by Regina Hart
DeMarcus prowled the basketball court’s sidelines in his black Italian suit and best poker face. His muscles strained as he willed the Monarchs to hold on to their 97 to 90 lead over the Atlanta Hawks. His eyes darted to the game clock. Two minutes remained in the fourth quarter. Too much time. They’d been here before, battling to a fourth-quarter lead that he couldn’t keep from evaporating with seconds to go.
Too much time.
Mike Bibby, Atlanta’s seasoned guard, blew past the Monarchs’ porous defense. Bibby caught an easy shot from behind the arc. Three points. Monarchs, 97; Hawks, 93.
Hawks fans, sensing their team’s resurgence, rose to cheer them on. Chants of “Defense!” filled the arena. DeMarcus clenched his teeth.
Barron Douglas took possession of the ball and jogged back down the court.
One minute twenty-four seconds to go. They were losing their lead. He had to stop the bleeding. “Time-out!”
The Monarchs dragged their feet to the sidelines. DeMarcus marched up to them. He clenched his fists to keep from shaking his starters. “The game’s not over yet. Why have you stopped playing?”
Anthony drained the bottle of water a teammate passed to him. “We haven’t stopped.”
DeMarcus glared at him. “Then what’s happened to our lead?” He turned to the other players. “Shore up the defense. Talk to each other. The game’s not over.”
He quickly gave each player individual instructions before the buzzer rang. The players walked back onto the court. Where was their energy?
“Pick up the pace.” DeMarcus shouted to be heard above the primal screams of the Hawks’ faithful.
Atlanta’s Jason Collins covered Vincent, the Monarchs’ center, at the left perimeter. Collins’s teammate, Al Horford, defended Serge at the right perimeter. The Hawks’ Marvin Williams and Josh Smith double-teamed Anthony in the paint. Jamal stood wide open at the post for an easy layup. Barron ignored the rookie and took the shot over Bibby’s extended arm. Bibby barely touched it, but that was enough. Barron missed. Hawks’ fans went wild.
DeMarcus ground his teeth, resisting the urge to loosen his silver silk tie. He watched, incredulous, as Jamal raced across the court without even trying to defend the ball. The Hawks’ Collins took it instead.
“Jamal, defend the ball.” DeMarcus fought the urge to run across the court to get it himself. He was tired of repeating those words. Why wouldn’t Jamal listen?
The rookie’s reputation as a ball hog had spread across the league. Opponents didn’t worry about covering him because they knew Jamal’s teammates wouldn’t give him the ball. DeMarcus added that to the list of transgressions he’d address in the locker room.
Collins passed to Williams. The Atlanta guard lobbed the ball to Bibby, who advanced it to half court. Bibby waited while his teammates took positions around the basket. Vincent covered Collins. Serge took Horford. Anthony guarded Williams, and Jamal stood with Smith. Barron defended Bibby, watching for an opportunity to force a turnover.
The Monarchs were too quiet. Two months into the season, they still played like five individuals instead of a team.
“Talk to each other.” DeMarcus clapped his hands until they stung.
Bibby sent the ball down the open lane opposite Anthony. His teammate Williams snatched it. Unable to shake Anthony, Williams passed to Collins. Collins handed off to Smith. Smith side stepped Jamal. He backed out of the perimeter and arched the ball over the rookie. Three points. The Hawks cut the lead to 97, 96. Fifty-two seconds remained in the fourth quarter.
DeMarcus thought his eyes would bleed. “Move. Set up. Move. Move.”
Jamal ignored the order to sprint across the court.
Warrick ran from the bench to pace Jamal along the sideline. “Be aggressive, Jamal. Pressure your man.”
Jamal scowled at the veteran as he ran past. “Sit down, Grandpa.”
DeMarcus frowned at Warrick. Why was he coaching the rookie who was after his job? He’d benched the veteran in the middle of the third quarter. Warrick wouldn’t take shots and Jamal wouldn’t pass the ball. DeMarcus scrubbed his hands over his face. If he could combine the two players, maybe the team would get a win.
Vincent plucked the ball from the Hawks’ post and dribbled three steps before tossing it to Barron. Barron took the ball to the perimeter, slowing the Hawks’ frantic pace.
The game clock read forty-five seconds and counting. The shot clock flashed seventeen seconds. The arena’s chant of “Defense!” build to a crescendo.
The Monarchs set up their positions, drawing their defenders with them. Vincent took the post as the Hawks’ Collins guarded him. Anthony was ready in the paint. The Hawks’ Williams defended him. Jamal and Serge had opposite perimeters with the Hawks’ Smith and Horford, respectively. Barron charged the post, braving the triangle defense. Bibby moved in for the block. Two seconds on the shot clock. Barron carried the lay up over Bibby’s head. Williams slapped the shot away—but not before it touched the rim. Loose ball. Serge and Anthony moved in for the rebound. Thirty-one seconds on the game clock. The shot clock started fresh.
The Hawks’ Horford snatched the ball away. DeMarcus tensed. The Atlanta forward prepared to sprint the length of the court. He seemed focused on the Hawks’ net and the two-point shot that would give his team the win with less than thirty seconds to the game.
DeMarcus cupped his mouth and shouted over the crowd’s deafening screams. “Get after him. Quick! Quick!”
But Vincent was already giving chase. The Monarchs’ center extended his left arm. With a twist of his wrist, he stole the ball from the Hawks’ veteran. Vincent pivoted, dribbling twice. The game clock drained to six. Five. Four. At half court, he made a no-look pass to Jamal. The wide-open rookie stepped into the lane.
12
Jamal palmed Vincent’s no-look pass. He hopped to the edge of the perimeter. Four seconds and counting. Defenders converged toward him. Jamal bent his knees. He launched himself into the air. Nine bodies leaped with him. Two seconds and counting. Jamal drew a rainbow to the basket.
Three points. Nothing but net.
One second remained on the clock. Serge grabbed the ball and let the time run out. Final score: Monarchs 100, Hawks 96.
DeMarcus dropped his stoic mask. His features flashed into a broad grin. Their first win of the season. They’d proven it was possible.
He lifted his gaze to the visiting owner’s box. Through the glass, he caught sight of Jaclyn. Her fists were raised and a wide grin spread across her glowing face. He saluted her, and she blew him a kiss.
Behind him, the Hawks faithful roared their disappointment. But they couldn’t drown out the Monarchs’ cheers. Euphoria lifted them from the bench. Warrick Evans reached him first, wrapping him in a bear hug before joining his teammates on the court. Other players followed Warrick’s lead, hugging DeMarcus and patting his back on their way off the court. The win had brought them closer together than they’d been all season. This is what they had needed—a connection, a sense of unity to carry them through. Maybe Jaclyn had a point. Maybe he needed more than X’ s and O’s.
DeMarcus pushed his way across the court, past devastated Hawks players to their head coach, Mike Woodson. He extended his right hand. “Good game, Coach.”
Woodson congratulated him, shaking his hand before turning away. DeMarcus didn’t blame the other man for the brevity of their exchange. No team wanted to break an opponent’s losing streak. But, then, no team wanted to lose forever.
“Yeah, Pop. We still have a lot of work to do on speed, defense and Jamal’s ball hogging.” DeMarcus checked his watch. It was more than an hour after the game, but he’d wanted to check in with his father before getting on the plane back to New York.
“At least now we know the Monarchs can play all four quarters.” Julian’s words tumbled over each other in his excitement. “That’s great progress.”
“It is. The locker room had a lot more energy tonight than it had on Wednesday after our
road loss to the Golden State Warriors in California.”
“I know you were reluctant to take this job, but you’re starting to turn the team around.”
“We still have a long season ahead of us. We’re only halfway through November with seventy-three games to go.”
“Still, I’m proud of you, son.”
DeMarcus closed his eyes, absorbing the words that never lost their value. “Thanks, Pop.” He hefted his bag from his hotel bed. “I’d better check out of the hotel and get the shuttle to the airport.”
“OK. I’ll meet you at JFK. Safe trip.”
DeMarcus confirmed his flight information, then disconnected the call.
His parents had always insisted on picking him up from the airport. DeMarcus treasured the bittersweet memory of them waiting together for him. Now, his father insisted on continuing the tradition alone.
DeMarcus had started across the suite to the door when his cell phone rang again. Was his father calling back? He took the phone from the front pocket of his suit.
He recognized the number. “Hello, Gerry.”
“I thought we had an agreement.” The franchise partner was doing his best mafia impersonation.
DeMarcus folded into the living area’s sofa, settling his travel bag beside his feet. This could take a while. “I told you I wouldn’t deliberately lose.”
“A couple of wins at home are understandable. If you win on the road, you run the risk of rebuilding the team’s momentum. I can’t allow that.”
“I’m not worrying about you. The Monarchs are my responsibility.” In the silence that followed his response, DeMarcus checked his watch. He could give Gerald a couple of minutes before ending the call. The team and the airport shuttle were waiting.
“Do you really want me to leak a story to the media about your drug addiction? Is that what you want?” Gerald’s tone was taunting.
DeMarcus clenched his teeth. I’m proud of you, son. His father’s love and respect were all he needed. What would he do if he lost that?
DeMarcus breathed deeply, easing the pressure in his chest. “If you took that lie to the press, do you think I wouldn’t tell them you’re smearing my reputation because you want to move Brooklyn’s team to Las Vegas?”
Gerald’s chuckle mocked him. “Who do you think they’ll believe? A respectable businessman or yet another drug-dependent athlete?”
DeMarcus shot off the sofa. “Try it.” With that dare, he disconnected the call and exited the room.
He wasn’t going to hand Gerald his self-respect on a silver platter. He put the other man’s threat out of his mind. If Gerald tried to destroy DeMarcus’s family’s name, he knew his father would support him. He could only hope the community would do the same.
Jaclyn practically floated up to the shuttle she’d arranged to transport her and the team to the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport. DeMarcus stood beside her. She clasped her hands together to keep from touching him—part excitement from the win and part reaction to the way he looked in that sexy Italian suit. As the team arrived, Jaclyn stepped forward to congratulate each sharp-dressed player and coach as they boarded the vehicle.
“Great pass,” she praised Vincent Jardine, the quiet center who’d made the winning play.
“Nice shot,” she said to Jamal Ward, the hotdogging rookie who’d scored the winning basket.
“Good game,” she cheered Barron Douglas. The team captain had shown strong leadership on the court.
“I’m not trading you,” she told Serge Gateau, who’d protected the ball—and their win—in the final second of the game.
“Great defense,” she complimented Warrick Evans. The shooting guard had spent most of the final two quarters on the bench. But his defense in the first half of the game had positioned the team to win.
Jaclyn made a mental note to talk with DeMarcus about benching Warrick, but not while they were surrounded by players and coaches. She slid a sideways glance toward the head coach, who stood by her side, watching the exchanges. She’d wait until they were alone.
“Good game,” she told Anthony Chambers. The forward had managed incredible acrobatics at the net despite being double-teamed for most of the game.
Jaclyn preceded DeMarcus onto the shuttle and waited for the players and coaches to settle into their seats. “As I said at the beginning of the season, we’ve had a couple of tough years. But I believe in this team.” She met the eyes of each player, starters and bench, and every coach. “I believe in you. And tonight, you proved me right. You played like champions. You played with heart and snapped the twenty-three-game losing streak that we’d carried over from last season. I have faith that, at the end of this season, you’re going to bring the trophy to Brooklyn.”
The shuttle swayed a bit as the team accompanied its thunderous cheers with foot stomping and hand clapping. She felt DeMarcus’s hand at her waist to steady her. Still, Jaclyn sat before she lost her footing.
“No wonder the team loves you.” There was humor in DeMarcus’s voice that belied the clouds in his coal black eyes. What was on his mind?
“And I love the team.” She shifted in her seat to better study him. He was sexy in the warm-up suits he favored. But he was incredible in the black Italian suit, white shirt and silver tie he’d worn tonight. He’d been a distraction to her during the game.
Jaclyn lowered her voice. “Did the players give you a hard time because of the newspaper article?”
He shrugged. “Practice was awkward at first, but it blew over.”
What did that mean?
The players and coaches hadn’t looked at her any differently, so they must have put the article behind them. So would she.
“Good.” She stopped feeling awkward about sitting beside him on the shuttle. After all, she’d sat beside him when they’d first arrived at the hotel.
The vehicle pulled away from the curb. Jaclyn paused to enjoy the view of the Atlanta Hawks’ home, the Philips Arena, at night. “We’ve won other games, but this one will always be special to me.”
“Me too. My first win as a head coach.” DeMarcus spoke softly.
Jaclyn touched the back of his hand as it lay on his lap. DeMarcus turned to look at her.
She gave him a smile. “Your father must be very proud.”
“Yes, he is. I called him before I left the hotel.”
“Then what’s wrong? You won an important game tonight. You should be excited. Instead you seem almost moody.”
DeMarcus turned his attention to the scene outside. “I don’t want anything to ever ruin this memory.”
Jaclyn gave a startled laugh. “What could possibly ruin it? It’s perfect.”
“Sooner or later, all good things come to an end.”
Jaclyn frowned. Why would they have to end? Until this moment, she hadn’t realized how much she’d come to depend on his staying with the team for the entire season. Was he still thinking of leaving? Why? He couldn’t have lost faith in the team. They’d just won.
Jaclyn stilled. A cold hand fisted in her gut. Had he lost faith in her?
“Thank you for giving up your Saturday on such short notice.” Gerald addressed Jaclyn, DeMarcus and Albert the day after the Hawks’ game. He pontificated from the head of the mahogany table in the Monarchs’ largest conference room. Albert was silent on his right. Jaclyn observed Gerald from her seat at the foot of the table. DeMarcus was to her left.
Jaclyn leaned back in the well-cushioned, black swivel chair. She adjusted the skirt of her burnt-orange wool dress. “This is the NBA, Gerry. We don’t work Monday through Friday, nine to five, especially during the season. Just because we played Atlanta last night doesn’t mean we have today off.”
Perhaps her comment was unnecessary. She’d concede it was mean. But she’d had enough of Gerald’s pompous attitude. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? Maybe she hadn’t been around him as much.
Gerald’s lips tightened. A red flush a few shades lighter than his crewneck
sweater dusted his high mocha cheekbones. “Your comment brings us nicely to our reason for being here.”
Jaclyn glanced at the other men in the room. DeMarcus’s shoulders under his silver Monarchs jersey seemed taut. Albert looked uncomfortable in his conservative brown sweater. Was she the only one who had no idea what Gerald was talking about?
Jaclyn touched her silver and black Monarchs lapel pin. She made herself appear relaxed. She’d had plenty of experience doing that when she’d practiced corporate law with Jonas & Prather. “Why are we here, Gerry?”
“This is why we’re here.” Gerald slid a newspaper down the table. The journal stopped about midway across the high-gloss surface.
Jaclyn didn’t need to pick it up. She knew what it was. It was Friday’s sports section from the New York Post. Yesterday’s section opened with the photo of her kissing DeMarcus.
In her peripheral vision, Jaclyn saw DeMarcus straighten in his chair. She felt the anger building within him. Jaclyn spoke, hoping to distract DeMarcus from saying something they’d both regret. “I’m still unclear, Gerry. Why are we here?” She kept her tone cool, her voice steady despite her own rising temper.
Gerald pointed toward the newspaper no one else had touched. “What were you doing outside Marc’s hotel room?”
Jaclyn’s gaze shifted to Albert. The third franchise owner looked like he wanted to be anywhere else. Anywhere. She turned back to Gerald. “I was leaving.”
Gerald’s mouth curved upward. “And what were you doing in his hotel room?”
Jaclyn struggled to keep her breathing even. “I’m not here to satisfy your prurient interests, Gerry. I don’t owe you an explanation.”
DeMarcus waved toward the newspaper. “This is your way of trying to get me to throw away the season. I’m not going to allow you to insult Jack to try to get to me.”
Jaclyn stared at DeMarcus. He was angry and determined, a warrior ready for battle. He tugged at her heart. Was she falling a little in love with him?
