by Regina Hart
She took a slow, deep breath. “I’ve covered the Monarchs for three years. In that time, I’ve written scores of articles about the team. Not one of them gives you the right to question my motives.”
“You’ve been better than most.” Troy’s grudging words stoked her temper.
She dug her nails into her chair’s padded arms. “You were a reporter. Were your stories always complimentary to the teams?”
“I’m not a reporter anymore.” Troy settled back into his chair, crossing his arms over his broad chest. “How can I be sure you won’t spice up your story?”
Andrea’s cheeks stung as the blood drained from her face. “My job is to give my readers context for the game, not to make up information.”
“And my job is to make sure the Monarchs aren’t tarnished in the press. Who do you think will get their way?”
She forced her fingers to relax against the chair’s arms. “I could speak to the players without your permission.”
Troy spread his arms. “You could try. But Marc and I told them not to speak to reporters, including you.”
Andrea sucked in a breath. He was denying her access. “Why won’t you trust me?”
“I can’t shut out every reporter but you. That wouldn’t be fair.”
Andrea wrapped her half-eaten sandwich in the napkin Troy had given her and stuffed it into her bag. She stood, jerking her purse strap onto her shoulder. “I covered the Monarchs when Brooklyn tried to forget you were here. I come to you for answers when other reporters print speculation. And now you’re going to treat me the same way you treat them. Who’s not being fair?”
Bitter disappointment soured in her stomach as she stalked out of Troy’s office. He’d implemented a gag order, preventing the team from talking to her. How was she supposed to advance her career if she couldn’t do her job?
Minutes after Andrea left, Troy strode into Jaclyn’s office. He stopped behind her guest chairs. “Gerry’s trying to get the media to smear the team again.”
Jaclyn tossed her pen onto her desk and sank back into her chair. “The man’s a one-trick pony.”
Troy glanced at the silver and black Monarchs pin fastened near the left shoulder of Jaclyn’s violet skirt suit. “Why is he doing this?”
“I wish I knew.” Her expression was tight with an anger Troy understood.
He rubbed the back of his neck as he paced Jaclyn’s office. His gaze circled the room. It was decorated in the team’s colors, silver and black. Like his office, Jaclyn’s beige walls displayed accolades from the Monarchs’ past, including team awards, commendations, and photographs of her grandfather—one of the franchise’s four founding members—with community leaders.
He strode back toward his boss. His shoes sank into the plush silver carpet. “How do we make him stop?”
“You mean, how do I make him stop.” Her voice was dry enough for kindling. “I offered to buy Gerry’s shares at more than fair market value. He refused to sell.”
“How do we change his mind?” Troy didn’t want to hear about what wouldn’t work. He needed a solution. His job was to get positive press for the team. Gerald was threatening that goal.
Jaclyn arched a brow. “Short of threatening him?”
Troy tossed Jaclyn a look as he settled into one of her visitors’ chairs. “I’m serious. We can’t afford another article like the one Andy wrote on Barron.”
She angled her head. “Why do you call her Andy? You know she doesn’t like it.”
“It suits her.” It goaded her. Sparks flew from the reporter’s startling brown eyes every time he used the nickname. It was a childish tactic, but the reaction let him know she was at least paying attention to him. Like tugging on the cute girl’s pigtails in the elementary school playground.
“Andrea did a good job on the article.”
Troy drummed his fingers on the chair’s arm. “No, she didn’t.”
“It was fair. That’s all we can expect from the media. We can’t tell them what stories to cover or how to write them. But we should at least expect them to be fair.”
“Fair? It shows Barron in a bad light and quotes the other players complaining about him. Another story like that could disrupt the locker room.”
Jaclyn raised one hand palm out. “Andrea didn’t make the team look bad. They did that themselves. You’ve told the players to keep their complaints in house. The next time Andrea interviews them, they won’t have anything negative to say.”
Troy’s fingers stilled. “I didn’t only tell the players not to complain to the press. I’ve denied reporters access to the team.”
Jaclyn’s brows knitted. “Was that a good idea? The press is already complaining about you.”
Tension tightened his muscles. “My priority is the Monarchs. I’m not going to let the media distract the team.”
Jaclyn didn’t look convinced. “Are you including Andrea in your media ban?”
He gave her a sharp look. “Yes. I have to treat all of the reporters the same. Either they all have access or they don’t.”
“Says who?”
“It wouldn’t be fair to give Andy preferential treatment.”
“Why not? Who gets access to our team is our decision.”
Troy recognized a hint of reason in Jaclyn’s point. “If we play favorites, we’ll make the situation worse.”
Jaclyn leaned into her desk. “Andrea has proven herself to be a good ally. We’re going to need one or two of those when Gerry shops his stories.”
“Considering Gerry’s track record with planting fake stories, I don’t think a lot of newspapers will jump at his bait.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Troy’s stomach muscles knotted. Was his boss losing confidence in him? “I have ten years’ experience working with the media. Four of those years are with this organization. My decision to deny reporters unofficial access to the team is based on that experience.”
Jaclyn held his gaze for a long moment. Troy could feel her mulling over his words. He returned her regard without expression. But inside, he worried. What would he do, what would it mean, if she challenged his decision?
Finally, she nodded. “All right. My grandfather made you our V.P. of media and marketing for a reason. I’ll support your decision.”
Troy relaxed. “Thank you.”
Jaclyn lifted her pen, rolling it between the thumb and index finger of her right hand. “But I hope your decision is based on your professional concern for the team and not because you’re trying to protect a specific player.”
His relief hadn’t lasted long. “What do you mean?”
Jaclyn lowered her pen. “Marc told me Barron stormed out of practice this morning in the middle of your speech to the team. You’re angry with Andrea because of her article in today’s paper. Am I reading too much into the situation or not enough?”
Troy held Jaclyn’s gaze. “This is about the team, not just Barron.”
At least that’s what he kept telling himself. Barron was a Monarch. He had to protect Barron to protect the team.
Jaclyn searched his eyes. “I hope so. We both know that no one player is more important than the team.”
Troy walked to the door. Jaclyn was right. Every athlete knew no player was above the team. But the Monarchs were more than a team. They were a family. And when one family member was in trouble, everyone stuck together. Just because his family hadn’t stood with him when he’d been in trouble doesn’t mean it wasn’t supposed to be that way.
Later Thursday afternoon, Troy strode into the Monarchs’ practice facility, slapping a computer printout against his right thigh. It was almost two o’clock. Practice had officially ended about twenty minutes ago. But Troy knew players stayed hours later for additional practice and training.
He found Jamal, his target, taking shots at one of the twelve nets suspended around the facility’s perimeter. The rookie stole frequent looks at Warrick, who practiced a couple of baskets away.
Troy stopped almost on top of the young shooting guard. “I asked the team not to talk to the press.”
Jamal adjusted his focus from the net to Troy. “I know. I was there.”
“Then why did you talk to a Horn columnist?”
Jamal turned away from the basket and gave Troy his full attention. “I never spoke to any reporters or columnists or whatever. Who said I did?”
Troy sensed the other man’s confusion. Had Jamal thought Troy wouldn’t find out? He gave the rookie the folded printout of the Monarchs Insider, the New York Horn’s new online blog.
Jamal scanned the sheet of paper. His eyes widened. “Who the hell is the Monarchs Insider? The guy doesn’t even use a name.”
“You tell me.” Troy hooked his hands on his hips. Jamal seemed genuinely surprised. But how could he be? The blogger had quoted him in the debut post.
“I’ve never met the guy.” As irritated as Jamal sounded, he had a long way to go to match Troy’s anger.
“You wouldn’t have to meet him to speak with him.”
Jamal narrowed his gaze. “I’ve never spoken to him, either. I don’t know this guy.”
Troy gestured toward the sheet Jamal was crumpling in his fist. “He quotes you in his article.”
“Listen, man, you told us not to talk to the press. I don’t know where this dude gets off saying I spoke to him. I didn’t.” Jamal was almost shouting.
“What’s the problem?” Warrick’s question interrupted their exchange.
Troy turned to the veteran shooting guard. “I got a Google Alert on an interview Jamal gave to a new online sports blogger with the Horn.”
Warrick’s brows came together. “A recent interview?”
“Yeah.” Jamal shoved the nearly ruined printout at his teammate. “The only thing is, I keep telling Troy I didn’t talk to the guy.”
Warrick took the sheet from Jamal. Troy watched as the seasoned player smoothed the paper and started to read the column. A muscle flexed in Warrick’s jaw. He must have come to the part where the columnist quoted the rookie denigrating Warrick’s skills. Or maybe it was the part where Jamal declared it was time for the veteran to retire.
Troy rubbed his gritty eyes, then rubbed the back of his neck. This was one of the longest Thursdays ever, starting with his taking Barron home from the club. He hadn’t meant for Warrick to read that trash. The interview was with a brash baller masquerading as a teammate and reported by an irresponsible gossip pretending to be a legitimate journalist.
The smack of basketballs against the gleaming hardwood court and the chatter of conversations spoken above normal decibels faded into the background, becoming an annoying buzz.
Warrick finished the column. He looked first to Jamal. The younger man returned his study with a mixture of defiance and dismay. Silence lengthened as they held each other’s gaze.
Finally, Warrick handed Troy the printout. “Jamal didn’t talk with this columnist.”
“See? I told you.” Jamal vibrated with righteous indignation.
Troy ignored the rookie, keeping his attention on Warrick. “How do you know?”
Warrick also ignored the younger player. “Jamal is arrogant, obnoxious, and juvenile, but he’s not a liar.”
“I’m not juvenile.” Jamal sounded annoyed.
Warrick held Troy’s gaze. “If he said he didn’t talk to this columnist, he didn’t.”
“I’m not arrogant, either.” Jamal seemed offended.
Warrick was probably right. Troy didn’t have any personal history on which to base his suspicions of Jamal. All he had was that column. “Then how did the blogger get that inter view?”
Warrick shrugged. “He didn’t. The blogger is the liar. He says he interviewed Jamal, but he didn’t.”
Why was the veteran point guard defending the rookie who took his spot, especially after all the aggravation the younger player had caused him? That was beyond Troy’s comprehension.
He inclined his head toward Jamal. “You really believe him?”
Jamal bounced on his toes. “Why shouldn’t he? I’m not a liar.”
Troy still had some doubts. “Those quotes sound just like you. That blogger couldn’t have made them up.”
Warrick nodded. “He probably lifted them from articles that ran earlier in the season.”
Troy scowled at Jamal, letting the younger man see his irritation. “Or heard the comments you made from the court.”
Jamal dropped his gaze. “I didn’t mean them.”
Warrick’s chuckle was dry and unamused. “Yes, you did.” He checked his watch. “Are we good here? I want to get some weights in before I leave.”
Jamal’s eyes stretched wide. “No, we’re not good. This needs to be fixed. It’s bad enough having my teammates think I’m arrogant, obnoxious and ...”
“Juvenile,” Troy prompted.
“Right.” Jamal gave him a sour look. “I don’t need them thinking I’m a liar, too.”
Troy nodded toward Warrick. “We believe you.”
Jamal set his jaw. “Rick isn’t the whole team.”
Troy saw his point. “I’ll tell them to take it down and threaten them with legal action if they continue to harass our players.” He’d consult with Jaclyn to make sure he had her support before he made those threats.
Jamal crossed his arms. “I want an apology.”
Troy arched a brow. “I know you’re upset that the columnist pretended to interview you. But if anyone deserves an apology, it’s Rick. Your comments insulted him and damaged his reputation. I don’t care when you made them.”
Jamal dropped his gaze again. “I’m sorry.”
Warrick looked at the rookie, who still couldn’t meet his eyes. “Help me get this championship and we’ll call it done.” He nodded at Troy. “Good luck with that blogger.”
Troy watched as Jamal followed Warrick to the weight room. Warrick impressed Troy. Whether he was on the court or the bench, for the veteran NBA player, it was all about the team and the win. Jamal took his starting spot and attacked him in the media. Still, Warrick didn’t hold a grudge. Troy couldn’t understand how the other man did it.
He turned to leave the facility. Identifying the Monarchs Insider was Troy’s priority for what remained of the day. He already had an idea who was behind this latest harassment. Getting Gerald to admit his role was another matter.
“Man, don’t you have a life? Why are you trying to live mine?” Barron turned away from his front entrance, leaving Troy to follow him—or not—into his Prospect Park condominium. At least Barron hadn’t slammed the door in his face, as Troy had half expected.
He locked the door before finding his reluctant host in the entertainment room. Barron stood behind the oak bar, pouring dark liquid—Scotch?—into a highball glass. The black carpet swallowed the sound of his approach.
Troy stopped on the other side of the bar. He looked from the glass to Barron. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Barron’s tone snapped with impatience.
“Like you’re getting drunk at six o’clock in the evening.”
“It’s almost six-thirty.”
“And you’re sitting here by yourself.” He raised his BlackBerry toward Barron. “I got your tweet asking for friends to go clubbing with you tonight.”
“I knew I should have blocked you.”
Why hadn’t he?
Troy shoved his BlackBerry back into his front pocket. “We’re going into the postseason. Put your clubbing on hold.”
“You’re not my mother, man. You’re not even my coach. Go back to the front office where you belong.” Barron corked the bottle of liquor and took a deep drink from his glass.
Troy didn’t react to the anger hardening Barron’s eyes or the liquor he was pouring down his throat. The point guard was searching for buttons to push. Troy wouldn’t let him know he’d found one of his. “I’m not in the locker room with you, but we work for the same team.”
“What are y
ou doing here, man?”
“What are you doing? You read the Sports article about you. Don’t you care that you’re letting your teammates down?”
Barron raised his chin and his voice. “They let me down.”
Troy wandered over to sit on the arm of Barron’s red leather sofa. Matching armchairs circled an oak center table. An enormous plasma screen television hung on the off-white wall across the room. It was almost the size of the Empire Arena’s JumboTron. The TV played ESPN’s SportsCenter. The sound was muted.
He watched Barron lean against the bar. “Marc benched you for the final game of the regular season. Are you going to make them pay by throwing away the play-offs?”
Barron jabbed a thumb against his chest. “I’m the team captain. I should have been on the court.”
Troy smelled the liquor on the other man’s breath from more than an arm’s length away. “And you would have been if you’d been playing well. But you weren’t. Marc made the decision. He was right. The Monarchs made the play-offs.”
“I would’ve taken the team to the play-offs.”
Troy watched him sway on his feet. Why was Barron doing this? “No, Bling. You wouldn’t have.”
Barron’s gaze wavered. He took another gulp of Scotch. “You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t.” He nodded toward the bottle still within Barron’s reach. “But I’m sure we won’t make it past the Cavs if you drink yourself into a stupor every night.”
“I can share.” Barron lifted the bottle. “Do you want some?”
Troy had to believe he wasn’t wasting his time here. When Barron had his act together, he was a vital part of the team. Troy just needed to convince the team captain to pull himself together. “Are you going to stand here drinking all night?”
Barron set the bottle on the surface of the bar. “I’ll probably sit after a while. Then, once I get my second wind, I’ll go to the club.”
“What about practice in the morning?”
Barron shrugged again. “It starts at eleven.”
Troy held on to his patience. “Will you be there?”