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DeMarcus chuckled. “You sound as though we’ve made it. We’re not done.”
Oscar grunted. “Maybe you’re not. But I am. We’ve traveled all over the country. Twice. Now, we’re going to fly back and forth to Denver. If the time change doesn’t kill you, the damned altitude will.”
DeMarcus slapped the older man’s shoulder. “But it’s the play-offs, Oscar. It’s worth it.”
Oscar shot DeMarcus a look of mingled aggravation and affection. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Warrick laughed. “You sound as though winning a championship is something you do every season.”
Oscar snorted. “This may be your first run at the championship with the Monarchs, but I’ve been here before. I’ve got my ring. Now I’m old and tired. I’m not looking forward to four-hour flights on airborne sardine cans.”
“What are you saying, Oscar?” There was a trace of concern in DeMarcus’s tone.
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The assistant coach gave the younger man a patient look. “You need to listen harder. I’m saying this will be my last season.”
Warrick drew a sharp breath, catching the scent of sweat and floor wax. Oscar Clemente had been the Monarchs’ assistant coach before Warrick had been drafted to the team. He’d been the organization’s dependable constant through all of its coaching carousels. Oscar Clemente and Franklin Jones—Jaclyn Jones’s grandfather and one of the franchise’s founding members—had been father figures to Warrick. Franklin had passed away recently and now Oscar was talking about retiring.
Warrick’s mind went blank as he tried to process the information. “I can’t imagine the team without you, O.”
Oscar grunted again. “I can.”
“You sell yourself short, old man.” DeMarcus’s voice was strained. “You’re a great coach and a valuable member of the franchise.”
Oscar’s cheeks turned pink. His gaze flicked to Warrick before returning to DeMarcus. “There are plenty of assistant coaches out there, younger men who enjoy having their circulation cut off in those flying matchsticks.”
DeMarcus shifted on the bleacher. “None of them are as good as you. Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
Oscar pinned Warrick with his brown gaze. “Rick would make a good assistant coach.”
Shock rattled Warrick’s system again. “Me? What makes you say that?”
Oscar waved his hands. “You’re doing it already. You’re always talking and teaching, on the court and on the sidelines.”
DeMarcus’s lips tipped up. He gave Warrick a curious stare. “I hadn’t realized constant talking was a sign of a future coach.”
Oscar angled his chin toward DeMarcus. “Watch your game film. You never shut up.”
DeMarcus arched an eyebrow. “I never noticed that.”
“Neither have I.” Warrick’s thoughts were spinning. Could he go into coaching after he retired? It was a possibility he’d never considered. The job would keep him in basketball. But he’d miss the court.
“And selflessness. A lot of players don’t put the team first.” Oscar waved a hand from DeMarcus to Warrick. “You two do. And Jardine. The others don’t.”
Warrick pictured the Monarchs’ center. He’d often admired Vincent’s game. If he had the look, he’d take the shot. Otherwise, he’d pass the ball. He’d never force it.
Vincent also stayed out of locker room drama. He was the only teammate who hadn’t said anything—for or against him—regarding all the media attention on Warrick.
Oscar crossed his arms. “Yeah. You’d make a good coach. Maybe better than Marc.”
Warrick laughed. “That’s raising the bar pretty high.” There was a strange expression in DeMarcus’s eyes. “What’s wrong, Coach?”
DeMarcus shook his head. “I think I may have just solved a puzzle.”
Oscar snorted. “’Bout damn time.”
Warrick frowned, but neither man enlightened him.
