by Regina Hart
Gerald interrupted. “But in Vegas, there wouldn’t be another team to lure our fans away.”
Carville’s laughter was deep and full. “Gerry’s right. Vegas is the entertainment capital of the world. In addition to the almost two million people in our metro area, you’re going to be pulling Vegas vacationers into the games.”
Carville Abbottson was smart, charming and exciting. Jaclyn liked him—and wanted him to leave. She wasn’t going to change her mind about keeping the team in Brooklyn. Still, she wouldn’t direct her impatience at Carville. Her target was Gerald. She glanced at her partner again. With very little prompting, she’d gladly poke him in the eyes.
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her legs. She adjusted the material of her teal skirt over her knee. “Where would the team play?”
Carville inclined his head. “You’re asking about the arena.”
Jaclyn was gratified that the investor didn’t pretend not to understand her question. He really was a likeable person. “How are you going to finance it?”
Carville folded his hands again. “We’re hoping to put a measure on the May ballot for a levy.”
Jaclyn blinked. “You’re asking for taxpayer funding?”
Carville nodded. “Bringing a pro team to Las Vegas will improve the city’s standing. The arena will bring jobs to the area. We’re going to ask residents to help us make this possible.”
Jaclyn frowned at Gerald. “Did you know about this?”
Gerald shrugged. “Carville mentioned it to me.”
“But you didn’t mention it to me.” She turned back to the investor. “How do you think voters will respond to the levy?”
Carville’s gaze sharpened. His tone was more cautious. “Our initial telephone poll results are mixed. But we’ve got some strong direct marketing and media campaigns that will help educate voters on why the levy is a good idea for the city.”
Jaclyn lifted her pen, rolling it between her index finger and thumb. Her grandfather hadn’t liked the idea of asking a tax-burdened community to pay for his franchise and neither did she. “What will you do if the voters reject the levy?”
Carville shook his head. “I don’t think they will.”
Jaclyn noted Carville’s squared jaw and stubborn chin. The founder of Abbottson Investments had gotten his success through determination, hard work and positive thinking. In this case, Jaclyn didn’t like his thinking.
She continued to roll her pen. “Even if they pass the tax levy in May, it will take at least a year after you break ground to build the arena. Unless we’re able to get an extension on the Empire contract, the Monarchs will be without a home next season.”
Carville looked from Gerald to Jaclyn. “If we’re able to meet agreeable terms, I’m sure we’d work something out for next season. Maybe the Knicks would let us play some games at Madison Square Garden. Or we could play at a couple of nearby arenas.”
Jaclyn would bounce her team between arenas when pigs flew. “That would be too disruptive to the team and our fans.
Carville looked concerned. “It wouldn’t be for more than one season.”
Jaclyn sighed. “Carville, I don’t want to move the Monarchs out of Brooklyn, and I haven’t heard anything in this meeting that would change my mind. Even if we have to move out of the Empire Arena, I want to keep the franchise in Brooklyn.”
Carville shifted his surprised expression to Gerald. “I thought you both wanted to move to Vegas.”
Jaclyn arched a brow at Gerald. “You were misled.”
Carville leaned back in the thick, black-cushioned chair. “I want to bring an NBA team to Las Vegas. Is there a possibility that you’d change your mind about moving the Monarchs?”
Gerald answered. “Anything is possible.”
Jaclyn ignored her partner. “Not even the slightest possibility.”
Car ville got to his feet. “Then I’m sorry I wasted your time, Jackie.”
Jaclyn stood with him, extending her hand. “It wasn’t a waste of time. It was a pleasure meeting you, Carville.”
The executive gave her a silver screen idol smile. “The pleasure was mine. Good luck finding a new home for your team.”
“Thank you.” Jaclyn watched Gerald escort the real estate investor from the conference room.
How was her traitorous partner spinning this setback?
Once they’d disappeared across the threshold, she retrieved her cell phone from her skirt pocket and punched in the speed-dial code for Violet. Her friend and former teammate picked up on the third ring.
Jaclyn sat down again. “Vi, are you still looking for a business challenge?”
“Yes. Why?”
“I may have one for you. When can we get together to talk about it?”
“What’s wrong with them?” DeMarcus studied the way Jamal defended Warrick. The Monarchs were more than an hour into their worst practice of the season.
Oscar Clemente shrugged. “Too tight.”
“Because of Tuesday’s loss in Boston?” Last night’s flight back to Brooklyn after the Celtics game had been tense.
“No.”
After five months—September to February— DeMarcus should have known better than to ask his assistant coach a yes or no question.
He followed the action on the court. The Monarchs ran through the defensive strategy he and his coaching staff had planned for Friday’s match against the Wizards in D.C. There were only two games left in February before they turned the calendar to March. Every one was critical. The starters—Jamal, Barron, Anthony, Serge and Vincent—wore silver T-shirts and black shorts. Warrick wore the black running shorts and matching T-shirt that identified him with the bench players on offense. Warrick did a better-than-credible impersonation of Gilbert Arenas, the Wizards’ veteran guard. Jamal wasn’t able to defend him.
DeMarcus crossed his arms over his chest. “They can’t be worried about the Wizards. We beat them on their home court last month.”
Oscar grunted. “The Wizards aren’t better than us.”
DeMarcus ignored Oscar’s division rivalry smack talk and gestured toward the court. “Then what’s the problem?”
“The rookie. He draws more fouls than flies are drawn to—”
DeMarcus raised his voice to be heard above the squeaking sneakers and thumping ball. “Jamal, check Rick. Don’t hug him.” He looked toward Oscar. “As often as I’ve had to repeat that, I should have a T-shirt made.”
Warrick circled to Jamal’s left, keeping the ball out of the rookie’s reach. He was toying with the younger player.
Instead of moving back, Jamal pressed closer. “The old man can’t handle my pressure.” The younger man’s voice was short of breath and edged with anger.
“I can take the pressure.” Warrick’s tone was cool and controlled. “The team doesn’t need you to foul.” He stepped back behind the three-point perimeter and sank a basket.
DeMarcus narrowed his eyes. Was the benched veteran finally getting his game back? He glanced at Oscar. “Jamal’s a pain in the ass, but he can score.”
“He disrupts the team.”
“He’s brought the team together.”
“Together against him. That’s unhealthy.”
“We have a winning record. It can’t be unhealthy.” DeMarcus brought his attention back to the court in time to see Warrick steal the ball from Serge and heave it to the member of his practice squad closest to the paint. That player, a back-up center, turned and slammed the ball into the net.
DeMarcus shook his head. “Our bench players are up eight points against our starters.”
“They’re not tight.”
After a series of plays, the starters took a small and tenuous lead. Warrick remained cool and in control. But Jamal’s game reflected his increasing agitation.
Warrick was dribbling the ball well outside of the three-point perimeter, biding his time until a teammate came open. Jamal’s arm came across the veteran player from behind in a move guarante
ed to earn the rookie a foul and send Warrick to the free-throw line during a real game. DeMarcus brought the whistle to his mouth, preparing to stop the game. He hesitated as Warrick dodged free, bringing the ball with him. Smooth move.
DeMarcus ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. His tone snapped. “Jamal, play the ball, not your man.”
Jamal’s anger was palpable as he crowded Warrick again. “I’m sending Grandpa back to the bench.”
DeMarcus clenched his teeth. “I said play the ball.”
Warrick kept the ball out of Jamal’s reach. “All of your fancy moves won’t mean anything if you can’t stay out of foul trouble. Work on your defense—and your temper.”
Jamal sneered. “You’re washed up, old man.”
DeMarcus blew his whistle. “All right. Bring it in.” His voice was sharp as the players gathered around him and Oscar. “Jamal, you’re a good shooter.”
Jamal swiped sweat from his brow. “Damn right, I am.”
DeMarcus narrowed his eyes on Jamal. “But because you keep sending our opponents to the foul line, your teammates have to work harder and shoot more to stay in the game. You can’t make those mistakes and expect to get to the play-offs.”
“I can handle it.” Insecurity lay beneath Jamal’s cocky smile.
Anthony Chambers gave Jamal a hard look. “You’d better pray on that, brother. The truth will set you free.”
Jamal glowered at Anthony. “What truth is that, St. Anthony?”
Anthony put his hand on the other man’s shoulder. “That, if you don’t heed Coach’s wisdom, I’m going to knock your teeth out.”
Barron Douglas settled his hands on his hips. “And I’ll put you in traction.”
Great. A brawl on the court was just what he needed to catapult this practice right into the crapper.
“That’s it. Practice is over. Hit the showers.” DeMarcus watched the players walk toward the locker room. Jamal lagged behind.
“Thirty minutes left.” Oscar’s observation was less than helpful.
DeMarcus rubbed the back of his neck. “They wouldn’t have gone any better than the first ninety minutes.”
The older man moved to stand beside him. “Jamal’s got flash.”
DeMarcus stared toward the locker room. How would he take this team to the play-offs? “But?”
“He’s immature.”
DeMarcus couldn’t argue with that. “I was hoping he’d grow up. But we’re eighteen weeks and fifty-six games into the season, and I’m not seeing any improvement.”
“Bench Jamal, start Rick.” Oscar was persistent.
DeMarcus faced the assistant coach. The knots in his neck and shoulders remained. “Rick plays well in practice. But during a real game, he hesitates to take the shot. Why?”
Oscar shrugged. “Ask him.”
“I’m asking you. Why are you so sure Rick gives us a better chance of getting into the play-offs?”
Oscar’s tall, bulky body tensed. “I see what you can’t.”
“Which is?”
“Rick puts the team above himself. Whether he’s sitting or starting, he’ll do whatever it takes to help the team win. We were winning before you benched him.” Oscar jerked a thumb toward the lockers. “But when that Air Jordan wannabe gets the ball, it becomes the Jamal Ward show. He’ll make himself look good, even if it jeopardizes the team.”
“I don’t know what Rick is afraid of, but his fear is causing him to hesitate in real-game situations. I can’t risk him freezing up and costing us the win.”
Oscar gave him a scornful look. “Sometimes you have to risk losing if you want to win.”
DeMarcus watched Oscar leave the court. The assistant coach was angry. Well, so was he. Oscar was convinced he was right. DeMarcus was just as certain he was wrong. Oscar was passionate about his position, though. DeMarcus could tell because never before had the assistant coach strung together so many words when speaking to him.
The knock on his office door Wednesday afternoon interrupted DeMarcus’s review of the Washington Wizards’ scouting report. Andrea Benson of the New York Sports waited in his doorway.
He stood and checked his watch. It was almost four o’clock. “Andrea, did we have a meeting?”
The reporter strode toward his desk. The wide-legged pants of her dark green suit billowed like a skirt around her legs. “No, Coach Guinn, we didn’t.”
His frown cleared as he took the hand she offered. “Call me Marc. I’m sorry. I don’t have time for an inter view right now. I have to prepare for Friday’s game in D.C.”
“I know. But this is very important. I have three questions that will take only a few minutes of your time.”
DeMarcus released her hand and swallowed a sigh. Andrea’s dark eyes were troubled. His gaze dipped to her choke hold on the brown strap of her huge purse. What was on the reporter’s mind? “How can I help you?”
“Thank you.” Andrea lowered herself to the guest chair in front of DeMarcus’s desk and waited for him to reclaim his seat. “Coach Guinn—Marc—are you addicted to cocaine?”
18
“What?” DeMarcus barely heard himself above the blood rushing through his ears.
Andrea settled back into the black cushioned visitor’s chair. Her tension seemed to have transferred to him. “I didn’t think so.”
Anger replaced shock. “What are you talking about?”
Andrea opened her reporter’s notepad. “I got a call from someone claiming to be your—and I quote—personal drug supplier.”
“What?” DeMarcus was repeating himself, but he couldn’t seem to think.
“He offered me an exclusive interview about your addiction to coke and heroine. He claimed he’s been your supplier since high school.”
DeMarcus fisted his hands on his desk. Living in the public spotlight, he knew people would try to tarnish his image. Competitors attempted to pull him into public feuds. Women claimed to be in a relationship with him. And so-called friends tried to sell his life story or get him to invest in their up-and-coming-can’t-miss business deals, complete with shady front men. He’d avoided the worst of that by remembering the life lessons his parents had taught him and reminding himself that basketball was his job. But now he was being pulled into the nightmare. Who was targeting him and why?
Gerald.
Memory crashed into him like an ice-cold Atlantic Ocean wave.
DeMarcus reminded himself to breathe. “What did you say?”
Andrea searched his features. “I told him I’d get back to him. He said if I kept him waiting too long, he’d go to another paper.”
Thoughts, questions and obscenities circled DeMarcus’s mind with near warp speed. In self-defense, he grabbed one. “Why didn’t you interview him?”
The intensity in Andrea’s stare made him uneasy. What was she looking for and what did she find? He knew she’d found something. Andrea Benson was a very smart person.
“I don’t believe him.”
DeMarcus’s shoulders relaxed. It was a ridiculous reaction. He knew he wasn’t addicted to drugs. He’d never even tried them. Why was it important what other people thought of him? He didn’t know why he cared; he just did.
He sat back and considered the reporter, who didn’t seem as much like the enemy anymore. “Why don’t you believe him?”
“I know what addiction looks and acts like. It doesn’t look or act like you. And I don’t think you would have made it into the NBA, much less have been so successful, if you’d been addicted to hard drugs.”
“Especially since the NBA has strict drug-testing policies.”
“There is that.”
Silence extended while they took each other’s measure. DeMarcus checked his watch, but was too distracted to register the time. “Have I answered your question?”
“The first one. I still have two more.”
DeMarcus had never enjoyed media interviews, and this one was turning out to be the worst. “What are they?”
“W
ho’s behind this fake story and why is he trying to ruin your image?”
DeMarcus was afraid Andrea would realize everything if he breathed.
Gerald had threatened to destroy DeMarcus’s reputation if the Monarchs continued to win. He hadn’t believed the franchise partner would go through with it. However, now that the team had a winning record, rumors were linking him to drugs. A coincidence? He didn’t think so.
DeMarcus held the reporter’s gaze. “I don’t know.”
Andrea gave him another intense scrutiny. “I don’t believe you.”
He’d have to brazen it out. “Why not?”
“A better question is, why are you protecting someone who’s trying to hurt you?”
“I’m not protecting anyone.”
“Then why won’t you give me a name?”
“Because I don’t have one.” He wasn’t lying. DeMarcus was pretty sure Gerald was behind the bogus story, but he didn’t have proof. Without proof, he wouldn’t make allegations against the franchise partner—his boss—in the media. He’d deal with Gerald himself.
Andrea shifted in her chair, crossing her legs. “I’m curious—”
“I’m sure you are.”
She continued as though DeMarcus hadn’t tried to interrupt her. “Is the person behind this fake story trying to hurt you, your team, your family or all of the above?”
DeMarcus felt his tension building. The intrepid reporter was too close to the truth. “When you find the person, ask.”
“I will. I respect that you don’t want to get into an exchange of angry words or bad feelings in the press. That never helps anyone.” Andrea stood. “But whoever planted this story doesn’t care about you, your family or the Monarchs.”
DeMarcus stood with her. “Apparently not.”
“So what does he care about?”
“That’s another good question.”
“But one you won’t answer?”
“I can’t.” That, too, was true. Whatever happened in the team had to stay in the team.
Andrea arched a brow. “I’m going to break this story. Not the one alleging your drug use. The one about the person attacking your reputation. And, when I do, I’ll let you know what I find out.”
