. They help put the game in perspective for fans. It all comes back to the fans.”
“I know.”
Troy continued as though DeMarcus hadn’t spoken. “The more fans we have, the better our chances of keeping our jobs. That’s why it’s important to project a positive image so people will actually like you.”
DeMarcus rocked his chair on its back legs. “I’m out to win basketball games. People don’t have to like me.”
“Yes. They do.” On this, Troy wouldn’t accept an argument. “You’re a reflection of the team. If the fans like you, they’ll like the team and, hopefully, buy tickets.”
DeMarcus scrubbed a hand over his face. “It always comes back to money.”
“That is what I pay you with. Or are you offering to work for free?” Jaclyn Jones, co-owner of the Monarchs, spoke from the doorway. Her violet skirt suit warmed her golden brown skin and hugged the former Women’s National Basketball Association player’s tall, slender figure.
DeMarcus sent his boss and fiancée a wicked grin. “From the size of my paycheck, I thought I’d already made the offer.”
Troy’s neck muscles relaxed. The cavalry had arrived. “Good morning, Jackie.”
“Maybe for some of us.” Jaclyn moved farther into the room, carrying a newspaper in her right hand. She stopped beside DeMarcus’s chair.
Troy doubted he could slip a piece of paper between the two of them. DeMarcus and Jaclyn were right for each other. They’d each achieved individual success. DeMarcus was a two-time NBA champion and gold medal Olympian. Jaclyn was a WNBA champion. She’d also been an associate at a prestigious New York law firm before assuming control of the franchise her grandfather had helped found. They were together because they wanted each other. Their need for each other had come later. Not everyone was that lucky. He hadn’t been.
Jaclyn looked down at her head coach. “You know this franchise needs money, Marc. That’s why it’s so important we have at least three play-off games in a sold-out arena.”
DeMarcus played with the fingers of Jaclyn’s left hand. Her four-carat, Monarch-cut diamond engagement ring sparkled in the overhead light. “I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll play nicely with reporters if you tell me which one of the players has a personality similar to mine.”
That comment surprised a laugh from Troy. “Are you still trying to figure that out?”
DeMarcus frowned at him. “If you know, why don’t you just tell me?”
Jaclyn pulled her fingers from DeMarcus’s hold. “No one’s going to tell you. Get to know your players, Marc.” She patted his shoulder before turning her sharp brown eyes on Troy. “Was the angry man who marched out of here a reporter?”
“Kirk West from the Horn.” Troy’s gaze dipped to the newspaper in her hand. He’d lay odds she’d read the New York Sports article on Barron.
Jaclyn settled both fists on her hips. She gave DeMarcus a fierce frown. “If I see even a hint of a negative article about the Monarchs because of you, you and I will have some strong words.”
“Yes, ma’am.” DeMarcus sounded chastened, but laughter lit his eyes.
Jaclyn sighed. “Why do I waste my breath?” She held up the newspaper and looked from DeMarcus to Troy. “Have you read the Sports article on Barron?”
DeMarcus shook his head. “I don’t read articles about the team while we’re in season.”
Troy tensed. “I did.”
Jaclyn sat in a chair beside DeMarcus. “Is Barron abusing drugs?”
DeMarcus straightened in his seat. “Barron’s not using.”
An image of Barron weaving his way out of the nightclub at two o’clock this morning flashed across Troy’s mind. Barron may be an alcoholic, but he wasn’t abusing hard drugs. “I spoke with Andy this morning. I told her to stop attacking our players.”
Jaclyn skimmed the article. “Andrea doesn’t attack Barron. She quotes our players who describe his behavior as irresponsible and unpredictable.”
Troy looked at DeMarcus. “The players should be reminded not to air their grievances in public.”
DeMarcus nodded. “I’ll talk to them at today’s practice.”
Jaclyn laid the paper on the table. “That’s not the point. I’m concerned Barron may be in trouble.”
Troy crossed his arms over his chest and feigned a confidence he didn’t feel. “Andy’s trying to advance her career with sensational stories.”
Jaclyn’s brows knitted. “That’s not like her.”
Troy wasn’t as sure about Andrea. But he did know the Monarchs’ playbook centered around its captain. How far would the team advance in the play-offs without him? “Barron’s fine.”
Jaclyn pinned him with a look. “How do you know that? How often do you talk to him?”
Not that often. But for the good of the team, he had to find a way to minimize the damage Andrea’s article was causing internally as well as externally. “Often enough to know Barron’s behavior has always been aggressive and erratic. Andy’s exaggerating his actions to sell papers.”
Jaclyn’s eyes were clouded with concern. “Andrea has always been more than balanced in her coverage of us.”
Troy’s attention bounced from the newspaper back to Jaclyn’s gaze. “She shouldn’t be writing articles like that one.”
Jaclyn looked up at him. “We can’t tell the media what to write as long as they’re writing the truth. That’s what I’m trying to find out.” She turned to DeMarcus. “How has Barron seemed to you?”
DeMarcus shrugged. “The same. A couple of times, he’s come to practice with hangovers, but he’s passed the drug tests.”
Jaclyn nodded. “Keep an eye on him.”
DeMarcus checked his watch. “I’d better go. Practice starts soon.” He kissed Jaclyn’s cheek before leaving.
Troy uncrossed his arms. “The only reason we’re putting Barron under a microscope is because of Andy’s article.”
Jaclyn gathered the newspaper and stood. “Her article raises an important question.”
“If that’s what she wanted, she could have picked up the phone.”
Jaclyn’s gaze scrutinized him. “I know you’re under a lot of pressure since we made the play-offs, but let’s not lose sight of what’s really important—our players.”
Was she saying he couldn’t handle his job? “I know the players are important. That’s why I want to make sure the papers treat them fairly.”
Jaclyn’s stare seemed to reach into his mind. “I’ve heard that some reporters are complaining about you.”
His brows shot up his forehead. “Why?”
“They’re saying you’re limiting their access to the players and trying to direct their stories.”
Troy couldn’t deny the
charges. He wouldn’t apologize, either. He gestured toward the newspaper in Jaclyn’s hand. “I don’t want them distracting the team with stories like that.”
Jaclyn lifted the paper. “Bad press hurts our revenue, and I’m depending on you to minimize the damage. But we’re still obligated to address any problem we may have with the franchise and our employees. Not bury them.”
Troy watched Jaclyn exit the conference room. His boss was right. He had to find a way to protect the team—and his job. But how do you keep thirteen hardworking, hard-playing athletes out of the media spotlight, especially when they had targets on their backs?
3
“Tell me your secret.” Vella Wong whispered into the phone.
Andrea frowned at the New York Sports receptionist’s command. “Why are you whispering?”
Vella continued in hushed tones. “Another wealthy, handsome man is asking for you. This one’s a little older, though. His name’s Gerald Bimm.”
Andrea’s mind went blank. “Gerald Bimm?” She needed confirmation that the Monarchs’ co-owner actually was here.
Vella’s voice returned to normal. “Gerald Bimm is at the front desk for you.”
This couldn’t be good. “I’ll be right there.”
Andrea pushed away from her desk and set off for the reception area. The last time she’d spoken to the Monarchs’ co-owner, he’d been furious that her story had exposed his attempts to move the Brooklyn Monarchs to Nevada, despite the fact the National Basketball Association still had reservations about allowing a franchise in the country’s gambling capital.
Gerald stood watching her enter the waiting area. He looked like Hollywood’s casting of a wealthy, pampered executive with delusions of entitlement. His pinstriped navy suit was custom fit to his tall, lean frame. His pink and blue tie probably cost more than her pantsuit and pumps combined.
Andrea extended her hand. “Good morning, Gerry.” She bit her tongue to keep from asking why he was here. She didn’t want him to know she was uneasy with his surprise visit. Strange. She hadn’t been uncomfortable with Troy’s unexpected appearance. At least not until he’d started telling her how to do her job.
Gerald held her hand too long. “Forgive me for not calling first. Can we talk privately?”
Another man who wanted to speak with her in private? What was going on?
“Sure.” Andrea pulled her hand free and turned to lead him to the newspaper’s conference room. The same room in which she’d spoken with Troy. The similarities were unnerving.
His hold on her shoulder stopped her.
Gerald wrinkled his nose and looked around the worn-and-tattered waiting area. “I noticed a coffee shop around the corner. Could we go there?”
Andrea looked around the room. During the three years she’d worked for New York Sports, she’d become oblivious to the office’s shabby appearance. It hadn’t seemed to disturb Troy this morning, either. Now she tried to see it through a stranger’s eyes, through a wealthy, pampered stranger’s eyes.
There wasn’t any point in mentioning the neighborhood coffee shop wasn’t much better. “I’ll get my purse.”
The screech of athletic shoes across the Monarchs’ practice facility almost drowned the echo of Troy’s dress shoes against the high-gloss hardwood floor. He paused beside the black wire carts of NBA-regulation basketballs and the counters on which stood about a dozen water bottles. A deep breath brought with it the scent of floor wax. Above the floor, following the ceiling’s perimeter, were twelve baskets.
Troy took a moment to watch as players in baggy black shorts and either black or white T-shirts used the baskets for shooting drills. The starters were in black T-shirts. The bench players wore the white ones. From the center of the rectangular room came the rhythmic smacking of jump ropes against the court as other players did their cardio warm-ups. The remaining members of the thirteen-man roster sat on the floor, stretching their legs, hips, and hamstrings with oversized purple exercise bands.
Dressed in Monarchs-logo silver warm-up pants and black T-shirts, the head athletic trainer and three of the four assistant coaches were on the court working with the athletes. The scene brought back bittersweet memories of his college basketball career at Georgetown University. It had ended abruptly.
DeMarcus Guinn had his back to Troy as he spoke to Oscar Clemente, one of his assistant coaches.
Troy’s approach drew the men’s attention. “Can I speak with the team?”
DeMarcus lowered his clipboard. “About what?”
“Keeping their grievances inside the organization.”
Oscar scratched the scalp beneath his thinning gray hair. “We covered that.”
Troy heard the resentment in the older man’s tone. “Hearing the message from someone else will emphasize its importance.”
Oscar narrowed his dark eyes. “You mean from the front office.”
Troy took the comment the way it was meant. Oscar was marking his territory. “That’s right.”
“It couldn’t hurt.” DeMarcus stepped around Troy. He blew the whistle suspended from a cord around his neck. The noise bounced across the practice facility. “Bring it in.”
The thirteen players looked over in surprise before grabbing their exercise bands and basketballs and jogging toward DeMarcus. Their sneakers squeaked against the court. Most of the men were NBA veterans facing the sunset of their glory days. The one exception was Jamal Ward, a nineteen-year-old rookie picked in one of the last rounds of the 2010 draft.
Barron Douglas gave Troy a cautious look as he sauntered past him. The point guard’s baggy, black nylon shorts, a match to his teammates’, skimmed his knees. His oversized black T-shirt hung past his hips and bared tattoos that extended like sleeves down his dark brown arms to his wrists.
Troy made eye contact with each of the players. Most seemed curious about his presence. A couple seemed disinterested. Troy understood. Players would rather the front office remained upstairs and left them alone. Over the years, he’d made a point of getting to know all of the players, though. That familiarity was especially helpful in pitching human interest stories to the media. But he also wanted to know the members of the franchise’s family.
“Monarchs.” DeMarcus paused while the players stilled to give him their attention. “Troy Marshall, our media exec, wants to talk to you.”
“Thanks, Coach.” Troy stepped forward. “Even before the season started, we were the target of a lot of bad press, more than usual.”
Jamal, the rookie shooting guard, raised his voice to interrupt Troy. “That’s Gerry Bimm’s fault, not ours.” A sheen of perspiration covered the wiry, six-foot-four-inch shooting guard from his clean-shaven head to his tattooed arms.
Troy held up his hand. “Gerry was the source of most of the negative stories, but not all of them. Coach asked you to keep whatever issues or concerns you have about each other within the team. Those complaints can’t leave the locker room. Definitely, don’t discuss it in the press.”
Jamal’s grin was sheepish. “But that Sports reporter is hot. You can’t have all the honeys, Trademark.”
Trademark. TM. Troy Marshall. He didn’t mind the nickname. He actually liked it. It made him feel like one of the players again.
Anthony Chambers’s dark olive eyes gleamed in his fair skin. The starting for ward’s rounded natural was a 1970s throwback. “Yeah. She’s hot. In a touchme-and-I’ll-rip-out-your-spleen way.”
Vincent Jardine, the team’s center, spoke with fake concern. “Does she scare you, St. Anthony?”
Anthony wasn’t amused. “Shut up, Vinny.”
“Jamal’s right.” The six-foot-ten-inch forward, Serge Gateau, cut through the bickering. The Frenchman’s shoulder-length, blond ponytail was pulled back from his lean, square features. “When a beautiful woman asks me a question, I must answer her. I cannot help myself.”
“Try.” Troy ignored the bite of jealousy. “None of you is new to this aspect of the sport. Even you, Jamal.
The media’s followed you since high school.”
Jamal puffed out his chest. “Yeah, but no one’s ever told me not to talk to them before.”
Troy arched a brow. “They should have. The media are enough of a distraction throughout the season. Negative stories make it worse.”
“You’re right, Troy.” Warrick Evans’s expression was solemn. The six-foot-seven-inch shooting guard passed a large hand over his bald, brown head. “This is the first time some of us have ever been to the playoffs, and it may be the last chance some of us will ever have. We can’t afford distractions.”
Troy swallowed a sigh of relief. Finally, someone understood. “Right. It doesn’t help anyone to complain about the team in public. But it hurts everyone to argue in the press.”
Barron shouted his question. “So if reporters ask me how everything’s going, what am I supposed to say?”
Troy faced Barron. The other man’s tension beat at him like a club. “Tell them everything’s fine.”
Barron snickered. “You want me to lie?”
Troy ignored the baiting tone. “If you have a problem, talk to Coach.”
Barron gave DeMarcus a scathing look. “What’s he going to do?”
Oscar stepped forward. “Coach got you to the playoffs.”
Troy almost did a double take. Oscar hadn’t accepted DeMarcus as the team’s head coach at first. But now the grumpy older man was DeMarcus’s greatest supporter, second only to Jaclyn.
But Barron wouldn’t back down. “He turned the team against me.”
DeMarcus’s tone was level. “You did that by putting yourself above the team.”
Barron ignored DeMarcus and turned to Anthony. “And if you punks have something to say, tell me to my face instead of talking to the reporters.”
Troy’s attention bounced from Barron to Anthony. Andrea’s article had quoted the forward, Jamal, and Serge complaining about Barron’s undisciplined behavior.
“We tried that, too.” Anthony spread his hands. “‘Where two or more are gathered in my name, there will I be also.’ Matthew eighteen, twenty.”
Barron clenched his fists. “Stop quoting the Bible and face me like a man.”
