by Regina Hart
Troy chuckled. “You may have noticed that Andy Benson is immune to my charms. In fact, I don’t think she likes me.”
DeMarcus snorted. “You’d better work on that. We can’t have the press hating our media executive.”
Troy spread his arms. “Image is everything.”
DeMarcus locked gazes with Jaclyn. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Jaclyn gave him a wry look before returning her attention to Troy. “Andy’s too smart to give up her source, but ask her anyway.”
Troy nodded. “Are you going to talk to Gerry?”
Jaclyn rose from her chair. “Yes, although he’ll deny any involvement in this story. We need to stop this negative publicity. It’ll turn the fans against us when we’re trying to increase ticket sales.”
DeMarcus wanted to fight these battles for her. She already was trying to prevent Gerald and Albert from moving the team. And she was trying to keep the Monarchs in the Empire. Now she had to add combating negative press to her plate. That was too much for one person to shoulder alone.
DeMarcus stood. “What can I do to help?”
Jaclyn gave him a grateful look. “Talk to the team. Tell them we can’t afford negative publicity. But, more than anything else, we really need a winning season so we can pack those seats.”
DeMarcus winked at her before walking toward the door. “That’s why you hired me.”
“And the Monarchs lose their home opener to the Miami Heat one sixteen to eighty-six.” The announcer’s voice bounced around the arena.
DeMarcus crossed the court to shake Erik Spoelstra’s hand. “Good game, Coach.” He forced the words past the lump of shame burning his throat. This was the most embarrassing loss of his basketball career—and it happened on his home court in his home city.
DeMarcus followed his assistant coaches and the security guards off the court, maneuvering past television crews, sports reporters and arena staff. He ignored the crowd of scantily clad groupies cooing to him from beside Vom One, the tunnel that led to the Monarchs’ locker room.
What would he say to the team? He needed something more constructive than “What the hell happened out there?” That was the question he’d hear from fans—and Jaclyn. And the media. DeMarcus’s stomach soured. The postgame interview. He had to give one. Great.
The locker room stank of sweat and defeat. Dark gray metal lockers for the thirteen players—starters and bench—outlined the square room. Clothes, shoes and personal items were strewn chaotically in and around the lockers. Players were getting ready for the showers. The quiet was crushing. Their movements were trancelike. Their posture was broken.
Why weren’t they angry? Where were the accusations? Instead, their silence spoke of acceptance, and that he wouldn’t allow. They couldn’t accept any loss, especially such a humiliating one.
DeMarcus marched to Jamal “Jam-On-It” Ward and ripped the iPod headphones from his ears. Players glanced at him but otherwise didn’t react. Their lack of concern pushed him almost to the edge.
He hooked his hands on his hips and asked the first question on his mind. “What the hell happened out there?”
“We lost.” Team captain Barron “Bling” Douglas didn’t bother to turn from his locker to respond. The tattoos across his brown back flexed with his muscles as he shrugged off his shirt.
DeMarcus glared at Barron. “Is that OK with you?”
Jamal scowled up at him from his seat in front of his locker. The number twenty-three was tattooed on his pale brown skin right above his heart. “We wouldn’t have lost if I’d gotten more playing time. I told you before, I’m not a sixth man. I can’t come off the bench.”
DeMarcus gritted his teeth. He was fed up with the broken-record complaints from the overeager rookie. “And I’ve told you, you have to earn the start.”
Anthony Chambers pulled a wide-tooth comb through his throwback natural. “Have mercy, Coach. We just want to get out of here.”
DeMarcus’s eyes widened. Had he heard the power forward correctly? “You want to go home? Is it past your bedtime? This isn’t summer camp. It’s the NBA.”
Warrick Evans sat at the bench in front of his locker. His forearms rested on his thighs. “We know where we are, Coach. We also know we were outplayed.” The shooting guard dragged a hand over his cleanshaven, brown head. “The Heat was faster and didn’t make any mistakes.”
Jamal turned on Warrick. “Gramps, you’re the one who should be coming off the bench. I could keep up with the Heat.”
Warrick gave the brash shooting guard a tight smile. “You heard Coach. If you want my spot, earn it.”
Jamal jabbed a finger toward the veteran player. “Keep playing like you’re playing and you’ll lose it. At least you’ll have the best seat in the house when I take us to the championship.”
DeMarcus watched Warrick’s eyes ice over at the rookie’s challenge. The veteran stood. DeMarcus braced himself to stop a locker room brawl. Instead Warrick striped off his sweat-laden jersey. DeMarcus relaxed tense muscles.
“Maybe we were outcoached.” Serge Gateau’s theory was delivered with a heavy French accent and plenty of spite.
DeMarcus faced him. “How could I have better prepared you?”
Serge’s gaze wavered. The Frenchman scanned the room. Not finding the assistance he searched for, he returned his attention to DeMarcus. “I want to be traded.”
Another broken record.
DeMarcus scanned the faces in the room. The bench players looked bored. Barron was sullen. Jamal acted offended. Serge seemed irritated. Anthony appeared to have put the game behind him. Warrick seemed depressed, and Vincent Jardine, the center, appeared distracted.
DeMarcus pushed to the front of the room, commanding their attention. “We’re done with losing. I don’t care what it takes. This season, we’re making it to the play-offs.”
Barron snorted. “You think just because you said it, it’s going to happen?”
DeMarcus shot the team captain a hard glare. Barron looked away. “Friday, we’re going to Atlanta to play the Hawks. We have two days to prepare. They’re going to play us as hard as the Heat did tonight. They won’t let up. And, tomorrow at practice, neither will I.”
DeMarcus stormed from the locker room. He was still angry, embarrassed and disgusted. And he had a press conference to get through.
A hand grabbed his arm, stopping him mid-stride. DeMarcus looked around to find Gerald Bimm invading his personal space.
The owner gave him a smug look. “Can we talk privately?”
DeMarcus wanted to say no. He didn’t have the stomach for the other man’s subterfuge. But Gerald was one of the franchise owners. DeMarcus stepped out of the heavy pedestrian traffic and followed his boss a short distance from the Monarchs’ locker room.
Gerald stopped to face him. “It seems odd to say good job after a losing effort, but there you have it. Good job.”
Anger took supremacy over embarrassment. “Good job? We lost by thirty points on our home court.”
Gerald chuckled. “That’s the goal, Marc. We need a losing seasoning. Or have you forgotten our conversation?”
DeMarcus blinked to clear the red haze from his vision. It didn’t work. “I haven’t forgotten, but you must have. I told you I’m not a stooge.”
“Then tonight was a happy accident.”
“Don’t expect a repeat of it.”
“On the contrary, Marc. I suggest that you repeat yourself often. I want to see empty seats. A lot of empty seats. The arena was too full tonight.”
DeMarcus narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to destroy the team? What’s in it for you?”
Gerald’s smile dimmed. “I’m not trying to destroy it. I’m trying to make it more profitable.”
DeMarcus’s jaw tightened. He hated when people lied to him. “Try again, Gerry. You don’t make a team profitable by chucking it into the league’s basement.”
“I’m willing to accept short-term loses for long-term
gains.”
“And I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.” DeMarcus turned away.
Gerald caught his arm again. “If you want to keep your job, remember our conversation. Jackie didn’t want to hire you in the first place. If you don’t cooperate, it would be easy to convince her to fire you.”
DeMarcus stared at his boss’s thin, light-skinned hand on the arm of his black suit jacket until the other man released him. “I quit once before, and it was Jack who convinced me to come back.”
“I could get her to change her mind about you.”
Under other circumstances, DeMarcus would laugh in Gerald’s face. Tonight, the older man annoyed him. “You couldn’t convince her to come in out of the rain.”
Gerald’s lip curled. “If you aren’t worried about job security, maybe you’ll care about your reputation.”
“Meaning?”
“What would the public think about your drug addiction?”
DeMarcus frowned. “I’ve never used drugs.”
“And you can explain that to the media once the story breaks.”
The image of what such a story circulating their community would do to his father threatened to drop DeMarcus to his knees. “If the Monarchs don’t have a losing season, you’ll lie to the public, claiming I’m addicted to drugs. That’s how you intend to get me to cooperate?”
Gerald slipped his hands into the pockets of his navy suit pants. “The press will jump all over the story, don’t you think? I can see the angles now. The Mighty Guinn a drug abuser. Is that why he retired early? Did his coaches and trainers know? How will it effect his Hall of Fame induction?”
Blood rushed through DeMarcus’s veins, burning his skin. “No one would believe you.”
The franchise partner’s smile shone with malice. “Are you sure?”
DeMarcus spun from Gerald before he gave in to the desire to remove his boss’s smile, taking several teeth with it.
No one would believe Gerald’s lies that DeMarcus had a drug addiction. He may have lived in Miami the past fifteen years, but he’d grown up in Brooklyn. People in the community knew him. They knew his character. They’d never believe Gerald.
Would they?
Could he risk it?
10
“How’s your back?” Jaclyn was a little breathless as she ran beside Warrick Evans on the boardwalk behind the Empire, which tracked the marina. She’d picked up her pace to keep up with him, but she was fairly certain the six-foot-seven-inch shooting guard had slowed to accommodate her.
“The spasms come and go. Some days are better than others.” The shooting guard sounded distracted. He’d been that way for a while.
“Was yesterday a good day or a bad day?” The home game against the Utah Jazz Monday night had been the team’s eighth straight loss.
“I was off my game yesterday. I know that and so does everyone else.” Warrick’s terse tone was out of character.
It was eight o’clock Tuesday morning. The November sun had risen late, and the lamps crowning the slender black posts along the marina fence had long since gone out. The fall air blew crisp off the water. She was comfortable this morning, but soon it would be too cool to run here.
“Why were you off your game? Was it because of your back?” Jaclyn’s gaze dropped to Warrick’s legs. Had he sped up? Probably. He usually ran faster when he was agitated, as though he was running away from something. What was it?
“Are you asking as a franchise owner or as a friend?”
That hurt. Jaclyn lengthened her stride to match his pace. “After twelve years, you should know the answer to that.”
“You’ve never been my boss before.”
Jaclyn stared hard at him until Warrick’s eyes met hers. “I’m the granddaughter of one of the founding owners. I’ve always been your boss.”
Warrick looked away. “Point taken.”
She heard his contrition. “For the record, if I’d wanted to have a conversation with you as your boss, I’d have had it in my office wearing a business suit. I wouldn’t race after you in a T-shirt and shorts, sweating like a pig.”
His surprised chuckle drew the tension from their run. Jaclyn breathed easier as Warrick slowed his speed. She brushed the sweat from her brow.
“I’m sorry.” Warrick was subdued.
“You should be.” Jaclyn glimpsed Warrick’s smile in her peripheral vision.
“Thanks for running with me this morning. I wanted to try a couple of miles out here to test my knees and back.”
Jaclyn gazed around the marina. Winter blue waves bounced the scattering of yachts still on the waters. Chatty seagulls danced on the chilly breeze. “Don’t worry about it. I’m glad to be on hand in case your back locks up and you have to be carried back to the Empire.”
“You’re a pal.”
Jaclyn tossed him a look. He still seemed preoccupied. “So, what’s bothering you? You’ve been sullen and distracted for weeks. And now we can add paranoid.”
“Paranoid? How’s that?”
“You said everyone knew you were off your game yesterday. That sounds paranoid to me.”
“I’m not paranoid.” Masculine irritation tightened his voice.
“By everyone you mean Jamal, don’t you?”
Warrick was silent for several strides. They were following the path of an incline about halfway through their workout. Jaclyn felt the strain in her hamstrings. She shortened her strides and leaned into the hill. They finally crested the incline, then circled back to the Empire.
Warrick swiped the sweat from his brows. “Jamal wants my spot.”
“Why do you allow him to get to you?” Jaclyn’s blood started a slow boil. Right now, Jamal Ward wasn’t one of her favorite people.
“Maybe he has a point.”
Jaclyn tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “You’re one of the most consistent players in the league.”
“Then why don’t I have a ring?”
Strain. That’s what she heard in her friend’s voice. It made her worry about him even more. “A lot of NBA players don’t have rings. Some of them are even in the Hall of Fame.”
Warrick looked at her. “I don’t have many more opportunities to get to the Finals.”
With his chronic injuries both to his back and his knees, Jaclyn could understand Warrick’s concern. “I want to make it to the postseason, too. But it takes a team to win a championship.”
His voice was reflective. “We don’t play like a team. And each season, it gets worse.”
The Empire came into sight. Jaclyn glanced toward the practice facility on the left. Was DeMarcus in his office? She’d noticed the head coach usually started his day early.
She glanced at Warrick. “Why didn’t you take more shots last night? You had several sweet looks, but instead of shooting, you passed the ball. Why?”
He picked up the pace. “I thought someone else had a better shot.”
“Why have you started second-guessing yourself? Sometimes, Rick, you can’t pass the ball. You have to take the shot. You know that.”
“And if I miss?”
“When did you lose your nerve?”
Warrick was silent for a distance. “Your grandfather tried to build the team around me. Twelve years later, we still don’t have a ring. The front office brought in Bling for energy and Jamal for excitement. I’m no longer team captain and a rookie’s after my spot. I have good reason to wonder whether I have what it takes to contribute to the team.”
“I disagree.” Jaclyn wiped the sweat from her stinging eyes. “If you don’t even try, you have no one but yourself to blame if you fail.”
The truth of her words applied to her just as well as they applied to Warrick. But had she waited too long to save the Monarchs? Gerald and Albert had devastated the team and divided the loyalty of the front office. They’d crippled sales and rendered the Monarchs virtually invisible in their own community. Was there anything left to save?
DeMarcus strode in
to Oscar Clemente’s office and dropped a sheaf of papers on the assistant coach’s cluttered desk. “Why did you change the game plan for Atlanta?”
Oscar sprawled back in his chair. Either he hadn’t noticed or didn’t care about DeMarcus’s anger. “Your plan didn’t give Rick enough touches.”
Warrick Evans. DeMarcus’s nostrils flared at the thought of the other man. “According to whom?”
“According to everyone who’s ever watched his game footage.” Oscar swung his black leather chair side to side. The motion was easy and unconcerned. “It takes him a little longer to warm up. But once he’s warm, he’s our best weapon on the court.”
DeMarcus stepped back from the paper-strewn desk, drawing his gaze across the disheveled office. News clippings of every play-off win, conference final and community commendation the team earned during the almost twenty years since Oscar had been with the team lined his office walls.
A Monarchs mug and stress ball sat on Oscar’s desk. A Monarchs mouse pad lay beside his keyboard, and the franchise logo decorated his computer desktop.
DeMarcus noticed the Monarchs pin on Oscar’s jersey, similar to the one Jaclyn always wore. How many of those did the man own? Should he be reassured by or concerned about the assistant coach’s obsession with the team?
DeMarcus rubbed his eyes with his right fingers. “And while he’s warming up, Atlanta will build a huge lead over us. Rick needs to be warm as soon as he steps onto the court.”
“Rick is a great ballplayer and an important member of our team. His game gives us another dimension.”
DeMarcus removed stacks of papers from one of the guest chairs before settling into it. The resentment boiling inside him had nothing to do with his seeing Warrick and Jaclyn jogging together this morning. “Rick hesitates to take the shot, even when he has the look. I need a bold player to fire up the team.”
Displeasure pinched Oscar’s face. He sat forward, leaning into his desk. “You mean Jamal.”
“He’s not afraid to shoot.”
“Even when he shouldn’t.”
“He’s an aggressive competitor.”
