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Authors: Regina Hart

BOOK: Fast Break
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“You're not Allen Iverson.” DeMarcus glanced at the other tattoos on the rookie's arms. “You're not Michael Jordan or Kobe Bryant, either. You're Jamal Ward. Put in the practice time.”
Jamal pushed away from the table and got to his full six-foot-five-inch height. “I was drafted my freshman year. I took my team to the NCAA championship.”
DeMarcus lifted his eyes to meet Jamal's. “That's a great accomplishment. But you didn't do it by yourself. You were part of a team, just like you're part of a team now.”
Jamal jabbed his chest with his right forefinger. “I'm a superstar.”
DeMarcus stood. “Wearing Iverson's jersey, talking like him, that ink on your arms—those things don't make you a superstar. Your God-given talent and a whole lot of hard work is what will help you become a superstar. You're not there yet. Do you want to be?”
Jamal glared at him. DeMarcus held his gaze. He saw the struggle in the younger man's eyes. He understood the doubt in his mind. The rookie didn't know whether he should listen to his coach or continue believing he already was a winner in the NBA, even though he hadn't even played a full season.
Jamal broke eye contact. “Yes, I do. I want to be a superstar.” He sat down. “I want to be a winner.”
DeMarcus reclaimed his seat. “Good. First, drop the alternate personalities. Don't try to be someone else. Learn who Jamal Ward is and play to his strengths.”
Jamal smoothed his hand over his brown, clean-shaven head. “OK.”
“Second, I want a hundred and ten percent during practice.” DeMarcus sensed Jamal's discomfort. “What is it?”
“The other players don't like me.”
This was the NBA. Why did he suddenly feel as though he were coaching a Pee-Wee team? “The other players don't know you. You've been pretending to be other people. I bet you don't even know you. Once you show them you're committed to winning, they'll come around.”
“OK.”
Another problem solved? “And third, learn the plays. The offense and the defense. If you don't, I'll fine you.”
Jamal's jaw dropped. “But—”
DeMarcus interrupted him. “OK?”
Jamal frowned. “OK.”
“Good. I'll see you at the airport tonight.” DeMarcus watched the rookie leave.
He had eleven more of these bonding sessions. Luckily, he'd spread them out over the next couple of weeks. But, if they were all like the first two, he'd lose his mind.
DeMarcus scrubbed his face with his hands. He was exhausted. He'd gotten to work at five o'clock this morning to better fit these player meetings in with the rest of his pregame preparations. DeMarcus stood and checked his watch. It was almost two o'clock. He logged back on to his computer to watch more game footage. He'd work for a couple of hours before heading to the airport.
The e-mail was waiting for him. It was addressed to all Monarch and Empire Arena employees from Jaclyn Jones. She'd bought the arena. The message went on to reassure everyone—staff, management, coaches and players—that the Monarchs were staying in Brooklyn. DeMarcus closed his eyes in relief. This must mean the Empire owners had accepted the bid from Jaclyn, Violet and Albert—without Jaclyn having to mortgage her house.
The good news reenergized him. He could only imagine the euphoria Jaclyn felt. DeMarcus locked his computer again and hurried toward his office door. There was a new arena owner he wanted to congratulate—and a woman with whom he wanted to celebrate.
Minutes later, DeMarcus stood in the threshold of Jaclyn's office. He was loathed to interrupt her intense concentration as she sat behind her desk reading the thick document before her. She held a pink highlighter in one hand and braced her head with the other. She was wearing her red skirt suit, the one he'd come to realize she saved for critical meetings.
He knocked on her door. Jaclyn looked up from her reading and went very still. DeMarcus recognized the distance in her and understood it. He still hadn't proven to her that she could trust him. That he respected her as his boss. He'd made a terrible mistake—a series of them. How was he going to make amends?
“Congratulations, Jack. You pulled it off. You bought the Empire, and without having to mortgage your house.” DeMarcus crossed her office and sat in one of her visitor's chairs.
“That's definitely a bonus.” Jaclyn seemed to relax by degrees.
DeMarcus laid his forearms on the chair's armrest. He was restless with this gulf between them, the awkward conversations that feared hidden meanings in every word. “I wish I could have seen Gerry's face when the lawyers told him you, Bert and Vi were the new arena owners.”
Jaclyn's chuckle had a mischievous tone. “I should have brought a camera. It was a moment to remember.”
DeMarcus took in her wide smile and twinkling eyes. Her cheeks were flushed with victory. Her joy was contagious. “You look so happy.”
“I am happy. And I'm going to enjoy this feeling for as long as I can. It won't last.”
That quickly, the light in her expression dimmed. DeMarcus felt her disappointment as his own. “You think Gerry hasn't given up?”
Jaclyn's full red lips twisted. She dropped her gaze to the papers in front of her. Contracts? “Not by a long shot. Bert said Gerry's nurtured his resentment for decades.”
“But you've beaten him.”
Jaclyn capped her marker and bounced it against the document. “Gerry's like the Terminator. He won't give up. I just wish I had some idea of what he'll try next.”
So did he. Was he wrong to feel so protective? He had to find the line between their personal and professional relationships. That line was his only hope of making his way back to her. “What can Gerry do? He can't move the team out of Brooklyn. You won't let him out of the Empire contract.”
“There are other ways to destroy a team.”
DeMarcus's hands tightened around the armrests. “Like planting damaging stories in the media.” Gerald's use of the media was a sore subject with him, and it always would be.
Jaclyn nodded. “That's one way. He could delay managerial decisions—contracts, hirings, firings. When he and Bert outvoted me to hire you, I thought that was the end of the Monarchs' season.”
DeMarcus's lips curved. “I remember that day vividly.”
Jaclyn's gaze wavered. “He could also stir disgruntlement among the staff. That's why I sent the e-mail about the Empire. I wanted to make the announcement before Gerry could revise history.”
DeMarcus nodded. “He'd have taken the opportunity if you'd given it to him.”
“I know.” Jaclyn fisted her hands on the table. “I wish I could buy him out. But he won't sell his shares.”
“That's part of his revenge.”
“His plan is to drive me insane.”
“We'll just have to make sure we don't give him any openings to hurt the team.”
Jaclyn looked at him. “He can still get to us through the media. He could use them to sow dissension among the players and distract us from the season.”
DeMarcus felt Jaclyn's fear for her team. He was concerned as well. “We have the best media executive in the league.”
Jaclyn's expression eased slightly. “We can't take Troy's talents for granted. The players haven't been playing like a team.” She dragged her fingers through her hair. “How are your meetings with them going?”
DeMarcus relaxed. She'd been cautious when he'd told her he was meeting one-on-one with the players. He'd had the sense she didn't think he'd take these sessions seriously. “I've met with Barron and Jamal. I think you were right. These talks are giving me insight into the players.”
A curious smile curved her full lips. “But you're not convinced they'll make a difference, are you?”
DeMarcus shifted in his seat. “Let's just say my mind is much more open for now. Barron thinks the game's all about him. I told him I'm making him responsible for his teammates' performance, starting with Jamal.”
Jaclyn looked surprised. “I like that.”
DeMarcus warmed with her words and reaction. “Jamal has multiple personalities.”
Jaclyn blinked. “Are any of them going to learn the playbook?”
DeMarcus chuckled. “I told him I'd fine him if he didn't. That was Barron's idea.”
Jaclyn arched a brow. “I'm impressed—by both of you.”
DeMarcus lowered his voice. “I'm trying, Jack.”
Jaclyn's eyes dimmed. “On behalf of the team, I appreciate it, Marc.”
DeMarcus's words barely carried on a breath. “You're ready to trust me again with your team, but you won't trust me with your heart?”
Jaclyn looked away. “It's much more fragile.”
23
Warrick Evans strolled into DeMarcus's office. The shooting guard's loose-limbed gait conveyed a confidence he hadn't shown on the court all season. His baggy, silver and black Brooklyn Monarchs warm-up jacket and pants concealed the strength and agility the twelve-year veteran could reveal on a dime—if he tried.
Why wasn't he trying?
DeMarcus gestured the player to the seat across from him at his conversation table. “Thanks for coming.”
“No problem, Coach.” Warrick sat and lifted his right ankle to his left knee.
DeMarcus arched a brow at Warrick's response. “The other players were either angry or anxious about meeting with me. You seem calm. Why?”
Warrick spread his arms. “What are you going to do? Release me? It's a little late in the season for that.”
“Is that why you're not playing harder for the team? Because you don't think I'll cut you from the roster?”
Warrick's expression tightened. “You benched me, Coach.”
“You don't seem upset about that. Other players would be hounding me twenty-four seven, stalking me night and day trying to get their spot back. You're coaching your replacement.” Why was he trying to get a rise out of the other man? Was it for the good of the team? Or was he still jealous of Warrick's friendship with Jaclyn? He didn't want to face that answer.
Warrick gripped his fingers together on his left thigh. “
Are
you releasing me?”
DeMarcus noticed the player's knuckles showed white. He looked away. “No, I was just . . . Forget it.”
“I love this team. I've been a Monarch since the day I was drafted out of college. I love Brooklyn, and Jackie's like a sister to me.” Warrick rubbed the back of his neck. “But, if you decided the team should move in another direction then, hopefully, my agent could find a spot for me somewhere else.”
DeMarcus eyed the veteran. Where was his ego to argue against being released? Where was his fight to reclaim his starting position? Instead of cataloging all the mistakes Jamal makes, Warrick coaches Jamal from the sidelines. Jamal didn't even appreciate Warrick's efforts. Instead, the rookie took every opportunity to undermine the veteran.
He knew what Warrick needed to succeed on the court. The shooting guard needed passion, fire, a competitive drive. He needed Jamal's spirit. And Jamal needed Warrick's mastery of the game. If he could combine the two players, the Monarchs would bounce into the play-offs.
DeMarcus sat back in his seat. “I'm meeting with all of the players. I'm not singling you out.”
“I know that, Coach.”
DeMarcus narrowed his gaze. “Then you probably also know that I've been asking everyone what they need to be more successful on the court.”
The light dimmed in Warrick's brown eyes. “I'm not on the court.”
“Then what do you need to get
back
on it?”
“I don't see it that way.” Warrick sat straighter in his chair. “Sure, I want to play. But it's more important to me that the team wins.”
DeMarcus nodded. “And if that means you sit on the bench, you're fine with that.”
“I think, when I was playing, I made some positive contributions before I started to struggle. But I think I've proven that I can also contribute from the bench.”
“As long as the team is winning.”
Warrick nodded again. “That's right.”
DeMarcus shrugged. “Because, either way—whether you're on the bench or on the court—you win, too.”
Warrick's smile looked forced. “Right.”
“That's bullshit.”
Warrick's fake smile vanished. “Excuse me?”
DeMarcus leaned forward into the table. “Why were you struggling?”
Warrick shrugged. “I'm pretty banged up, Coach. I'm thirty-four. I've been in the league for twelve years.”
DeMarcus frowned. “Your knees and back don't bother you during practice. You've got the fastest hustle and the most accurate shot of any of the players during practice. You only tank during games. Why?”
“My teammates don't hit as hard as our opponents.”
“Jamal's been hitting you pretty hard, Rick.” DeMarcus paused. When Warrick didn't respond, he continued. “I'll tell you what I think.”
“What's that, Coach?”
“I think you're afraid of losing.”
Warrick's brows came together. “What?”
DeMarcus sat back. “I think you play so well during practice because there's nothing to lose. But you run out of steam during regular games because you crumble under pressure.”
Warrick held up both hands. “I can handle pressure.”
DeMarcus shook his head. “No, you can't. All this bull you've been feeding me about contributing from the bench and winning is all that matters is a cover. You're afraid.”
“Of what?” Warrick was exasperated.
DeMarcus relaxed. He'd broken through the guard's thick exterior. “Losing. Or winning. You tell me.”
“I don't know what you're talking about.”
DeMarcus held Warrick's angry gaze. “Figure it out because we'll need you on that court when we make it to the play-offs.”
 
 
DeMarcus forced himself to cross his home court Friday night. “Congratulations, Coach.” He offered Phil Jackson his hand. The veteran head coach's Los Angeles Lakers had destroyed his Monarchs, 101 to 76, during this mid-March game. “Good luck in the play-offs.”
DeMarcus turned to make his way to Vom One, the tunnel to the Monarchs' locker room. Craig Sager, TNT's sideline reporter, stopped him for a postgame comment. If it weren't NBA policy to grant interviews, DeMarcus would have shoved the smaller man aside and continued on his way. But Sager was just doing his job. DeMarcus ignored the reporter's sherbet orange suit and responded to his question. “The Lakers outplayed us. We couldn't get our offense going and we couldn't defend their shots. They just outplayed us.”
Sager thanked him for his time and wished him luck with the remaining games. He'd need more than luck. At this stage, he needed a miracle to get into the play-offs.
DeMarcus walked on to Vom One. He ignored the flashing cameras and waving groupies. But he couldn't ignore the boos of the few fans who'd stayed until the bitter end. He'd never been booed before. But he understood their disappointment. He felt like joining them.
Winding his way through the tunnel, DeMarcus pulled up short when he saw Gerald waiting outside the team's locker room. The franchise co-partner didn't approach him. He never spoke. He just stood there in his green pinstripe designer suit, braced against the opposite wall staring at him. His features were expressionless. Was this some sort of intimidation tactic? Was Gerald trying to get inside his head? DeMarcus wouldn't give him the satisfaction. He clenched his teeth and walked past the other man to the locker room.
He closed the door behind him and strode to the center of the cramped room. “What the hell happened out there? With the other losses, at least we'd been in the game. Tonight, the Lakers crushed us by twenty-five points. What happened?”
Barron rubbed his hands over his thick, black cornrows. “We were outplayed.”
“Why?” DeMarcus shoved his fists into the pockets of his slate gray suit pants. “Jamal, Bryant only has one inch on you. You played him like he towered over you.”
Sweat ran from the rookie's head and shoulders over the tattoo of Kobe Bryant's number inked onto his upper arm. “He's too good. He's a legend.”
Anthony settled his hands on his hips. “Luke fourteen, ‘He who humbles himself will be exalted,' didn't pertain to this game. When you humbled yourself for the Black Mamba, you allowed him to kill us. He was raining threes like manna from heaven.”
Serge grunted his agreement. “Grow a pair.”
Barron shifted closer to the rookie. “We talked about this last week, man. You can't let that crap mess with your head.”
Jamal's misery was visible. “I can't help it.”
DeMarcus put an end to the bashing. “It's easy for us to blame Jamal. He wants the ball but he doesn't know the plays. He doesn't give one hundred percent. But what about you, Barron? Did you feel like a superstar out there tonight?”
Barron went back to his locker. His brown features were drawn with anger.
DeMarcus found Warrick. “Rick, I gave you eighteen minutes. I'm still waiting for you to produce.”
The shooting guard met his gaze. “I'm sorry, Coach.”
“Sorry won't get us into the play-offs.” DeMarcus studied the other players. “We're thirty-two and thirty-nine. Tenth in the conference. The last I looked, teams with losing records don't make it into the play-offs. What are we going to do?”
Serge shrugged. “We need to win.”
DeMarcus nodded. “What's your plan? I'm open to ideas.” He waited through a beat of silence. “Anyone? We're not leaving this room without a plan.”
The players, including the backups, grumbled. DeMarcus didn't waver.
Anthony pulled a wide-tooth comb through his throwback natural. “Come on, Coach. We want to get out of here.”
Barron arched a brow. “What are you in such a hurry for? It's not like you have a shorty waiting for you.”
Anthony glared at the point guard. “Shut up.”
Vincent looked up at DeMarcus from his seat in front of his locker. “You had those one-on-ones with us. Why?”
DeMarcus frowned. “I told you, to figure out how to turn the team around.”
Vincent spread his arms. “It's fear. Do you have a magic pill for that?”
DeMarcus stared at the center. “Fear of what?”
Vincent shrugged. “Stupid stuff.”
DeMarcus still didn't understand what Vincent was talking about. “Like what?”
The center nodded toward Barron. “He's afraid of not shining on the court.”
The team captain glared at him. “Mind your damn business, man. You don't know what you're talking about.”
“Yes, I do.” Vincent shifted to look at Serge. “He's afraid he'll be stuck on a losing team for the rest of his career.”
Serge grumbled. “Who wouldn't be?”
Vincent scanned the room. “Rick's afraid he doesn't measure up, and Jam-On-It's afraid he never will.”
Jamal pushed out his chest. “That's bullshit. I'm as good as anyone in this room, anyone in the league.”
“Except Kobe.” Anthony pointed to himself. “What about me?”
Vincent chuckled. “You're afraid of eternal damnation because of those thoughts you don't want to admit are in your head.”
Anthony scowled. “Bling's right. You don't know what you're talking about.”
Vincent chuckled again. “Confession is good for the soul, St. Anthony.”
Warrick crossed his arms and propped his shoulder against his locker. “What about you?”
Vincent turned to smile at the veteran. “I'm afraid that I can't tell you that.”
Warrick shook his head, grinning.
DeMarcus narrowed his gaze. Was Vincent right? Was fear holding them back? It made sense. “What about me?”
Vincent rose from his chair. “You're a control freak. You're afraid of not being in control. You're afraid of not having all the answers. But we're seventy-one games into the season. There are only eleven games left, and you're losing control.”
DeMarcus locked eyes with Vincent. The center was right. He was losing control, and that scared him. He was losing Jaclyn, and that scared him even more. The silence was heavy in the room. Thirteen pairs of eyes waited for his reaction.
DeMarcus took a steadying breath. “You're right. I am afraid of losing control.” He met the gaze of every man in the room. “But if that's what it takes to win, I'll give it up gladly. Now, what's the plan?”
 
 
“He told me he'd win games to prove he cares more about the team than Gerry's threats, to prove that my team means more to him than his image.” Jaclyn set her glass of iced tea on the restaurant table. She looked across the white embroidered tablecloth to Violet. “We lost to the Wizards almost a month ago—February twenty-sixth to be exact—and haven't won a game since.”
Violet gave a sympathetic wince. “I know. That's a twelve-game losing streak. Now you're back at the bottom of the division.”

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