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The six-foot-five player stopped and jerked his chin upward in greeting. “Coach.” Barron shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, balancing them on his thick cornrows. “You can call me Bling.”
Great. They were bonding. Jaclyn would be pleased. “What time is it, Barron?”
Barron lifted his left wrist to read his watch. DeMarcus caught the play of light off the wide silver band. Was the point guard going to practice with that Wonder Woman wristband on his arm? Basketball was a contact sport. His teammates wouldn’t want to get anywhere near that silver cuff.
Barron stared at the watch as he read the time aloud. “It’s almost eleven-thirty, Coach.”
“Practice starts at eleven. The schedule’s been the same for the four years you’ve been here.” DeMarcus took note of Barron’s bloodshot eyes. How late had the guard gone to bed and how inebriated had he been?
The Monarchs’ captain relaxed into a cocky pose. “I had stuff to do.”
“Like getting to practice on time.”
“Whatever, man.” Barron passed DeMarcus without another word or look.
DeMarcus tracked the captain’s progress over the bleachers. “I’m docking your pay.”
Barron turned to DeMarcus. “That’s bullshit.”
DeMarcus shrugged. “You don’t want to be fined? Get to practice on time.”
Barron stomped to a seat, grumbling under his breath.
DeMarcus addressed the other players. “That goes for all of you. Get to practice on time and be prepared to give me one hundred and ten percent. Every practice and every workout we do is for June.”
“For June?” Anthony Chambers, the starting forward, grinned. His dark olive eyes twinkled in his fair skin. His rounded natural was a 1970s throwback. “You mean the championship?”
“Yes.” DeMarcus’s tone was meant to squelch any humor. Anthony didn’t get the message.
The forward laughed. “Man, have you seen our record? We haven’t had a winning season in three years. We don’t have a prayer of even making the play-offs.”
DeMarcus paced closer to the bleachers, where Anthony sat four rows up. “You’re laughing at the idea of making the play-offs? That’s funny to you?”
Anthony’s grin faded to uncertainty. “No, Coach. It’s not funny.”
DeMarcus turned to Barron. “Wins don’t just happen. You have to work for them. Are you telling me you’re not going to work this season?”
Barron glanced arond. His movements were sluggish. “You know that’s not what I’m saying.”
Serge Gateau, the team’s six-foot-ten-inch forward, raised his hand. The Frenchman from Lourdes wore his dark blond hair pulled straight back in a shoulder-length ponytail. His lean, square features were clean-shaven and earnest.
DeMarcus inclined his head. “Yes, Serge?”
“I would like for you to trade me.” Even after ten years in the league, his accent still heavily inflected his words.
DeMarcus studied the faces of the men he’d be spending the next seven months with—nine, if they made the championship. Long months of physical and emotional strain. He’d spoken to the team for almost twenty minutes about his goal for their season. In response, he’d received laughter, distain and a request to be traded.
DeMarcus returned his attention to Serge. “This isn’t the time or the place for this conversation.”
Serge’s blue eyes widened. “Merde. That I want to be traded, this is not a secret.”
DeMarcus was decades away from high school French, but he was fairly sure merde was not a polite word. “We’re not going to trade you, Serge, and—”
Jamal Ward, the rookie with the attitude, sprang to his feet. He stroked his hand over his freshly shaven head. “If you’re going to talk about players who stay or start, I’m going on record that Jam-On-It is not a sixth man. I’m not coming off the bench.”
At nineteen years of age, the wiry, six-foot-five-inch shooting guard was well on his way to challenging Barron “Bling” Douglas for most body paint in the league.
