Troy arched a brow. “I know you’re upset that the columnist pretended to interview you. But if anyone deserves an apology, it’s Rick. Your comments insulted him and damaged his reputation. I don’t care when you made them.”
Jamal dropped his gaze again. “I’m sorry.”
Warrick looked at the rookie, who still couldn’t meet his eyes. “Help me get this championship and we’ll call it done.” He nodded at Troy. “Good luck with that blogger.”
Troy watched as Jamal followed Warrick to the weight room. Warrick impressed Troy. Whether he was on the court or the bench, for the veteran NBA player, it was all about the team and the win. Jamal took his starting spot and attacked him in the media. Still, Warrick didn’t hold a grudge. Troy couldn’t understand how the other man did it.
He turned to leave the facility. Identifying the Monarchs Insider was Troy’s priority for what remained of the day. He already had an idea who was behind this latest harassment. Getting Gerald to admit his role was another matter.
“Man, don’t you have a life? Why are you trying to live mine?” Barron turned away from his front entrance, leaving Troy to follow him—or not—into his Prospect Park condominium. At least Barron hadn’t slammed the door in his face, as Troy had half expected.
He locked the door before finding his reluctant host in the entertainment room. Barron stood behind the oak bar, pouring dark liquid—Scotch?—into a highball glass. The black carpet swallowed the sound of his approach.
Troy stopped on the other side of the bar. He looked from the glass to Barron. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” Barron’s tone snapped with impatience.
“Like you’re getting drunk at six o’clock in the evening.”
“It’s almost six-thirty.”
“And you’re sitting here by yourself.” He raised his BlackBerry toward Barron. “I got your tweet asking for friends to go clubbing with you tonight.”
“I knew I should have blocked you.”
Why hadn’t he?
Troy shoved his BlackBerry back into his front pocket. “We’re going into the postseason. Put your clubbing on hold.”
“You’re not my mother, man. You’re not even my coach. Go back to the front office where you belong.” Barron corked the bottle of liquor and took a deep drink from his glass.
Troy didn’t react to the anger hardening Barron’s eyes or the liquor he was pouring down his throat. The point guard was searching for buttons to push. Troy wouldn’t let him know he’d found one of his. “I’m not in the locker room with you, but we work for the same team.”
“What are y
ou doing here, man?”
“What are you doing? You read the Sports article about you. Don’t you care that you’re letting your teammates down?”
Barron raised his chin and his voice. “They let me down.”
Troy wandered over to sit on the arm of Barron’s red leather sofa. Matching armchairs circled an oak center table. An enormous plasma screen television hung on the off-white wall across the room. It was almost the size of the Empire Arena’s JumboTron. The TV played ESPN’s SportsCenter. The sound was muted.
He watched Barron lean against the bar. “Marc benched you for the final game of the regular season. Are you going to make them pay by throwing away the play-offs?”
Barron jabbed a thumb against his chest. “I’m the team captain. I should have been on the court.”
Troy smelled the liquor on the other man’s breath from more than an arm’s length away. “And you would have been if you’d been playing well. But you weren’t. Marc made the decision. He was right. The Monarchs made the play-offs.”
“I would’ve taken the team to the play-offs.”
Troy watched him sway on his feet. Why was Barron doing this? “No, Bling. You wouldn’t have.”
Barron’s gaze wavered. He took another gulp of Scotch. “You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t.” He nodded toward the bottle still within Barron’s reach. “But I’m sure we won’t make it past the Cavs if you drink yourself into a stupor every night.”
“I can share.” Barron lifted the bottle. “Do you want some?”