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Troy was impatient with Michelle’s interrogation. He needed a solution, not an oral questionnaire. “She wants me to get rid of the blog.”
“What’s she doing to get rid of Gerry?” His sister’s questions continued.
“Gerry won’t sell his shares, and she doesn’t have a contractual reason to drop him.”
“Jackie’s a lawyer as well as the franchise owner. If she can’t get rid of her partner, what do you think you’re going to be able to do?”
Troy stopped pacing. Through his hotel window, he stared at downtown Cleveland’s tall, older buildings and narrow, hilly streets. “I don’t know. But I’ve got to do something.”
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p; “Handle the publicity for the team. That’s your job. Not babysitting the players. You’re dealing with adults, not children.”
Considering the recruiting age of many of today’s players, Michelle’s pronouncement wasn’t strictly true. “I’m trying to manage the media. But it’s damn hard when someone inside the franchise is feeding bloggers gossip about the team.”
Michelle broke the pensive silence. “Gerry’s your boss. In this economy, I wouldn’t push him, if I were you. You might find yourself out of a job.”
Troy dragged his hand over his hair. “He’s the one who needs to be out of a job.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
“What?” He prowled past the beige tweed sofa. Another segment of ESPN’s SportsCenter was starting.
Michelle’s laughter was incredulous. “I know you, Troy. You rush into situations without a plan. You’ve been lucky so far, but your luck’s not going to hold forever.”
He hadn’t always been lucky. But some things were worth the risk, and the Monarchs was one of them. “I know what I’m doing, Shelley.”
“And what’s that?”
“Protecting the team. It’s what they pay me to do.” Troy strode back to the window and stared down at the pedestrian traffic along Carnegie Avenue.
“What’s more important? Your job or the team?”
Troy hesitated. “The players are like brothers to me. I can’t separate the two.”
“I hope Gerry can. Otherwise, if you put your neck out to protect the team’s image, you may find yourself unemployed.”
Troy sighed, turning away from his view of spring in Cleveland. “It won’t come to that. I just need a plan.”
Saturday evening, less than an hour before the first Brooklyn Monarchs versus Cleveland Cavaliers game, Andrea made her way to the media section in the Quicken Loans Arena. Her stomach muscles knotted.
The section started about six rows up from the court to the right of the far basket. There were five rows of tables and chairs arranged for national and international print and Internet reporters. And all of them remembered the newspaper scandal she’d been involved in four years before. They weren’t as openly hostile since she’d caught the story of Gerald trying to move the Monarchs. Still, she felt the cold slap of their disdain as she forced her way past them to an empty seat in the third row. They behaved as though they didn’t hear when she asked them to excuse her. They pretended not to see as she struggled around them with her purse and laptop. But she always acted as though their scorn didn’t affect her.
Andrea chose the first open chair in the row, refusing to isolate herself from the other journalists. She set up her laptop, then consulted the teams’ stats, which were uploaded to a computer mounted to the table. The excitement in the Empire was palpable. Against her better judgment, Andrea was caught up in it, too. She shifted in her seat to gaze around the arena.
A series of pop songs played at near-deafening levels, but she still heard Sean Wolf, a New York Post sports reporter, hail her from two seats away. The middle-aged reporter with the lank brown hair was the biggest bully in the bunch. “Hey, Benson. I’m surprised that rag you work for could afford to send you to the play-offs.”
She braced herself before turning to meet Sean’s hazel-brown eyes. “Are you sure your publisher bought you a round-trip ticket?”
The responding laughter from the reporters who’d heard her surprised Andrea. She glanced at the two seated between her and Sean, Jenna Madison with The New York Times and Frederick Pritchard of the New York Daily News. Neither met her gaze.
Andrea returned her attention to the court. The Cavaliers cheerleaders concluded their dance routine for “Yeah!” by Usher and began dancing to “Let’s Get It Started” by The Black Eyed Peas. The Cavs mascot, Moondog, helped young Cavaliers shoot baskets from the free throw line. Action photos and posed images of the Cleveland players moved on and off the Sony Jumbo Tron above the crowd.
The players took the court for warm-ups. Andrea sat forward, trying to read their body language. The Cavaliers appeared confident and full of energy. The Monarchs looked tight. Not a good sign. She typed some notes into the open document on her laptop.
“Hello, Andy.” Troy’s baritone came from somewhere above her left shoulder and shivered down her spine.
Why wouldn’t he stop calling her by that ridiculous nickname?
