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Authors: Regina Hart

BOOK: Fast Break
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“I wouldn't recommend doing that.”
“Why not?”
Julian sighed. “I know this is new to you. You led a relatively quiet life as an NBA player. For the most part, reporters left you alone. But you'll only make the situation worse if you call them.”
“So what should I do?” DeMarcus prowled his room.
“Focus on the team and tonight's game. The story will blow over. If you call the papers, you'll only give them something else to gossip about.”
DeMarcus's temper cooled. His father was right. Still . . . “What am I supposed to say to Jack? She has bigger problems to deal with. She shouldn't have to worry about this crap as well.”
“Remember, the only one at fault is the press. You and Jackie didn't do anything wrong.”
DeMarcus sighed. “So we should act like nothing happened.”
“Yes. Put this behind you and get ready for the game.”
DeMarcus checked his watch. It was seven o'clock. He was sure Jaclyn was already up. She was a morning person, just like him. “OK, Pop. But, first, I'll check on Jack. Make sure she's OK.”
“Then you'd better calm her down before she calls the paper.”
DeMarcus stood away from the table. “Thanks, Pop.”
“You're welcome. And, Marc . . .”
“Yes?”
“Invite Jackie to dinner.” His father disconnected before DeMarcus could respond.
 
 
DeMarcus knocked on Jaclyn's door, which was just down the hall from his own. He waited only moments before she answered. She grabbed a fistful of his silver Monarchs jersey and jerked DeMarcus into her room. The door automatically shut behind him.
Jaclyn released him to stomp across the hotel's thick blue carpet from the dining area, across the living room and into the work space. She was dressed in a cool green coat dress, a marked contrast from the fury coming from her in waves. Had he looked as incensed as she did now? Even her riot of rich, dark brown curls were vibrating.
“Have you seen the paper?” Her voice shook with rage.
Had he sounded as infuriated?
DeMarcus watched her march back and forth across the room. “That's why I'm here.”
“The papers in New York ran the story, too.” Her eyes glowed with temper.
“I know. I just spoke with my father.” DeMarcus walked farther into the room. Sections of the
Atlanta Constitution
were spread across the dining table. The front page of the sports section featuring their photo topped the pile.
“How did they even know that I would be in your room?”
“I'd wondered the same thing.”
“I'm going to call the newspaper.” Jaclyn reached for the papers, presumably to search for the publisher's phone number.
DeMarcus stepped forward and pressed his hand on the newspaper. Jaclyn's hand settled on top of his. “To say what?”
She looked at him with wide surprised eyes. “That I don't want the paper's staff skulking around my employees' hotel rooms. They have a right to feel safe and to be left alone during away games.”
DeMarcus hesitated. He turned his hand over to hold hers. “That sounds reasonable.”
Jaclyn waved the cell phone clenched in her left fist. “Then I'm going to tell the scum-sucking rodents that the next time I see them and their morally deficient minions, I'm going to tear their throats out.”
DeMarcus froze. “That's not a good idea.”
“Why not?” Jaclyn slipped her right hand from his grasp. Storm clouds settled over her features.
DeMarcus held her sizzling cinnamon gaze. She'd moved seamlessly between cool entrepreneur and hot-headed warrior. She was a confident, beautiful woman and a talented, driven athlete. “I know you're upset. So am I. Neither of us has ever had our personal lives on display before. But we can't give the media the satisfaction of a reaction.”
His father's advice seemed even more sound as he spoke it to Jaclyn. But it seemed to irritate her.
She threw her hands up. “Why not?”
“Giving them a reaction will keep the story in the news. If we ignore it, it'll go away.”
Jaclyn lifted the sports section, waving its crumpled front page in her hand. “I want to meet this photographer.”
“What good will that do?”
“First, I want to make sure he's not included in our media events or press release distribution.”
Again she sounded reasonable. But this time, DeMarcus was suspicious. “And then what?”
“And then, when I see whoever took the picture, I'm going to shove his pencil up his nose.”
DeMarcus took her hand between both of his. It was cool and delicate, in contrast to her fierce mood. “You've got to let this go. Focus on the franchise, the players and the season. They're what's important.” He nodded toward the newspaper. “That isn't.”
Jaclyn returned the sports section to the dining table, her gaze fixed on their photo. “The people who expose these private moments don't realize or care about the damage they could be doing. How am I supposed to face Gerry and Bert? Or the other members of our franchise?”
Still holding her hands in one of his, DeMarcus rubbed the area of his chest above his heart with his other palm. “We didn't do anything wrong.”
Jaclyn's eyes met his. “I know that. I don't regret last night. Not one bit.” She frowned. Her attention shifting back to the paper. “But I'm really not pleased about this morning. How are you supposed to coach the team?”
Her words stopped the tearing in his heart. “I'll be fine. So will you. But in the meantime, if the team continues to lose, people will think you're keeping me as the coach because we're sleeping together.”
Jaclyn shrugged. “We know you're my head coach because you have what it takes to turn the Monarchs around.”
“Thank you.” His throat dried at her words.
“But to win, you have to get to know the people behind your game plans. What motivates them? What keeps them from winning?”
DeMarcus crossed his arms. “I can't be the Monarchs' counselor.”
“Try, you stubborn man. If you'd like, I'll even order your subscription to Oprah Winfrey's magazine.”
DeMarcus arched a brow. “You're barely paying me enough to be their coach.”
“You're going to need the players behind you, and the only way to ensure that is to get to know them.”
He frowned. “I don't believe in that touchy-feely stuff.”
Jaclyn moved closer. She ran the fingertips of her right hand over his forehead. “I believe in you, and I believe in the team. The team won't keep losing. And I don't care what other people think. So don't worry about that.”
DeMarcus dragged his fingers over his close-cropped hair and paced away. “There's something you should know.”
“What's that?”
DeMarcus claimed her gaze. “I don't do one-night stands.”
Jaclyn arched a brow. “Never?”
“Never.”
She cocked her head. “Ever?”
DeMarcus smiled at her teasing. “Ever.”
“That's good because neither do I.” Jaclyn crossed her arms. “So what was last night?”
Despite her banter, DeMarcus sensed Jaclyn's unease. He read the caution in her eyes and the tension in her posture. He approached her. “I work for you.”
“And I'm your boss everywhere but in the bedroom.” Jaclyn let her arms drop.
DeMarcus reclaimed her hands. His thumbs massaged her palms. He felt a fine tremor in her fingers. That was the effect he had on her. And she took his breath away. “And if I want to get to know you outside of the bedroom?”
 
Jaclyn smiled. “I'd like that, too. We'll just have to keep our personal and professional lives separate. Can you manage that?”
DeMarcus brought her hands to his lips. He touched the tip of his tongue to the back of her fingers and watched her eyes darken. “I can handle it.”
“Good.” Jaclyn moved closer to him. “And we won't worry about what other people think.” She raised on her toes and pressed her lips to his.
DeMarcus's stomach muscles tightened. In that moment, he wanted to coach the Monarchs to a winning season, not for his reputation or for his family's name. He wanted to win for Jaclyn.
 
 
DeMarcus prowled the basketball court's sidelines in his black Italian suit and best poker face. His muscles strained as he willed the Monarchs to hold on to their 97 to 90 lead over the Atlanta Hawks. His eyes darted to the game clock. Two minutes remained in the fourth quarter. Too much time. They'd been here before, battling to a fourth-quarter lead that he couldn't keep from evaporating with seconds to go.
Too much time.
Mike Bibby, Atlanta's seasoned guard, blew past the Monarchs' porous defense. Bibby caught an easy shot from behind the arc. Three points. Monarchs, 97; Hawks, 93.
Hawks fans, sensing their team's resurgence, rose to cheer them on. Chants of “Defense!” filled the arena. DeMarcus clenched his teeth.
Barron Douglas took possession of the ball and jogged back down the court.
One minute twenty-four seconds to go. They were losing their lead. He had to stop the bleeding. “Time-out!”
The Monarchs dragged their feet to the sidelines. DeMarcus marched up to them. He clenched his fists to keep from shaking his starters. “The game's not over yet. Why have you stopped playing?”
Anthony drained the bottle of water a teammate passed to him. “We haven't stopped.”
DeMarcus glared at him. “Then what's happened to our lead?” He turned to the other players. “Shore up the defense. Talk to each other. The game's not over.”
He quickly gave each player individual instructions before the buzzer rang. The players walked back onto the court. Where was their energy?
“Pick up the pace.” DeMarcus shouted to be heard above the primal screams of the Hawks' faithful.
Atlanta's Jason Collins covered Vincent, the Monarchs' center, at the left perimeter. Collins's teammate, Al Horford, defended Serge at the right perimeter. The Hawks' Marvin Williams and Josh Smith double-teamed Anthony in the paint. Jamal stood wide open at the post for an easy layup. Barron ignored the rookie and took the shot over Bibby's extended arm. Bibby barely touched it, but that was enough. Barron missed. Hawks' fans went wild.
DeMarcus ground his teeth, resisting the urge to loosen his silver silk tie. He watched, incredulous, as Jamal raced across the court without even trying to defend the ball. The Hawks' Collins took it instead.
“Jamal, defend the ball.” DeMarcus fought the urge to run across the court to get it himself. He was tired of repeating those words. Why wouldn't Jamal listen?
The rookie's reputation as a ball hog had spread across the league. Opponents didn't worry about covering him because they knew Jamal's teammates wouldn't give him the ball. DeMarcus added that to the list of transgressions he'd address in the locker room.
Collins passed to Williams. The Atlanta guard lobbed the ball to Bibby, who advanced it to half court. Bibby waited while his teammates took positions around the basket. Vincent covered Collins. Serge took Horford. Anthony guarded Williams, and Jamal stood with Smith. Barron defended Bibby, watching for an opportunity to force a turnover.
The Monarchs were too quiet. Two months into the season, they still played like five individuals instead of a team.
“Talk to each other.” DeMarcus clapped his hands until they stung.
Bibby sent the ball down the open lane opposite Anthony. His teammate Williams snatched it. Unable to shake Anthony, Williams passed to Collins. Collins handed off to Smith. Smith side stepped Jamal. He backed out of the perimeter and arched the ball over the rookie. Three points. The Hawks cut the lead to 97, 96. Fifty-two seconds remained in the fourth quarter.
DeMarcus thought his eyes would bleed. “Move. Set up. Move. Move.”
Jamal ignored the order to sprint across the court.
Warrick ran from the bench to pace Jamal along the sideline. “Be aggressive, Jamal. Pressure your man.”
Jamal scowled at the veteran as he ran past. “Sit down, Grandpa.”
DeMarcus frowned at Warrick. Why was he coaching the rookie who was after his job? He'd benched the veteran in the middle of the third quarter. Warrick wouldn't take shots and Jamal wouldn't pass the ball. DeMarcus scrubbed his hands over his face. If he could combine the two players, maybe the team would get a win.

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