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He uncrossed his arms. “We have twenty-three games left. He’ll turn around before them. We just need to channel his skills.”
Jaclyn tossed him a look over her shoulder. “You mean rein them in.” She stopped pacing to face him. “Why won’t you bench him? What do you see in him?”
DeMarcus hesitated. “I see myself. I know that sounds ridiculous, but he reminds me of me when I played.”
Jaclyn’s lips parted. Her brows lifted. “You think Jamal is like you?”
“Yes.”
She shook her head. “He’s nothing like you, Marc. But there is one player on the team who is similar to you, at least in personality.”
He brought a mental image of the Monarchs’ roster. “Who?”
Jaclyn crossed her arms. “Get to know your players, Marc. Find out what makes them tick. Find out why they’ve started losing again.”
“Why won’t you just tell me who it is?”
“Because you need to hear it for yourself.” She turned to leave.
DeMarcus watched the sway of her hips beneath the straight, tight skirt. He dragged both hands over his hair. What was behind the sudden marked slump in the Monarchs’ game? He was out of ideas, running short of solutions. He might as well try Jaclyn’s touchy-feely approach. What did he have to lose? Besides, he was curious to find out which player on their team reminded her of him. How would he feel about the comparison?
21
DeMarcus rapped on Oscar Clemente’s door.
The assistant coach set his Monarchs coffee mug on a pile of printouts. “You need something?”
After six months, DeMarcus was accustomed to the older man’s grumpiness. He wandered into the cluttered office. “I’m going to schedule one-on-one meetings with the team.”
Oscar shrugged. He picked up his mug and continued reading whatever team report absorbed his attention. Since it was Tuesday morning, the assistant coach was probably preparing for the Monarchs’ Wednesday evening home game against the Detroit Pistons.
DeMarcus moved the pile of papers from one of Oscar’s guest chairs to the floor. “This is early March. We have twenty-three games left. Our record is thirty-two and twenty-seven.”
“I watch ESPN, too.” Oscar kept his eyes on the report, sipped his coffee.
DeMarcus shook his head. He’d actually grown to like the mean old man. “Mathematically, we’re still in the running for a play-off berth.”
Oscar glanced at him before returning his eyes to the report in his hands. “What’s your point?”
DeMarcus’s gaze passed over the framed action photos that hung on the walls of Oscar’s office. They were from the Monarchs’ glory days. “Why do you think we’ve lost our last four games?”
Oscar took another sip from his mug. “We’re playing like crap.”
DeMarcus hadn’t mastered the art of having a productive conversation with the other man. He was working on it, though, and making progress. “Why do you think we’re playing like crap?”
“Ask the players.”
“I want to know what you’re seeing.”
Oscar dropped the report and lowered his mug. “Why?”
DeMarcus found some satisfaction in having the assistant coach’s complete attention. It hadn’t taken him as long this time. “For starters, you’ve been with the team for almost twenty years. You know the players better than I do.”
“I know.”
DeMarcus frowned his surprise. “You’re also my assistant coach. We’re supposed to work together.”
“I know.”
