Fast Break (Brooklyn Monarchs 1)

DeMarcus frowned. “Your knees and back don’t bother you during practice. You’ve got the fastest hustle and the most accurate shot of any of the players during practice. You only tank during games. Why?”

“My teammates don’t hit as hard as our opponents.”

“Jamal’s been hitting you pretty hard, Rick.” DeMarcus paused. When Warrick didn’t respond, he continued. “I’ll tell you what I think.”

“What’s that, Coach?”

“I think you’re afraid of losing.”

Warrick’s brows came together. “What?”

DeMarcus sat back. “I think you play so well during practice because there’s nothing to lose. But you run out of steam during regular games because you crumble under pressure.”

Warrick held up both hands. “I can handle pressure.”

DeMarcus shook his head. “No, you can’t. All this bull you’ve been feeding me about contributing from the bench and winning is all that matters is a cover. You’re afraid.”

“Of what?” Warrick was exasperated.

DeMarcus relaxed. He’d broken through the guard’s thick exterior. “Losing. Or winning. You tell me.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

DeMarcus held Warrick’s angry gaze. “Figure it out because we’ll need you on that court when we make it to the play-offs.”

DeMarcus forced himself to cross his home court Friday night. “Congratulations, Coach.” He offered Phil Jackson his hand. The veteran head coach’s Los Angeles Lakers had destroyed his Monarchs, 101 to 76, during this mid-March game. “Good luck in the play-offs.”

DeMarcus turned to make his way to Vom One, the tunnel to the Monarchs’ locker room. Craig Sager, TNT’s sideline reporter, stopped him for a postgame comment. If it weren’t NBA policy to grant interviews, DeMarcus would have shoved the smaller man aside and continued on his way. But Sager was just doing his job. DeMarcus ignored the reporter’s sherbet orange suit and responded to his question. “The Lakers outplayed us. We couldn’t get our offense going and we couldn’t defend their shots. They just outplayed us.”

Sager thanked him for his time and wished him luck with the remaining games. He’d need more than luck. At this stage, he needed a miracle to get into the play-offs.

DeMarcus walked on to Vom One. He ignored the flashing cameras and waving groupies. But he couldn’t ignore the boos of the few fans who’d stayed until the bitter end. He’d never been booed before. But he understood their disappointment. He felt like joining them.

Winding his way through the tunnel, DeMarcus pulled up short when he saw Gerald waiting outside the team’s locker room. The franchise co-partner didn’t approach him. He never spoke. He just stood there in his green pinstripe designer suit, braced against the opposite wall staring at him. His features were expressionless. Was this some sort of intimidation tactic? Was Gerald trying to get inside his head? DeMarcus wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. He clenched his teeth and walked past the other man to the locker room.

He closed the door behind him and strode to the center of the cramped room. “What the hell happened out there? With the other losses, at least we’d been in the game. Tonight, the Lakers crushed us by twenty-five points. What happened?”

Barron rubbed his hands over his thick, black cornrows. “We were outplayed.”

“Why?” DeMarcus shoved his fists into the pockets of his slate gray suit pants. “Jamal, Bryant only has one inch on you. You played him like he towered over you.”

Sweat ran from the rookie’s head and shoulders over the tattoo of Kobe Bryant’s number inked onto his upper arm. “He’s too good. He’s a legend.”

Anthony settled his hands on his hips. “Luke fourteen, ‘He who humbles himself will be exalted,’ didn’t pertain to this game. When you humbled yourself for the Black Mamba, you allowed him to kill us. He was raining threes like manna from heaven.”

Serge grunted his agreement. “Grow a pair.”

Barron shifted closer to the rookie. “We talked about this last week, man. You can’t let that crap mess with your head.”

Jamal’s misery was visible. “I can’t help it.”

DeMarcus put an end to the bashing. “It’s easy for us to blame Jamal. He wants the ball but he doesn’t know the plays. He doesn’t give one hundred percent. But what about you, Barron? Did you feel like a superstar out there tonight?”

Barron went back to his locker. His brown features were drawn with anger.

DeMarcus found Warrick. “Rick, I gave you eighteen minutes. I’m still waiting for you to produce.”

The shooting guard met his gaze. “I’m sorry, Coach.”