Fast Break (19 page)

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Authors: Regina Hart

BOOK: Fast Break
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“I can handle it.” Insecurity lay beneath Jamal's cocky smile.
Anthony Chambers gave Jamal a hard look. “You'd better pray on that, brother. The truth will set you free.”
Jamal glowered at Anthony. “What truth is that, St. Anthony?”
Anthony put his hand on the other man's shoulder. “That, if you don't heed Coach's wisdom, I'm going to knock your teeth out.”
Barron Douglas settled his hands on his hips. “And I'll put you in traction.”
Great. A brawl on the court was just what he needed to catapult this practice right into the crapper.
“That's it. Practice is over. Hit the showers.” DeMarcus watched the players walk toward the locker room. Jamal lagged behind.
“Thirty minutes left.” Oscar's observation was less than helpful.
DeMarcus rubbed the back of his neck. “They wouldn't have gone any better than the first ninety minutes.”
The older man moved to stand beside him. “Jamal's got flash.”
DeMarcus stared toward the locker room. How would he take this team to the play-offs? “But?”
“He's immature.”
DeMarcus couldn't argue with that. “I was hoping he'd grow up. But we're eighteen weeks and fifty-six games into the season, and I'm not seeing any improvement.”
“Bench Jamal, start Rick.” Oscar was persistent.
DeMarcus faced the assistant coach. The knots in his neck and shoulders remained. “Rick plays well in practice. But during a real game, he hesitates to take the shot. Why?”
Oscar shrugged. “Ask him.”
“I'm asking you. Why are you so sure Rick gives us a better chance of getting into the play-offs?”
Oscar's tall, bulky body tensed. “I see what you can't.”
“Which is?”
“Rick puts the team above himself. Whether he's sitting or starting, he'll do whatever it takes to help the team win. We were winning before you benched him.” Oscar jerked a thumb toward the lockers. “But when that Air Jordan wannabe gets the ball, it becomes the Jamal Ward show. He'll make himself look good, even if it jeopardizes the team.”
“I don't know what Rick is afraid of, but his fear is causing him to hesitate in real-game situations. I can't risk him freezing up and costing us the win.”
Oscar gave him a scornful look. “Sometimes you have to risk losing if you want to win.”
DeMarcus watched Oscar leave the court. The assistant coach was angry. Well, so was he. Oscar was convinced he was right. DeMarcus was just as certain he was wrong. Oscar was passionate about his position, though. DeMarcus could tell because never before had the assistant coach strung together so many words when speaking to him.
 
 
The knock on his office door Wednesday afternoon interrupted DeMarcus's review of the Washington Wizards' scouting report. Andrea Benson of the
New York Sports
waited in his doorway.
He stood and checked his watch. It was almost four o'clock. “Andrea, did we have a meeting?”
The reporter strode toward his desk. The wide-legged pants of her dark green suit billowed like a skirt around her legs. “No, Coach Guinn, we didn't.”
His frown cleared as he took the hand she offered. “Call me Marc. I'm sorry. I don't have time for an inter view right now. I have to prepare for Friday's game in D.C.”
“I know. But this is very important. I have three questions that will take only a few minutes of your time.”
DeMarcus released her hand and swallowed a sigh. Andrea's dark eyes were troubled. His gaze dipped to her choke hold on the brown strap of her huge purse. What was on the reporter's mind? “How can I help you?”
“Thank you.” Andrea lowered herself to the guest chair in front of DeMarcus's desk and waited for him to reclaim his seat. “Coach Guinn—Marc—are you addicted to cocaine?”
18
“What?” DeMarcus barely heard himself above the blood rushing through his ears.
Andrea settled back into the black cushioned visitor's chair. Her tension seemed to have transferred to him. “I didn't think so.”
Anger replaced shock. “What are you talking about?”
Andrea opened her reporter's notepad. “I got a call from someone claiming to be your—and I quote—personal drug supplier.”
“What?” DeMarcus was repeating himself, but he couldn't seem to think.
“He offered me an exclusive interview about your addiction to coke and heroine. He claimed he's been your supplier since high school.”
DeMarcus fisted his hands on his desk. Living in the public spotlight, he knew people would try to tarnish his image. Competitors attempted to pull him into public feuds. Women claimed to be in a relationship with him. And so-called friends tried to sell his life story or get him to invest in their up-and-coming-can't-miss business deals, complete with shady front men. He'd avoided the worst of that by remembering the life lessons his parents had taught him and reminding himself that basketball was his job. But now he was being pulled into the nightmare. Who was targeting him and why?
Gerald.
Memory crashed into him like an ice-cold Atlantic Ocean wave.
DeMarcus reminded himself to breathe. “What did you say?”
Andrea searched his features. “I told him I'd get back to him. He said if I kept him waiting too long, he'd go to another paper.”
Thoughts, questions and obscenities circled DeMarcus's mind with near warp speed. In self-defense, he grabbed one. “Why didn't you interview him?”
The intensity in Andrea's stare made him uneasy. What was she looking for and what did she find? He knew she'd found something. Andrea Benson was a very smart person.
“I don't believe him.”
DeMarcus's shoulders relaxed. It was a ridiculous reaction. He knew he wasn't addicted to drugs. He'd never even tried them. Why was it important what other people thought of him? He didn't know why he cared; he just did.
He sat back and considered the reporter, who didn't seem as much like the enemy anymore. “Why don't you believe him?”
“I know what addiction looks and acts like. It doesn't look or act like you. And I don't think you would have made it into the NBA, much less have been so successful, if you'd been addicted to hard drugs.”
“Especially since the NBA has strict drug-testing policies.”
“There is that.”
Silence extended while they took each other's measure. DeMarcus checked his watch, but was too distracted to register the time. “Have I answered your question?”
“The first one. I still have two more.”
DeMarcus had never enjoyed media interviews, and this one was turning out to be the worst. “What are they?”
“Who's behind this fake story and why is he trying to ruin your image?”
DeMarcus was afraid Andrea would realize everything if he breathed.
Gerald had threatened to destroy DeMarcus's reputation if the Monarchs continued to win. He hadn't believed the franchise partner would go through with it. However, now that the team had a winning record, rumors were linking him to drugs. A coincidence? He didn't think so.
DeMarcus held the reporter's gaze. “I don't know.”
Andrea gave him another intense scrutiny. “I don't believe you.”
He'd have to brazen it out. “Why not?”
“A better question is, why are you protecting someone who's trying to hurt you?”
“I'm not protecting anyone.”
“Then why won't you give me a name?”
“Because I don't have one.” He wasn't lying. DeMarcus was pretty sure Gerald was behind the bogus story, but he didn't have proof. Without proof, he wouldn't make allegations against the franchise partner—his boss—in the media. He'd deal with Gerald himself.
Andrea shifted in her chair, crossing her legs. “I'm curious—”
“I'm sure you are.”
She continued as though DeMarcus hadn't tried to interrupt her. “Is the person behind this fake story trying to hurt you, your team, your family or all of the above?”
DeMarcus felt his tension building. The intrepid reporter was too close to the truth. “When you find the person, ask.”
“I will. I respect that you don't want to get into an exchange of angry words or bad feelings in the press. That never helps anyone.” Andrea stood. “But whoever planted this story doesn't care about you, your family or the Monarchs.”
DeMarcus stood with her. “Apparently not.”
“So what does he care about?”
“That's another good question.”
“But one you won't answer?”
“I can't.” That, too, was true. Whatever happened in the team had to stay in the team.
Andrea arched a brow. “I'm going to break this story. Not the one alleging your drug use. The one about the person attacking your reputation. And, when I do, I'll let you know what I find out.”
“I'd appreciate that.”
“Unless there's something you want to tell me first?”
DeMarcus spread his arms. “I don't have anything to say.”
Andrea extended her hand. “I'm sorry for barging in uninvited, Marc. Thanks for your time, and good luck against the Wizards Friday night.”
DeMarcus held Andrea's hand. “Thank you for believing me.”
She grinned. “I've been a Marc Guinn fan longer than I've been a Monarchs fan.”
DeMarcus relaxed enough to return her smile. “Thank you.”
The reporter left his office. Her strides were brisk and confident. She would be disappointed when she learned he'd kept information from her. But as she'd said, he wasn't going to engage in a war of words in the media. He'd handle the situation quietly.
First, though, he wanted to talk with his father. DeMarcus hated that negative publicity against him would reflect on his parents. He'd warn his father tonight, prepare him for the fallout.
Then, he'd confront Gerald.
 
 
DeMarcus stabbed Gerald's doorbell. His anger had built by the minute since he'd realized the spineless franchise co-owner must have gone forward with his threat. The timing was too much of a coincidence. Who else would have started this story? He jabbed the bell again, giving serious consideration to kicking down the heavy oak barrier.
The door swung open. Gerald stood in the threshold, his bronze leather overcoat hanging open over a teal crewneck sweater and navy pants.
DeMarcus didn't wait for him to speak. He stepped forward, forcing the other man back into his white stone entryway. “What the hell are you doing?”
Gerald walked backward. “I'm meeting friends for a drink. Is there something I can do for you?”
The smug smile on the franchise partner's face threatened to cut the last of DeMarcus's control. He slammed the front door closed behind him. “Grow a pair.”
Gerald's eyes narrowed. His smile dimmed. “Excuse me?”
“There's no excuse for you. You're a coward and a liar.”
Anger was edging out Gerald's self-satisfied expression. “Those are serious allegations against your
boss.
”
“You can't deny them. You lied about why you wanted me to coach the Monarchs. You lied when you said Jack wanted to move the team. Now you're feeding the press a story about my being a drug addict.”
Gerald held DeMarcus's gaze. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
DeMarcus wanted to grab Gerald by his sweater and slam him against the wall. He stepped back before he could give in to the urge that would have landed him in jail. That was probably what Gerald wanted. “You mean it's just a coincidence that you threatened to plant a story about my being addicted to drugs if the Monarchs kept winning, and now people are asking me about these rumors?”
Gerald shrugged. “It seems that way.”
DeMarcus narrowed his eyes. “I don't believe in coincidences.”
“Then I don't know what to say. I don't think I can help you.”
“I don't need your help.” DeMarcus shoved his fists into the front pockets of his black suede jacket. “Do you think I won't tell the press that you've planted these lies?”
Gerald's smug expression returned. “They won't believe you.”
“Is that a chance you want to take? I'll even tell them why you decided to sell lies about me. A large mansion for an aging bachelor. Priceless artwork hanging from your walls. Expensive clothes, while the Monarchs' revenue has been shrinking the past four years. You're living way above your means, Gerry.”
Gerald's features hardened. He opened and closed his fists. “That's a lie.”
“So is the crap you're peddling about me to the papers.”
“No one will believe you.” Gerald's voice was rough with anger.
It gave DeMarcus a fierce satisfaction to feed Gerald his own medicine. It didn't appear to be going down well. Hopefully, the other man would choke on it. “There's as much of a chance of the public believing what I say as there is of them believing your lies.”
Gerald shook his head. “No, there isn't. Sex, drugs and violence. Those are a baller's vices. That's why the rumors of your drug activities will be infinitely more believable than lies about any corrupt dealings you allege against me. After all, I'm an upstanding team owner. We don't do things like that.”
DeMarcus closed the distance between him and Gerald to add weight to his words. “I don't care if there are dueling lies about us in the media. If you try to destroy my family, I'll drag your name through the same mud.”
Gerald arched a brow. “I don't know what you're talking about.”
DeMarcus turned toward the front door. “You've been warned, Gerry.”
“And I'm warning you. Lose or leave, Marc. Those are your choices.”
Whether he stayed with the Monarchs and played Gerald's game or broke his commitment to the team, the result would be the same. The reputation he'd worked so hard to build to honor his parents' sacrifices for him would be ruined. Worse, he'd lose Jaclyn's respect. He'd lose Jaclyn. DeMarcus didn't have a choice. He had to stay and play this out. There was more than a season at stake. He was playing for his future.
 
 
“Why didn't you tell that reporter Gerry planted the story?” Julian stood in the kitchen behind DeMarcus. His voice was tight with anger.
DeMarcus dropped the last dinner fork into the dishwasher and shook in the detergent. It had been hard to tell his father what Gerald was doing. It would be even harder telling Jaclyn. “When you take arguments outside of the team, you can tear the team apart. That's why whatever happens in the locker room, stays in the locker room. You don't take it to the media.”
“That's an admirable sentiment, son. What makes you think Gerry shares it?”
“I don't think he does, but I'm hoping he can learn.” DeMarcus started the dishwasher.
“You're deluding yourself.”
DeMarcus heard Julian pacing the kitchen. He kept his back to his father. He took a sponge from the corner of the sink and started wiping down the counter. “Maybe. But I'm not going to let Gerry change who I am. If I do, he wins.”
“And if you let Gerry drag your name through the mud, he wins. So it's a win-win situation for him.” Sarcasm, the second stage of his father's temper.
DeMarcus forced himself to face his father. Julian stood across the kitchen at the foot of the table. His hands were hooked on the hips of his blue Dockers. He'd rolled up the sleeves of his cream crewneck sweater. The older man looked ready to knock someone on his butt.
Even though his father didn't blame him for what was happening, DeMarcus blamed himself. He should have realized there was more to Gerald's interest in him than his playing days. He was embarrassed and angry—with himself. “Gerry's not going to push this story. He knows that, if he does, I'll tell the media he planted it and why.”
“Because he wants to move the Monarchs to Nevada?”
“Right.”
Julian rubbed his face with both hands. “That's fine, Marc. But by that time it will be too late. Once a lie is in print, people think it's true. You'll always have that shadow on your name.”
Julian was right. DeMarcus continued wiping down the counter. He needed to think. There had to be another way. “If I respond to the press's questions, they'll have a story. If I don't, all they have are allegations from a drug dealer.”

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