Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

“Why did we lose?” DeMarcus’s voice was insistent.

Warrick sat on the stool in front his locker and put on his shoes. He recognized the coach’s tone. No one was getting out of here until they gave DeMarcus the impossible—the reason the Monarchs had lost game six of the Eastern Conference Championship.

“We lost because Rick believes his own hype.” Jamal shouted the accusation at Warrick. “They talk about how you’re the leader of the team. You’re no leader.”

“They make Rick out to be a superstar.” Anthony cast out blame. “Like he’s the second coming on the court.”

Warrick’s back stiffened as his body absorbed the verbal blows. He breathed in deeply. The smell of sweat had been replaced with soap and cologne. But it would take more than water and cleansers to wash away the stench of defeat.

Jamal snorted. “Yeah. Right. You’re a superstar. As soon as you stepped onto the court, I knew we’d lose.”

Warrick stood and faced the rookie guard. “Is that why you gave Kirk West of the Horn that interview? Because you knew we’d lose if I played tonight?”

Jamal hesitated. “I thought you didn’t read about sports during the season.”

Warrick had started following the sports coverage in self-defense against the media’s attacks. “If you didn’t expect me to read the article, why did you give the interview?”

Jamal’s chin shot upward. He planted his feet. It was his standard defensive pose when in a confrontation. Too bad he didn’t use that stance on the court. “To set the record straight. You ain’t no superstar. You’re an old, washed-up has-been. We won game five with you on the bench. You started the game tonight, and we lost.”

Warrick studied the teammates he no longer knew. Only weeks ago, they’d come together to support Troy when the media executive had temporarily lost his job with the franchise, and again to try to keep Barron Douglas out of trouble as he fought personal demons. Now that team unity had dissipated like smoke, and a wall of jealousy and resentment had built up between him and the other players.

If he were honest with himself, he’d admit this postseason wasn’t the joyride he’d fantasized. Winning wasn’t even fun anymore and there were too many fingers pointed his way when they lost.

Was it worth it?

“That’s not what I saw.” DeMarcus turned his dark, displeased stare on Jamal. “We lost because every one of you played like children instead of professionals. I didn’t see a team on the court. I saw five individuals.”

“That psychology shit is crap.” Jamal turned on Warrick. “All you need to do is stop buying into your own media hype. You’re not the East Coast Kobe Bryant. You’re Rick Evans. And before Barron became a drunk, you were riding the bench with them.” He jerked his thumb toward Darius.

Anthony crossed his arms. “You’ve lost your way, Rick. You’ve put yourself above the game. Blessed are the meek for they shall inherit the earth.”

Warrick considered the other players. Their body language wasn’t lost on him. He felt as shut out from the group in the locker room as he’d felt on the court earlier tonight. He’d been on the team before any of them. Now he was on the outside looking in. The Empire Arena used to be his second home. He’d once been surrounded by teammates as close as a second family. Now, he stood alone.

Jamal groaned. “We’re tied at three games apiece. Again. Why do we always have to go to seven games? Why can’t we win a series in four or even six games, and on our home court?”

Anthony sighed. “We may not even win the conference series.”

Jamal threw Warrick a dismissive glance. “He’s messing up our chemistry. He should be benched. We proved in game five that we could win without him.”

His father’s criticisms were coming out of Jamal’s mouth.

You don’t have what it takes.

You’re not good enough.

Marlon Burress is making a fool of you.

But the rookie wasn’t his father.

Warrick slammed shut his locker door. The sharp snap of metal striking metal sounded like a bullet firing in the tense room. The abrupt and absolute silence made Warrick more aware of the anger pounding in his chest.

He confronted the brash young player from across the locker room. He didn’t trust himself to get too close. “Jamal, if you defend your assignment as well as you blame me for our every loss, Walter Millbanks wouldn’t have scored twenty-two points on you tonight, including his personal best four three-pointers.”

Jamal’s cheeks flushed. His eyes spun around the room. “Hey, man, how was I—”

“Did anyone mail you a copy of the playbook, Jamal?” Warrick spoke over him. “Have you taken it out of the packaging? I bet the binder’s still pristine. If the issue is that you don’t understand the plays, maybe you should have stayed in school longer instead of coming out of college your freshman year.”

“Look, man—”