by Regina Hart
He crossed his arms to keep from reaching for her and tried not to burn in the cinnamon fires of her eyes. He missed her. Did she miss him? At all? “We have a better chance of winning with Jamal.”
“We’ve dropped four straight games—the Celtics, the Wizards, the Grizzlies and the Cavs. How many do we have to lose before you make a change?”
He didn’t flinch. “We were winning with Jamal. We weren’t winning with Rick.”
Jaclyn planted her hands on her slim hips. The dark blue dress nipped her tiny waist and ended just below her knees. “Jamal’s a grandstander. Who goes for a three-point shot when you only need two points to win?”
DeMarcus pinched the bridge of his nose. She was still bringing up the Wizards game. That was almost a week ago. “He made a mistake.”
“One of many.”
“He’s aggressive.”
She arched a brow. “He fouls our opponents’ best free throw hitters. That’s not a good strategy.”
“He adds energy.”
“The other players have to clean up his mistakes.” Jaclyn turned to pace his office.
DeMarcus tracked her progress away from his oak desk, past his conversation table and fake plant to the bookcase against his far left wall. His office didn’t seem as cavernous as it used to. He was growing into it.
He uncrossed his arms. “We have twenty-three games left. He’ll turn around before them. We just need to channel his skills.”
Jaclyn tossed him a look over her shoulder. “You mean rein them in.” She stopped pacing to face him. “Why won’t you bench him? What do you see in him?”
DeMarcus hesitated. “I see myself. I know that sounds ridiculous, but he reminds me of me when I played.”
Jaclyn’s lips parted. Her brows lifted. “You think Jamal is like you?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “He’s nothing like you, Marc. But there is one player on the team who is similar to you, at least in personality.”
He brought a mental image of the Monarchs’ roster. “Who?”
Jaclyn crossed her arms. “Get to know your players, Marc. Find out what makes them tick. Find out why they’ve started losing again.”
“Why won’t you just tell me who it is?”
“Because you need to hear it for yourself.” She turned to leave.
DeMarcus watched the sway of her hips beneath the straight, tight skirt. He dragged both hands over his hair. What was behind the sudden marked slump in the Monarchs’ game? He was out of ideas, running short of solutions. He might as well try Jaclyn’s touchy-feely approach. What did he have to lose? Besides, he was curious to find out which player on their team reminded her of him. How would he feel about the comparison?
21
DeMarcus rapped on Oscar Clemente’s door.
The assistant coach set his Monarchs coffee mug on a pile of printouts. “You need something?”
After six months, DeMarcus was accustomed to the older man’s grumpiness. He wandered into the cluttered office. “I’m going to schedule one-on-one meetings with the team.”
Oscar shrugged. He picked up his mug and continued reading whatever team report absorbed his attention. Since it was Tuesday morning, the assistant coach was probably preparing for the Monarchs’ Wednesday evening home game against the Detroit Pistons.
DeMarcus moved the pile of papers from one of Oscar’s guest chairs to the floor. “This is early March. We have twenty-three games left. Our record is thirty-two and twenty-seven.”
“I watch ESPN, too.” Oscar kept his eyes on the report, sipped his coffee.
DeMarcus shook his head. He’d actually grown to like the mean old man. “Mathematically, we’re still in the running for a play-off berth.”
Oscar glanced at him before returning his eyes to the report in his hands. “What’s your point?”
DeMarcus’s gaze passed over the framed action photos that hung on the walls of Oscar’s office. They were from the Monarchs’ glory days. “Why do you think we’ve lost our last four games?”
Oscar took another sip from his mug. “We’re playing like crap.”
DeMarcus hadn’t mastered the art of having a productive conversation with the other man. He was working on it, though, and making progress. “Why do you think we’re playing like crap?”
“Ask the players.”
“I want to know what you’re seeing.”
Oscar dropped the report and lowered his mug. “Why?”
DeMarcus found some satisfaction in having the assistant coach’s complete attention. It hadn’t taken him as long this time. “For starters, you’ve been with the team for almost twenty years. You know the players better than I do.”
“I know.”
DeMarcus frowned his surprise. “You’re also my assistant coach. We’re supposed to work together.”
“I know.”
“Then why are you giving me a hard time? Just tell me what you’re seeing and why you think the team’s losing again.”
“Why waste my breath?” Oscar set his mug on another pile of reports. He laid his hands flat on the papers strewn across his desk.
“Why would sharing your insights be a waste of breath?”
Oscar shrugged. “You never listen. You think you have all the answers.”
DeMarcus stood. He shoved his hands into the pockets of yet another pair of black warm-up pants. The assistant coach was right. Oscar had often volunteered his thoughts, but DeMarcus hadn’t listened. “That was in the past. Look, I’m out of ideas. I’m asking for yours.”
Oscar heaved a deep sigh. He settled back into his chair. “I’ll tell you what I’ve told you before. The only person who likes Jamal is his mother.”
DeMarcus was pretty certain that wasn’t true. Although, in addition to Oscar, Jaclyn and his father also thought Jamal should be benched. “You don’t have to like your teammates to win.”
“It doesn’t hurt.” Oscar was back to pinching his words.
DeMarcus scanned Oscar’s office. How did the assistant coach find anything in the chaos on his desk? With the reports and boxes lined up across the floor, there wasn’t any room to pace. “I’ve had teammates I haven’t liked. That didn’t matter when we were on the court.”
“That’s one of your problems, Marc.” Oscar rocked back in his chair. “You think everyone should be like you.”
DeMarcus knitted his brows. “No, I don’t.”
“Teammates should be able to play to win whether they like each other or not.”
“That’s right.”
Oscar shook his head. “That’s you. Everyone’s not like you.”
“What are you suggesting? That I use Match.com to put the team together?”
The hint of a smile touched Oscar’s lips. “Not everyone’s a basketball machine. Those one-on-one meetings with the players aren’t going to mean a damn if you don’t remember that.”
DeMarcus nodded. “Thanks for the tip. Anything else?”
Oscar leaned back in his seat. “Peacocks are very pretty birds, but they don’t fly for long.”
DeMarcus cocked a brow. “Meaning?”
“Just because a player draws attention to himself and has exciting moves doesn’t mean he’ll carry you to the play-offs. Take a look at a couple of pigeons. You find those birds everywhere, including—with the right coaching—the play-offs.”
DeMarcus hooked his hands on his hips. “Are you going to point these peacocks and pigeons out to me?”
Oscar shook his head. “You’ll recognize them.”
DeMarcus turned to leave the office. Everyone was speaking in code this morning. He had no idea there was so much mysticism in NBA coaching.
“Are you going to fire me?” Vanessa lowered herself with a noticeable degree of caution onto one of the three black guest chairs in front of Jaclyn’s desk.
Jaclyn folded her hands on the manila folder in front of her. She studied the younger woman. Vanessa’s confrontational attitude was much subdued.
Her almond-shaped, dark brown eyes were wide and wary. “Do you think I should?”
Vanessa angled her chin. There was the aggression to which she’d grown accustomed. “No.”
Jaclyn hadn’t expected any other answer. “Why not?”
Vanessa’s gaze wavered. She bit her lip. “I haven’t done anything wrong.”
Jaclyn arched a brow. “You weren’t gossiping with Gerry about Marc and me? You weren’t giving him information about the players so that he could pass it on to the media?”
“Even if I were, you can’t prove it.”
Jaclyn opened the folder and lifted the first document, a two-page e-mail printout stapled together. “And I quote, ‘The cow really has it bad for him. It’s embarrassing the way she chases him around the office. I almost feel sorry for her. She may be rich, but Marc Guinn wants a lady, and she’s too mannish. ’”
Jaclyn returned the printout to the folder and raised her gaze to Vanessa. “I take it I’m the ‘cow.’”
The administrative assistant didn’t appear to be breathing. She’d gone as pale as a ghost. Her jaw had dropped open and she was shaking in her seat.
Jaclyn gestured toward the folder. “These are printouts of the e-mails you sent to Gerry letting him know when I was meeting with the arena owners’ lawyers, the arena owners and my financial advisor. Would you like copies?”
“No.” Vanessa’s teeth were chattering.
“Needless to say, I’ve retracted your access to my calendar.”
“Are you going to fire me?” Her voice was unsteady.
Jaclyn tilted her head. “Did you do something wrong?”
“Gerry’s the team’s owner.”
“Part owner.”
“He had a right to know what you were doing with his team.”
Jaclyn’s patience was shredding to its end point. “Our team. If Gerry wants to know what I’m doing, he should ask me instead of having you spy for him. When I want to know what he’s doing, I ask him. I would never have Althea spy on him. It’s not ethical.”
Vanessa wrung her hands. “I’ve been trying to help Gerry save the team. If you move the Monarchs out of Brooklyn, I’ll be out of a job. I’ve had this job since I graduated from high school. It’s helping pay my way through college. What would I do if the team moved? I can’t afford to start over in Nevada.”
Jaclyn’s eyes widened. There was a buzzing in her ears. “Gerry told you I wanted to move the team to Nevada?” At Vanessa’s nod, Jaclyn’s temper snapped. Who hadn’t her business partner lied to? “Gerry’s the one who wants to move the team. He’s working on a deal with Abbottson Investors to build the Monarchs an arena in Nevada.”
Vanessa’s dark eyes were clouded with confusion. “But he told me it was you.”
Jaclyn was baffled as well. “Didn’t you see the New York Sports article quoting Carville Abbottson that Gerry was the one who approached him about building an arena for the team?”
Vanessa’s gaze drifted away from Jaclyn. “But I believed him.”
“Gerry lied. I’m fighting to keep the team right here in the Empire Arena.” Jaclyn jabbed her right forefinger against her desktop. “How many other people did Gerry lie to?”
“He told me not to tell anyone.” Vanessa dropped her head into her hands. “How could I have been so stupid?”
Jaclyn’s tension evaporated at the devastated expression on the younger woman’s face. “Don’t feel too bad, Nessa. Gerry’s lied to a lot of people, including me and my grandfather. We’ve all believed him.”
Tears swam in Vanessa’s eyes. “Are you going to fire me?”
“No, I’m not going to fire you. It will take a while before I can trust you again, though.”
Vanessa wiped the tears from her cheeks. “I understand.”
“And you won’t have access to my calendar again for a very long time.”
Vanessa swallowed. “I shouldn’t have believed him.”
“He’s your boss. You wouldn’t have expected him to lie to you.”
“I’m really sorry. What can I do to make it up to you?”
Jaclyn gave the administrative assistant a warm smile. “The next time your boss asks you to spy for him, tell him that’s not in your job description. It’s not even part of your ‘ten percent other duties as needed.’”
Vanessa seemed too upset to smile. “How am I going to continue working for him?”
“I’ve thought about that. I’ll tell Gerry I’ve confronted you. Once he knows that I’ve realized you’re his spy, he won’t ask you to snoop around anymore.”
Vanessa’s sigh of relief was audible. Her eyes were wet with new tears. “Thank you, Jackie. I’m so grateful to you. I don’t know what I’d do if I lost this job. I’m so close to completing my finance degree.” She stood to leave. “I hope you’re able to find a way to stop Gerry from moving the team.”
“Thanks, Nessa. Good luck with your classes.” Jaclyn blinked back her own tears. To think her initial reaction had been to fire Vanessa. She hadn’t realized she was dealing with another one of Gerald’s victims and not a coconspirator.
Jaclyn stared out her door. She heard the phones ringing, murmurs of conversation, footsteps coming closer then walking away from her office.
Gerald had warned Vanessa not to tell people about the plans to move the team to Nevada, but had he told anyone else his lie? How many other people working for her believed she was trying to move the Monarchs out of Brooklyn? Were they committed to helping Gerald as well?
“Is it true you’re snorting coke?” Barron Douglas slouched his six-foot-five-inch frame onto the silver-cushioned chair on the other side of the small conversation table in DeMarcus’s office.
This is the reason DeMarcus hadn’t done these get-to-know-you chats with the players sooner. The team’s captain didn’t want to be here any more than DeMarcus wanted to bond with him. But Jaclyn wanted him to better understand his players and DeMarcus wanted to prove he didn’t have a problem having her as his boss. Besides, he was out of ideas to turn the team around.
DeMarcus drew a deep breath and counted to ten. “No, it’s not. I don’t do drugs. Didn’t you see the New York Sports article? Gerry planted that story because he’s trying to throw the season.”
Barron’s eyebrows hopped up his forehead. “That was true?”
“Didn’t you believe it?”
“You can’t believe everything you read in the papers.”
“You believed I was taking drugs.” DeMarcus couldn’t ignore a twinge of anger.
Barron raised his hands, palms out. “No. I asked if you were taking drugs.”
“Is this rumor the reason the team’s been losing?”
Anger flashed in the point guard’s dark eyes. He obviously wasn’t keen on discussing his failures. “The team’s been wondering whether drugs were the reason for some of the coaching decisions you’ve made.”
Were they going to parry insults all morning? “Such as?”
“Jamal. He’s a jack—”
“The Monarchs didn’t pay all that money for Jamal’s contract to sit him on the bench.” DeMarcus was tired of having all of the team’s problems dumped on Jamal. Didn’t anyone have anything constructive—and realistic—to say?
“Get the money back.”
Apparently not.
DeMarcus rubbed his forehead. “Besides his personality, what other issues do you have with Jamal?”
“Isn’t that enough?”
“No, it’s not. Disliking a teammate isn’t a good enough reason to lose.” Regardless of what Oscar thought. “Why do you think the team has dropped five straight games?”
Barron scowled. “I told you. It’s Jamal.”
Why was he putting himself through this? The Monarchs had lost to the Detroit Pistons last night. He should be preparing for their trip to Canada to play the Toronto Raptors Friday. Instead, on his off day between games, he was holding a pop psychology session with the team’s captain, something neither of them
was interested in doing.
“We’ve won thirty-two games with Jamal, so he can’t be the reason we’re losing again.”
Barron leaned into the table. “I’m tired of having to play twice as hard to cover up for his mistakes. I can’t get into my game with him throwing me off my rhythm.”
DeMarcus spread his hands. “You’re the team captain. Step up and help your teammates. Find a way to calm Jamal down.”
“He doesn’t listen.” Barron made a fist with his left hand. “When Rick was on the court, he handled his business. He knew where he had to be and what he had to do. I didn’t have to worry about him. I just had to worry about making sure that I shined.”
DeMarcus glanced at the series of tattoos climbing up the point guard’s bare arms. Maybe Jaclyn had a point. DeMarcus now understood the team captain’s self-absorbed attitude during practice and on the court. “Basketball is a team sport.”
“So?”
“There are times when, for whatever reason, a teammate is going to be off his rhythm and you’re going to have to pick up his slack. I’m sure there have been times when someone’s had to pick up your slack.”
“Yeah. Rick. We’re in sync on the court.” Barron scratched his scalp where it was exposed between his thick, black cornrows. “We don’t hang out much outside of basketball since he’s married and I enjoy the single life. But we’re brothers on the court.”
DeMarcus shook his head. “I benched Rick because he’s not aggressive enough.”
Barron looked disgruntled. “You gave Jamal the ball and put him on the court, but he doesn’t know the plays. That’s another reason he’s an—”
“I’ve given him extra practice time. The assistant coaches have worked with him, too. We need another strategy.” DeMarcus hesitated, then mentally shrugged. “Do you have any ideas?”
Barron shook his head. “Why are you giving him so many chances? Bench him. Give Rick his spot back with the starters.”
“Jamal has a lot of promise.”
Barron’s eyes stretched in amazement. “How can you tell? He doesn’t even give fifty percent in practice.”
“That’s not true, Barron. If he were that lazy in practice, I’d have fined him.”