“But you don’t know how to coach.” Her expression dared him to disagree. “When you were with the Miami Waves, you led by example, picking up the pace when your teammates weren’t producing. You were amazing. But I don’t need another player. I need a coach.”
DeMarcus crossed his arms. “We went over this during my interview. I wouldn’t have taken this job if I couldn’t perform.”
Jaclyn blinked. Her gaze swept his white shirt, green tie and brown pants before she pivoted to pace his cavernous office. “We’re talking about coaching.”
“I know.” DeMarcus tracked her movements from the black lacquered coffee service set against his far left wall and back to his desk. Her red outfit complimented the office’s silver and black décor, the Monarchs’s team colors.
The only things filling the void of his office were furniture—his oak desk, a conversation table, several chairs and a bookcase. The tall, showy plant in the corner was fake.
Jaclyn paced away from him again. Her voice carried over her shoulder. “The Monarchs finished last season with nineteen wins and sixty-three losses.”
DeMarcus heard her frustration. “They finished at the bottom of the Eastern Conference.”
“We were at the bottom of the league.” Jaclyn turned to approach him. Her eyes were tired, her expression strained. “What are you going to do to turn the team around?”
He shrugged. “Win.”
She was close enough to smell the soft lilac fragrance on her skin, feel the warmth of her body and hear the grinding of her teeth. “ You sound so confident, so self-assured. It will take more than the strength of the Mighty Guinn’s personality to pull the team out of its tailspin.”
“I’m aware of that.” He hated the nickname the media had given him.
“Then how are you planning to win? What’s your strategy?”
As majority owner of the Brooklyn Monarchs, Jaclyn was his boss. DeMarcus had to remember that,
even as her antagonism pressed him to respond in kind.
He took a deep breath, calling on the same techniques he’d used to center himself before making his free throws. “I’m going to work on increasing their speed and improving their defense. Your players can earn style points, but they do everything in slow motion.” Jaclyn stared at him as though expecting something more. “I can give you more details after I’ve studied their game film.”
He glanced at the tower of digital video discs waiting for him to carry them home. It was late September. Training camp had started under the interim head coach, and preseason was two weeks away. He didn’t have a lot of time to turn the team around.
Jaclyn settled her long, slender hands on her slim hips and cocked her right knee. The angle of her stance signaled her intent to amp up their confrontation. DeMarcus narrowed his eyes, trying to read her next move.
“Maybe I should have been more specific.” Her voice had cooled. “The players no longer think they’re capable of winning. How are you going to change their attitudes?”
“By giving them the skills they need to win.”
“These aren’t a bunch of high school kids. They’re NBA players. They already have the skills to win.”
“Then why aren’t they winning?”
Jaclyn dragged her hand through her thick, curly hair. “Winning builds confidence. Losing breeds doubt. I’m certain you’ve heard that before.”
“Yes.” But why was she bringing it up now?
“Even with the skills, they won’t win unless they believe they can win. How do you plan to make them believe?”
DeMarcus snorted. “You don’t want a coach. You want Dr. Phil.”
Jaclyn sighed. “And you’re neither. I’d like your resignation, please.”
DeMarcus stared. He couldn’t have heard her correctly. “What?”
“It would save both of us a great deal of embarrassment and disappointment.”
His mind went blank. His skin grew cold. Jaclyn had landed a sucker punch without laying a finger on him. “You want my resignation? I’ve only been here one day.”
“Think of your reputation. Everyone remembers you as a winner. You’re jeopardizing your legacy by taking a position you’re not qualified for.”