by Regina Hart
Gerald offered a cold smile. “I don’t want your cooperation. I want your resignation.”
Jaclyn’s eyes flared wide. “What?” Her attention shifted again to Albert. He remained still. Why was he here if he wasn’t going to say anything?
From his briefcase of tricks, Gerald produced a stack of white sheets, stapled together in a corner. “Marc is in violation of his contract’s morality clause.”
Jaclyn would have to rein in her temper if she were going to get through this. “How?”
Gerald stood, carrying a copy of DeMarcus’s contract with him. He found the page he was looking for and set the document on the table in front of her before returning to his seat. “Under paragraph eleven, section D, the contract states, in essence, that franchise employees will not engage in romantic liaisons while both parties are employed by the franchise.”
Jaclyn skimmed the familiar passage, blocking out the escalating tension she sensed in DeMarcus. “My grandfather wanted that language added to the employee contracts. He wanted to raise awareness of sexual harassment and make sure everyone knew such conduct wouldn’t be tolerated in his organization.”
Gerald nodded. “So, since your grandfather realized the importance of the clause, I’m sure you’ll do the right thing and enforce the language.”
Jaclyn met her partner’s eyes. “I’m happy to, especially since I drafted the language.”
Gerald’s lips parted in shock. He rallied quickly. ”In that case, fire him. Or don’t you believe what you wrote?”
Jaclyn smiled. “I do believe what I wrote, Gerry. But it doesn’t apply to Marc.” She felt DeMarcus’s surprise. Her smile broadened.
Gerald frowned. “Yes, it does. Your sweet good night photo appears on the pages of several newspapers.”
Jaclyn tapped the stack of papers in front of her. “The language prohibits employees from fraternizing. DeMarcus is an employee. I’m not.”
“She’s right, Gerry.” Albert finally spoke, looking over his shoulder to address Gerald. “They may not have shown the best judgment in the when and the where of their . . . activities. But neither one of them violated the contract.” He turned his attention to Jaclyn and DeMarcus. “Just, both of you, please exercise better judgment in the future. The franchise doesn’t need this type of publicity.”
Jaclyn faced Albert. “You’re right, Bert. I apologize.”
DeMarcus inclined his head. “So do I.”
Albert nodded. “Good. Now that we’ve cleared that up, Marc, please don’t let us hold you any longer. Thank you for coming.”
“But—” Gerald raised his hand to stop the activities.
Albert grabbed Gerald’s arm and returned it to the conference table. “We’re done, Gerry.”
Jaclyn stood with DeMarcus to leave, but Albert stopped her. “Jackie, just a few more moments of your time, please.”
Jaclyn hesitated. She felt DeMarcus’s touch on her forearm. She smiled and shook her head at the concerned look in his dark eyes. Jaclyn returned to her seat. “Sure, Bert. What is it?”
Albert waited for DeMarcus to leave before he began. “I’ve had enough.”
“Enough of what?” Gerald shifted to face Albert. His voice was pitch-perfect irritation.
Albert glared at Gerald. “Enough of the fighting between you and Jackie. Marc was right, Gerry. It was distasteful of you to exploit Jackie’s personal life to get your way.”
Gerald stabbed a finger toward the newspaper laying ignored in the center of the table. “Are you happy to have the franchise in the paper’s gossip section?”
Albert flung his arms in the air. “Give me a break, Gerry. Where were you when the New York Sports printed the article airing the players’ complaints about the team?”
Gerald shifted a look at Jaclyn. His temper seemed to evaporate. “I was busy.”
Jaclyn’s heart beat faster. Her gaze dropped to the newspaper before narrowing on Gerald. “Busy doing what? Planting more negative stories about us in the press?”
Albert followed her gaze from the paper to Gerald. “That’s too far-fetched, Jackie. How would Gerry know you’d spend the night with Marc?”
Gerald rolled up the sleeves of his apple red sweater, avoiding eye contact with the others in the room. “Exactly. Am I clairvoyant?”
Perhaps not. But office gossip about her and DeMarcus could have made it to Gerald.
Jaclyn leaned toward Albert. “I’m sorry if the tension between Gerry and me is making you uncomfortable.” She pinned Gerald with a direct stare. “But we’re going to continue to be at odds until I’m assured that the team will remain in Brooklyn and that you’ll stop trying to sabotage our season.”
Gerald turned away from Jaclyn to address Albert. “Bert, you know I only want what’s best for the franchise.”
Albert crossed his right leg over his left. “Is that really your motivation?”
Jaclyn tensed. “What else could it be?”
Gerald’s expression hardened as he held Albert’s gaze. “You’ve supported every decision I’ve made. What’s your motivation?”
Jaclyn’s neck and shoulders tightened with grown unease. The subtext flowing between the men left Jaclyn out in the cold. “What are you two talking about?”
Albert didn’t flinch. “I’ll tell you my motivation. It was easier for me to leave the business decisions to you, Gerry, so that I could focus on Tipton’s Fashionwear.”
Jaclyn’s gaze wavered. “And I was grieving for my grandfather.” She looked at Gerald. “So what’s behind the decisions you’ve made for the team?”
Gerald glared at Albert before answering. “Building on what our fathers and your grandfather started.”
Jaclyn held Gerald’s gaze as he lied to her.
Albert broke the silence. “You’re focused on the team now, Jackie. But I’m still more interested in running Tipton’s Fashionwear than I am in the Brooklyn Monarchs. And I’m definitely not interested in being in the middle of these power plays between the two of you. That’s why I’ve decided to sell my shares.”
13
Jaclyn stopped breathing. Albert had refused to sell his shares to her earlier. Gerald had asked him not to. So what was he planning to do now?
She swung her attention to Gerald. She sensed her adversary’s shock even from the other end of the conference table. Albert had caught him off guard as well.
Gerald leaned into the table, closing in on Albert. “To whom are you going to sell your shares?”
Albert didn’t appear intimidated by the muted anger in Gerald’s voice. “Don’t worry, Gerry. I’m going to sell my shares to both of you.” He waved his right hand from Jaclyn to Gerald. “One share to Jackie and twenty-five shares to you, making you both equal partners.”
The knots in Jaclyn’s stomach unraveled, allowing her to breathe again. At least Albert wasn’t going to sell all of his shares to Gerald, which would have made Gerald the majority owner with fifty-one percent of the franchise.
Still, she was disappointed—and a little sad. Four friends had started the franchise fifty-five years ago. Soon, only two descending families would remain. She folded her hands on the table’s smooth, cool surface. “I’m sorry that you no longer want to be a part of the Monarchs family, Bert. But I appreciate your dividing your shares evenly. That’s very fair.”
“No, it’s not.” Gerald sounded indignant. “I have to buy a lot more shares than you do.”
“Calm down, Gerry.” Albert stood to leave, shoving his chair under the table. “You don’t have to write the check now. We can work something out.”
Jaclyn caught the bite in Albert’s voice. How anxious was he to get away from the strained atmosphere? “Or I can buy all of your shares, Bert.”
She’d have to sell some of her investments. Her portfolio would take a big hit, but it would be worth it. Albert held her gaze. Was he considering her offer?
He glanced at Gerald, then back to Jaclyn. “I’ll let the two of you figure that o
ut.” Albert strode from the conference room without another word or a second glance.
Jaclyn turned away from the door as Albert disappeared through the threshold. She faced Gerald. “How about it, Gerry? Do you want to make a deal?”
Gerald pushed away from the table. “It will be a cold day in hell before I let you have majority ownership of this franchise.” He followed Albert from the room.
A cold day in hell? One way or another, she’d see to it that Gerald needed a lot of sweaters.
DeMarcus blew the heavy black whistle he carried around his neck, commanding his players’ attention from their Monday morning practice. “Bring it in.”
He waited for the thirteen Monarchs to gather with him and the other coaches near the polished wood bleachers. Their sneakers squeaked as they crossed the practice court. Their bodies dripped sweat from their ninety minutes of warm up and fundamentals—dribbling, shooting, passing and footwork, core skills that would carry the team at least into the play-offs. Hopefully.
DeMarcus settled his hands on his hips, letting his gaze take in the varied expressions looking back at him. “We’re coming off of a hard-earned victory. But it was one win out of nine games. We have another seventy-three on the calendar. Another five months to the season.”
Point guard Barron Douglas folded his long, damp frame onto one of the bleachers. He ran both hands over his thick cornrows. “Why can’t we just enjoy the win? Why do you always have to look at the negatives?”
The team captain was frustrated. So was DeMarcus. He dropped his arms to his sides. “We’re still last in the Eastern Conference. Do you like being there?”
Barron dragged his tattooed forearm across his damp upper lip. “Of course I don’t.”
DeMarcus lifted his gaze to the other Monarchs. “We need to build on the single success we have.”
“What do you mean?” Jamal set the basketball on the tip of his left index finger and started it spinning with a slap of his right hand.
DeMarcus stepped forward and took the ball from the younger man’s fingertip. “As a team, against Atlanta, we were stronger on defense in the first half and committed fewer fouls. We’re improving in those areas. But we couldn’t match them for speed or shooting accuracy.”
Jamal barked a laugh. “Maybe these old men were slow and nearsighted. But I ran with them, and I got the looks, too.”
“What looks?” Anthony Chambers glanced at his teammates in confusion before turning back to Jamal. “You were shooting bricks, son.”
Barron Douglas chuckled. “You need glasses if you thought those were good looks.”
“We could have used your help on defense.” Warrick’s tone forced the young shooting guard to hear the truth.
Jamal bristled. “Coach said I was good on defense.”
DeMarcus shook his head. “I said as a team we were strong on defense and played a clean game. Individually, you carried the most fouls playing the fewest minutes. You have to do better.”
Anthony tapped his shoulder. “And God knows you were missing in action on the defense.”
Warrick shrugged. “What good are all those fancy shots if you don’t get the ball back?”
Jamal’s expression darkened. “At least I got game, old man. Your best playing days are behind you.”
Warrick crossed his arms. “If you want my spot, earn it, rookie.”
“That’s enough.” DeMarcus passed Oscar the basketball he’d taken from Jamal. The assistant coach caught it with one hand, then tossed it into the large metal cart with the other balls.
DeMarcus returned his attention to his team. “Thursday, we’re playing the Pacers in Indianapolis. The week before Thanksgiving. They’re a faster, more accurate team as well. We need to stick with what worked for us, a strong defense and a clean game.”
“And a late-night booty call.” A salacious grin spread across Jamal’s face.
DeMarcus’s body iced over. He turned to face the rookie. “Excuse me?”
The shooting guard chuckled knowingly. “You heard me. Ms. Jones fine-tuned your coaching.”
Icy anger melted to red-hot rage. DeMarcus clenched and unclenched his fists, straining against the urge to knock the lascivious smile from the younger man’s face. “Jaclyn Jones is your employer. She owns this team. You’d better use a respectful tone and language when you talk to or about her.”
A rebellious flame sparked in Jamal’s black eyes. “Were you using a respectful tone when she was using her skills to relax you?”
Caution exploded as DeMarcus lunged for the smaller man. Jamal jumped back.
Someone grabbed DeMarcus from behind. Heavily muscled arms wrapped around his chest. Oscar’s urgent voice came from behind his ear. “Don’t do it. He’s not worth the hassle.”
Jamal bounced on his toes. His words tumbled over each other in an adrenaline rush. “Yeah. You know what they’d do to you if you hit me, man? You know what they’d do? They’d suspend your ass. Yeah. And they’d probably fine your ass, too. Yeah. Come on, then. Hit me. You want to hit me? Come on, then.”
DeMarcus saw red. He forced himself to remain still within Oscar’s hold. He couldn’t pummel his players, no matter how much they deserved it. Not only was it against NBA rules, but it also was not the way to maintain discipline and control of the team.
DeMarcus’s chest rose and fell with a deep breath, loosening Oscar’s bond across his chest. “I’m all right.”
As Oscar stepped back, a movement from the corner of his right eye distracted DeMarcus.
Two strides carried Warrick to Jamal’s side. He drew back his right arm and planted a punch to the rookie’s jaw that knocked the younger man on his butt and silenced the court.
Rubbing his fist, Warrick turned to DeMarcus. “Go ahead and suspend me. And I’ll pay the fine gladly.”
DeMarcus glanced up from Jamal’s shocked and pained expression to Warrick’s strained and tight features. “Suspend you for what?”
The two men exchanged a long look. Warrick relaxed. DeMarcus inclined his head, giving his veteran guard a small smile of gratitude.
Anthony scratched his head. “I didn’t see anything.”
Barron stood, putting distance between himself and Jamal. “Me neither.”
Vincent Jardine, the quiet center, slapped Warrick on the back. “Not a thing.”
Serge Gateau spread his arms wide. “Que s’est produit?”
Oscar scowled at Jamal. “What are you doing on the floor, rookie?”
DeMarcus listened to the chorus of disclaimers all avowing that they hadn’t seen Warrick knock Jamal to the ground. He turned to his assistant coach. “Hundreds of hours of practice, travel and games couldn’t bring them together. But seeing Jamal knocked on his ass has helped them bond.”
Oscar grunted. “It’s united them against Ward. That won’t help us in the long run.”
DeMarcus watched Jamal limp toward the bleachers. His lip was busted. It would bloom like a red rose before the end of the day. “He brought it on himself.”
“The kid’s got a bad attitude, that’s for sure. And the older players all like and respect Jackie. So do I.” Oscar shifted to look DeMarcus in the eyes. “Treat her right.”
DeMarcus watched his assistant coach walk away. This practice had gone more like a daytime drama. He didn’t know what to expect after the commercial break.
“You’re very persistent, Jaclyn.” Mortimer Gandy’s thin, wrinkled lips curved with unwilling amusement.
The Empire Arena’s majority owner helped her out of her silver cashmere coat. There was more than a week until Thanksgiving, but already it felt like winter.
Mortimer cupped her forearm as he and Jaclyn crossed the two-story entrance of his Saddle River, New Jersey, home. Mortimer was approaching ninety years of age, if he wasn’t already there. Jaclyn cupped her hand over his frail one. Who was leading whom?
Jaclyn’s scarlet stilettos—a perfect match to her power skirt suit—tapped against the green and brown
stone flooring. She was careful to match his much slower pace. “I appreciate your time, Mr. Gandy.”
His brother’s voice reached her just as she accompanied Mortimer into his sitting room. “Come now, Jackie. Your grandfather never called either of us Mr. Gandy. I’m Sandy and he’s Morty. Otherwise how will we know to whom you’re speaking?”
Jaclyn smiled at Mortimer’s younger brother. Sanford Gandy’s scarlet Rutgers University sweatshirt and baggy black jeans stood in striking contrast to Mortimer’s beige and cocoa, diamond-patterned sweater and cocoa corduroy pants.
“You know that I don’t like to be called Morty, Sanford. Franklin Jones never called me that.” Mortimer spoke with long-suffering patience. They must have had this conversation numerous times before.
Hiding her amusement at the brothers’ exchange, Jaclyn allowed Mortimer to escort her to an armchair beside the fireplace. Assured Jaclyn was comfortable, Mortimer ambled to the matching chair on the other side of the tan sofa.
“And I don’t like to be called Sanford, Mort.” Sanford filled a gold-rimmed china cup from the tea service on the coffee table in front of him. He rose from the sofa to offer the cup to Jaclyn. “It’s Earl Grey. Would you like a cookie?”
Jaclyn took the cup and used the napkin Sanford offered to select a lemon cream cookie. “Thank you, Sandy.”
Mortimer lifted his teacup and saucer from the corner table on his right. “If my brother is done with his petulance, perhaps you can tell us how we can help you, my dear. Our attorneys assured us they have explained that we’re not inclined to change the terms of the Empire contract.”
“Yes, they have.” Jaclyn shifted forward on the fluffy chair and crossed her ankles. “But I wanted to present my proposal to you personally.”
Sanford settled back in the sofa. “Great. We’re listening.”
Pushing past her nerves, Jaclyn noted Sanford’s excited energy and Mortimer’s respectful silence. She called upon her cool negotiator’s personae from her days with Jonas & Prather. But this negotiation was too personal. The outcome meant too much.
