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“Cut the crap, Gerry. You and Bert have been blocking me from getting capable coaches and drafting talented players. At first, I didn’t understand what you were doing, but now I see your game.”
Gerald’s mask of urbane charm fell to reveal his irritation. “Can you blame us? You should be working with us to break the arena contract so we can get out
of Brooklyn. Instead you’re continuing on this Don Quixote mission to save an old man’s dream.”
Jaclyn fisted her hands. “That old man was my grandfather. And if you and Bert would get out of my way, I could restore the team to the winning legacy he created before the two of you destroyed everything.”
“The Monarchs can’t compete in the same market with the Knicks. We need a market of our own.”
“This is New York.” The volume of Jaclyn’s voice rose to match Gerald’s. “We have two football teams, two baseball teams and two hockey teams. Who said we can’t support two basketball teams?”
“We’ve been losing revenue for the past three seasons.”
“That’s because of your spectacularly poor management decisions, which I now realize aren’t criminally stupid but deliberately destructive.” She tightened her grip on her purse strap, drilling her nails into her palm. “You’re not moving the Monarchs out of Brooklyn.”
Gerald gave her a pitying smile. “You can’t save the team.”
“I can, and I will.” Jaclyn strode from his entranceway and slammed out of Gerald’s house. She’d rather have punched his lights out.
Two quick raps on his open office door Tuesday morning interrupted DeMarcus. He turned away from his computer monitor to find Troy Marshall, the Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing, standing in his doorway.
From his close-cropped hair, goatee and moustache to his three-button Italian-style tan suit and brown Italian leather shoes, Troy looked more like a male model than a desk jockey. Well over six feet and physically fit, the business executive looked like he could have played professional ball. But he hadn’t.
Troy crossed the threshold. “Do you have time to talk about the newspaper interview?”
DeMarcus’s silver Movado watch read half past nine. The sports reporter was expected at ten o’clock. He saved the player information chart he was creating and spun his hulking executive chair to face the other man. “The New York Sports doesn’t have much of a circulation. My father’s the only one I know who reads it.”
Troy sat in the black-cushioned guest armchair to DeMarcus’s left and crossed his right leg over his left knee. He straightened the crease in his pant leg. “It’s a free neighborhood newspaper. It’s one of the few publications in the tri-state area that acknowledges New York has a professional basketball team besides the Knicks.”
“It’s hard to find.” DeMarcus pulled an issue from a pile of papers on the corner of his desk. “My father got a copy from the grocery store yesterday. I also read the articles in the binder you gave me. Thanks for those.”
Troy inclined his head. “Good. I want to make sure you don’t underestimate Andy Benson. She makes Darth Vader look like Jar Jar Binks.”
DeMarcus chuckled at the imagery of the very different Star Wars characters. Darth Vader was the archetypical unstoppable villain. Jar Jar Binks was the good-hearted buffoon. “Is this your way of making me comfortable for the interview?”
“I don’t want you comfortable. I want you prepared. Andy will lull you into a false sense of security, then try to get you to say something you wouldn’t confide to a blood relative.”
DeMarcus considered Troy. “Are you speaking from experience?”
“I’ve had some close calls with her.”
DeMarcus exhaled a deep breath. If the reporter caused the media-savvy executive to stumble, he’d better stay on his toes. “I don’t like reporters. They’re the ones who came up with ‘The Mighty Guinn.’”
Troy grinned. “It’s a great marketing tag.”
“You try being a walking billboard twenty-four seven. It makes it hard to have a normal life.”
“I imagine most future NBA Hall of Famers find it hard to have a normal life.”
“The media make it harder.”
A calculating gleam lit the vice president’s dark eyes. “Does this mean you’d oppose Take-Your-Picture-With-The-Coach Day?”
DeMarcus wasn’t amused. “Yes, I would.” He tapped the cover of his New York Sports, which lay on top of his desk. “How many of these meet-the-coach interviews do we have scheduled?”
“Just this one.”
DeMarcus’s eyes widened. “You didn’t contact any other media?”
