Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Warrick rubbed his hand over his damp head. Jamal could hear them, but he wasn’t listening. They needed more drastic measures if they were ever going to get through to him.

“That’s true, Jamal.” Serge inclined his head. “You haven’t asked. Instead you’re leaving us without a choice.”

“Jamal.” DeMarcus’s tone demanded attention. “Carry your weight or I’m benching you.”

The threat caught Warrick’s attention. That was drastic.

It caught the rookie’s attention as well. Jamal’s jaw dropped. “You’d take away my spot?”

DeMarcus nodded. “You leave me without a choice.”

Warrick heard Serge’s words in DeMarcus’s message. But he also recognized Jamal as the team’s best hope of winning the series and the NBA Championship title. The bench players might know the playbook better. But even they’d agree they didn’t have Jamal’s speed, footwork, or shooting skills.

Jamal stabbed a finger toward DeMarcus. “I helped you get here. I helped you all get here. And now you’re going to bench me three games into the finals? That’s bullshit. You promised to help me.”

Warrick raised his head. “We’ve worked with you after practice. We’ve gone through the playbook with you. What more can we do?”

Jamal turned to DeMarcus. “Come on, Coach. This is the finals. You can’t bench me.”

DeMarcus narrowed his gaze. “What are you willing to do to keep your spot?”

“Anything. I want the ring.” The rookie responded without hesitation.

In his answer, Warrick heard himself ten years ago. He’d been willing to do anything for the title and the ring. Now that he was older, he’d tempered his answer. He was willing to do almost anything. He wasn’t willing to lose Marilyn. But was he willing to risk the title for his marriage?

DeMarcus arched a brow. “Anything?”

“Yes.” Desperation tightened Jamal’s voice.

“Be at my house by five o’clock tonight.” DeMarcus’s gaze swept the bleachers. “That goes for all of the starters. My house at five.”

“What for?” Anthony asked the question.

“You’ll see when you get there.” DeMarcus returned his attention to Jamal. “Rick may have saved your ass. Again.” The coach blew his whistle. “Practice’s over.”

Less than an hour later, after soaking in an ice tub to ease the pain in his back and legs, Warrick had showered and dressed in black Dockers and a white short-sleeved shirt.

He crossed the practice court to speak with DeMarcus and Oscar at the bleachers. “Don’t you guys have offices?”

Oscar grunted. “Don’t want him there. He never leaves.”

“That’s because you’re so warm and welcoming.” DeMarcus’s rebuttal was dry.

Warrick grinned with relief. The two coaches were getting along well. At the beginning of the season, they’d been so embattled Warrick had thought one of them would leave. But working together, the duo had engineered a Cinderella run that had raised the worst-placed Monarchs to the top of the Eastern Conference and into the finals. He hated the thought of Oscar leaving after this miracle season.

He let his gym bag drop to the court. “What did you mean when you told Jamal I’d saved his ass again?”

DeMarcus lowered the stack of papers in his hands. “You’d suggested I ask my father for ideas to help Jamal better understand the playbook. I think he’s come up with a plan.”

Warrick’s brows jumped. “What is it?”

“You’ll see.” DeMarcus grinned. His pride in his parent was visible.

Oscar frowned at DeMarcus. “Why didn’t you think of that?”

Warrick answered for his coach. “Sometimes we’re too close to a situation. It takes someone on the outside to see it more clearly.”

“Maybe.” Oscar gave in but only grudgingly. The older man’s intense gray gaze studied Warrick’s as though reading his mind. “You still quieting the noise?”