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Troy spread his arms. “Image is everything.”
DeMarcus locked gazes with Jaclyn. “That’s not what I’ve heard.”
Jaclyn gave him a wry look before returning her attention to Troy. “Andy’s too smart to give up her source, but ask her anyway.”
Troy nodded. “Are you going to talk to Gerry?”
Jaclyn rose from her chair. “Yes, although he’ll deny any involvement in this story. We need to stop this negative publicity. It’ll turn the fans against us when we’re trying to increase ticket sales.”
DeMarcus wanted to fight these battles for her. She already was trying to prevent Gerald and Albert from moving the team. And she was trying to keep the Monarchs in the Empire. Now she had to add combating negative press to her plate. That was too much for one person to shoulder alone.
DeMarcus stood. “What can I do to help?”
Jaclyn gave him a grateful look. “Talk to the team. Tell them we can’t afford negative publicity. But, more than anything else, we really need a winning season so we can pack those seats.”
DeMarcus winked at her before walking toward the door. “That’s why you hired me.”
“And the Monarchs lose their home opener to the Miami Heat one sixteen to eighty-six.” The announcer’s voice bounced around the arena.
DeMarcus crossed the court to shake Erik Spoelstra’s hand. “Good game, Coach.” He forced the words past the lump of shame burning his throat. This was the most embarrassing loss of his basketball career—and it happened on his home court in his home city.
DeMarcus followed his assistant coaches and the security guards off the court, maneuvering past television crews, sports reporters and arena staff. He ignored the crowd of scantily clad groupies cooing to him from beside Vom One, the tunnel that led to the Monarchs’ locker room.
What would he say to the team? He needed something more constructive than “What the hell happened out there?” That was the question he’d hear from fans—and Jaclyn. And the media. DeMarcus’s stomach soured. The postgame interview. He had to give one. Great.
The locker room stank of sweat and defeat. Dark gray metal lockers for the thirteen players—starters and bench—outlined the square room. Clothes, shoes and personal items were strewn chaotically in and around the lockers. Players were getting ready for the showers. The quiet was crushing. Their movements were trancelike. Their posture was broken.
Why weren’t they angry? Where were the accusations? Instead, their silence spoke of acceptance, and that he wouldn’t allow. They couldn’t accept any loss, especially such a humiliating one.
DeMarcus marched to Jamal “Jam-On-It” Ward and ripped the iPod headphones from his ears. Players glanced at him but otherwise didn’t react. Their lack of concern pushed him almost to the edge.
He hooked his hands on his hips and asked the first question on his mind. “What the hell happened out there?”
“We lost.” Team captain Barron “Bling” Douglas didn’t bother to turn from his locker to respond. The tattoos across his brown back flexed with his muscles as he shrugged off his shirt.
DeMarcus glared at Barron. “Is that OK with you?”
Jamal scowled up at him from his seat in front of his locker. The number twenty-three was tattooed on his pale brown skin right above his heart. “We wouldn’t have lost if I’d gotten more playing time. I told you before, I’m not a sixth man. I can’t come off the bench.”
DeMarcus gritted his teeth. He was fed up with the broken-record complaints from the overeager rookie. “And I’ve told you, you have to earn the start.”
Anthony Chambers pulled a wide-tooth comb through his throwback natural. “Have mercy, Coach. We just want to get out of here.”
DeMarcus’s eyes widened. Had he heard the power forward correctly? “You want to go home? Is it past your bedtime? This isn’t summer camp. It’s the NBA.”
Warrick Evans sat at the bench in front of his locker. His forearms rested on his thighs. “We know where we are, Coach. We also know we were outplayed.” The shooting guard dragged a hand over his cleanshaven, brown head. “The Heat was faster and didn’t make any mistakes.”
Jamal turned on Warrick. “Gramps, you’re the one who should be coming off the bench. I could keep up with the Heat.”
Warrick gave the brash shooting guard a tight smile. “You heard Coach. If you want my spot, earn it.”
Jamal jabbed a finger toward the veteran player. “Keep playing like you’re playing and you’ll lose it. At least you’ll have the best seat in the house when I take us to the championship.”
DeMarcus watched Warrick’s eyes ice over at the rookie’s challenge. The veteran stood. DeMarcus braced himself to stop a locker room brawl. Instead Warrick striped off his sweat-laden jersey. DeMarcus relaxed tense muscles.
“Maybe we were outcoached.” Serge Gateau’s theory was delivered with a heavy French accent and plenty of spite.
DeMarcus faced him. “How could I have better prepared you?”
