Serge’s gaze wavered. The Frenchman scanned the room. Not finding the assistance he searched for, he returned his attention to DeMarcus. “I want to be traded.”
Another broken record.
DeMarcus scanned the faces in the room. The bench players looked bored. Barron was sullen. Jamal acted offended. Serge seemed irritated. Anthony appeared to have put the game behind him. Warrick seemed depressed, and Vincent Jardine, the center, appeared distracted.
DeMarcus pushed to the front of the room, commanding their attention. “We’re done with losing. I don’t care what it takes. This season, we’re making it to the play-offs.”
Barron snorted. “You think just because you said it, it’s going to happen?”
DeMarcus shot the team captain a hard glare. Barron looked away. “Friday, we’re going to Atlanta to play the Hawks. We have two days to prepare. They’re going to play us as hard as the Heat did tonight. They won’t let up. And, tomorrow at practice, neither will I.”
DeMarcus stormed from the locker room. He was still angry, embarrassed and disgusted. And he had a press conference to get through.
A hand grabbed his arm, stopping him mid-stride. DeMarcus looked around to find Gerald Bimm invading his personal space.
The owner gave him a smug look. “Can we talk privately?”
DeMarcus wanted to say no. He didn’t have the stomach for the other man’s subterfuge. But Gerald was one of the franchise owners. DeMarcus stepped out of the heavy pedestrian traffic and followed his boss a short distance from the Monarchs’ locker room.
Gerald stopped to face him. “It seems odd to say good job after a losing effort, but there you have it. Good job.”
Anger took supremacy over embarrassment. “Good job? We lost by thirty points on our home court.”
Gerald chuckled. “That’s the goal, Marc. We need a losing seasoning. Or have you forgotten our conversation?”
DeMarcus blinked to clear the red haze from his vision. It didn’t work. “I haven’t forgotten, but you must have. I told you I’m not a stooge.”
“Then tonight was a happy accident.”
“Don’t expect a repeat of it.”
“On the contrary, Marc. I suggest that you repeat yourself often. I want to see empty seats. A lot of empty seats. The arena was too full tonight.”
DeMarcus narrowed his eyes. “Why do you want to destroy the team? What’s in it for you?”
Gerald’s smile dimmed. “I’m not trying to destroy it. I’m trying to make it more profitable.”
DeMarcus’s jaw tightened. He hated when people lied to him. “Try again, Gerry. You don’t make a team profitable by chucking it into the league’s basement.”
“I’m willing to accept short-term loses for long-term
gains.”
“And I’ve got a bridge in Brooklyn to sell you.” DeMarcus turned away.
Gerald caught his arm again. “If you want to keep your job, remember our conversation. Jackie didn’t want to hire you in the first place. If you don’t cooperate, it would be easy to convince her to fire you.”
DeMarcus stared at his boss’s thin, light-skinned hand on the arm of his black suit jacket until the other man released him. “I quit once before, and it was Jack who convinced me to come back.”
“I could get her to change her mind about you.”
Under other circumstances, DeMarcus would laugh in Gerald’s face. Tonight, the older man annoyed him. “You couldn’t convince her to come in out of the rain.”
Gerald’s lip curled. “If you aren’t worried about job security, maybe you’ll care about your reputation.”
“Meaning?”
“What would the public think about your drug addiction?”