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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 J
amal 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.”
