Fast Break (Brooklyn Monarchs 1)

“You can’t deny them. You lied about why you wanted me to coach the Monarchs. You lied when you said Jack wanted to move the team. Now you’re feeding the press a story about my being a drug addict.”

Gerald held DeMarcus’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

DeMarcus wanted to grab Gerald by his sweater and slam him against the wall. He stepped back before he could give in to the urge that would have landed him in jail. That was probably what Gerald wanted. “You mean it’s just a coincidence that you threatened to plant a story about my being addicted to drugs if the Monarchs kept winning, and now people are asking me about these rumors?”

Gerald shrugged. “It seems that way.”

DeMarcus narrowed his eyes. “I don’t believe in coincidences.”

“Then I don’t know what to say. I don’t think I can help you.”

“I don’t need your help.” DeMarcus shoved his fists into the front pockets of his black suede jacket. “Do you think I won’t tell the press that you’ve planted these lies?”

Gerald’s smug expression returned. “They won’t believe you.”

“Is that a chance you want to take? I’ll even tell them why you decided to sell lies about me. A large mansion for an aging bachelor. Priceless artwork hanging from your walls. Expensive clothes, while the Monarchs’ revenue has been shrinking the past four years. You’re living way above your means, Gerry.”

Gerald’s features hardened. He opened and closed his fists. “That’s a lie.”

“So is the crap you’re peddling about me to the papers.”

“No one will believe you.” Gerald’s voice was rough with anger.

It gave DeMarcus a fierce satisfaction to feed Gerald his own medicine. It didn’t appear to be going down well. Hopefully, the other man would choke on it. “There’s as much of a chance of the public believing what I say as there is of them believing your lies.”

Gerald shook his head. “No, there isn’t. Sex, drugs and violence. Those are a baller’s vices. That’s why the rumors of your drug activities will be infinitely more believable than lies about any corrupt dealings you allege against me. After all, I’m an upstanding team owner. We don’t do things like that.”

DeMarcus closed the distance between him and Gerald to add weight to his words. “I don’t care if there are dueling lies about us in the media. If you try to destroy my family, I’ll drag your name through the same mud.”

Gerald arched a brow. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

DeMarcus turned toward the front door. “You’ve been warned, Gerry.”

“And I’m warning you. Lose or leave, Marc. Those are your choices.”

Whether he stayed with the Monarchs and played Gerald’s game or broke his commitment to the team, the result would be the same. The reputation he’d worked so hard to build to honor his parents’ sacrifices for him would be ruined. Worse, he’d lose Jaclyn’s respect. He’d lose Jaclyn. DeMarcus didn’t have a choice. He had to stay and play this out. There was more than a season at stake. He was playing for his future.

“Why didn’t you tell that reporter Gerry planted the story?” Julian stood in the kitchen behind DeMarcus. His voice was tight with anger.

DeMarcus dropped the last dinner fork into the dishwasher and shook in the detergent. It had been hard to tell his father what Gerald was doing. It would be even harder telling Jaclyn. “When you take arguments outside of the team, you can tear the team apart. That’s why whatever happens in the locker room, stays in the locker room. You don’t take it to the media.”

“That’s an admirable sentiment, son. What makes you think Gerry shares it?”

“I don’t think he does, but I’m hoping he can learn.” DeMarcus started the dishwasher.

“You’re deluding yourself.”

DeMarcus heard Julian pacing the kitchen. He kept his back to his father. He took a sponge from the corner of the sink and started wiping down the counter. “Maybe. But I’m not going to let Gerry change who I am. If I do, he wins.”

“And if you let Gerry drag your name through the mud, he wins. So it’s a win-win situation for him.” Sarcasm, the second stage of his father’s temper.

DeMarcus forced himself to face his father. Julian stood across the kitchen at the foot of the table. His hands were hooked on the hips of his blue Dockers. He’d rolled up the sleeves of his cream crewneck sweater. The older man looked ready to knock someone on his butt.

Even though his father didn’t blame him for what was happening, DeMarcus blamed himself. He should have realized there was more to Gerald’s interest in him than his playing days. He was embarrassed and angry—with himself. “Gerry’s not going to push this story. He knows that, if he does, I’ll tell the media he planted it and why.”

“Because he wants to move the Monarchs to Nevada?”

“Right.”