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Hours later, Warrick sprawled on top of the covers on the hotel bed. He replayed his game. What could he have done better? He reran the postgame conference. What could he have explained more clearly? He relived his argument with Marilyn. What could he do to save his marriage?
A knock on his hotel room door startled him. He glanced at the radio alarm clock beside his bed. It was after one in the morning. The sound came again. Warrick ignored it.
The knock was louder, firmer, and accompanied by a voice. “It’s Marc. Open the door.”
Warrick recalled the look on DeMarcus’s face as the team rode back to their Miami hotel. He never wanted to see that look on his coach’s face again.
He rolled off the bed and padded barefoot across the room. He opened the door and stepped aside. “What can I do for you, Coach?”
“What the hell’s going on with you?” DeMarcus strode into the room, still wearing his black European-style suit. He looked as tired as Warrick felt.
Warrick had discarded his suit coat and tie. The first two buttons of his white shirt were undone. “It’s after one in the morning, Coach. Do we have to do this now?”
DeMarcus turned toward him, loosening his silver tie. “Talk fast.”
Warrick swallowed a sigh and closed the door. “You were right. I let Burress get into my head. It won’t happen again.”
DeMarcus studied him for several intent seconds. Finally, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his pants. “I don’t get you, Rick. On the one hand, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in the conference championship. Hell, we wouldn’t have made it to the play-offs.”
“It was a team effort.” Warrick shrugged off the accolade and stepped around DeMarcus. He folded his body into one of the room’s doll-sized armchairs.
DeMarcus circled to face him. “The team came together under you. You changed the chemistry.”
“I can say that about you.”
DeMarcus ignored his interruption. “You’re hot on offense, strong on defense, and have the mental game. But tonight, you came up with crap. What happened?”
; The criticism was as hard to take as the compliments. “I wasn’t ready for Burress’s trash-talking.”
“It’s more than that.”
“No. It’s not.” Warrick lied without flinching.
DeMarcus gave him another long, silent stare. “You’ll be ready by Saturday?”
“Yes, Coach.” He hoped.
“You’d better be. No one steps up when you’re off your game.”
Warrick shifted restlessly in the stingy chair. “We have eleven other guys who can step up.”
DeMarcus arched a cynical brow. “Jamal?”
Warrick sighed, a deep exhale that didn’t relieve the knot in his gut. “All right. Ten.” He stood, hoping to bring the conversation to an end. “I’m sorry I let you down, Coach. I’ll get my mind back in the game by Saturday.”
DeMarcus claimed the matching armchair and looked up at Warrick. “I don’t blame you for the loss, Rick.”
Warrick clenched his teeth and settled back into his seat. Obviously, DeMarcus wasn’t done. “I appreciate that, Coach.”
DeMarcus shrugged. “I blame myself. I thought the team could lean on you, but I was wrong.”
The backhanded criticism was a punch to the solar plexus. How had his career fallen so far? A couple of years ago, he’d been the team’s captain and a starting player. Now he was coming off the bench because the current team captain was on the Injured List while he rehabbed at a substance abuse facility.
Warrick forced a smile. “Nice try, Coach. But that mental game works better on a rookie.”
DeMarcus’s grin turned into rueful chuckles. “I said the same thing when my coach tried that line on me. It was during my final season in the league.”
