Fast Break by Regina Hart

head and shoulders. “We need them to be enthusiastic about both. We need the whole organization to be excited. The Monarchs season isn’t a job. It’s a quest for the championship. And that quest starts with you.”
    DeMarcus lowered his right leg from his left knee. “Preseason starts in eleven days. The regular season starts in four weeks. I don’t have time to do some pep squad routine while Oscar tightens up the defense.”
    Jaclyn propped an elbow on the chair’s arm and shrugged. “Managing personalities—of the coaches as well as the players—is an important part of managing the game. And, by the way, Oscar’s weak on defense.”
    â€œNo one’s ever managed my personality.”
    â€œThere’s a lot to manage.”
    Her tone was solemn, but DeMarcus caught the twinkle in her eye. Was she flirting with him? The idea piqued his interest. “We need to improve our speed and get back to basics.”
    â€œJust remember the goal, Marc.” Jaclyn stood. “We have to get to the postseason. We need those ticket sales to stay in the Empire.”
    DeMarcus stood as well. He watched her smooth the sweater-like material of her dress and almost swallowed his tongue. “I’ll get us to the postseason. You keep us in the arena.”
    Jaclyn smiled. “In other words, I should stick to the front office and leave the coaching to you. I know a thing or two about what it takes to win basketball games, too.”
    â€œI’ve got all the assistant coaches I need.”
    Jaclyn turned to leave. “We’ll see how the season goes. If we’re not winning, prepare to watch Dr. Phil’s show.”

7
    The Monarchs roster no longer boasted marquee players. DeMarcus had known that stepping into his role. Thirteen men sprawled before him on the bleachers of the Monarchs’ training facility Thursday morning. They were NBA veterans several seasons past their glory days. The notable exception was a young rookie whose headstrong attitude had kept him from being a high pick in the 2011 draft.
    DeMarcus continued his preseason speech despite his certainty no one was listening. Still his words echoed off the court, coming back to him. “We’re going back to fundamentals—footwork, shooting, rebounds. Every time we touch the ball, we need to score.”
    He was interrupted as footsteps squeaked against the hardwood. Barron Douglas sauntered toward him. The point guard’s oversized black T-shirt hung past his hips. It bared tattoos extending like sleeves down his dark brown arms to his wrists. Baggy, black nylon shorts, a match to his teammates’, skimmed his knees. His wraparound black sunglasses and silver chains weren’t regulation. A rebel. Every team had at least one. How did this one become captain?
    DeMarcus inhaled a calming breath as well as the faint scent of floor wax from the high-gloss court. “Barron. Nice to finally meet you.”
    The six-foot-five player stopped and jerked his chin upward in greeting. “Coach.” Barron shoved his sunglasses to the top of his head, balancing them on his thick cornrows. “You can call me Bling.”
    Great. They were bonding. Jaclyn would be pleased. “What time is it, Barron?”
    Barron lifted his left wrist to read his watch. DeMarcus caught the play of light off the wide silver band. Was the point guard going to practice with that Wonder Woman wristband on his arm? Basketball was a contact sport. His teammates wouldn’t want to get anywhere near that silver cuff.
    Barron stared at the watch as he read the time aloud. “It’s almost eleven-thirty, Coach.”
    â€œPractice starts at eleven. The schedule’s been the same for the four years you’ve been here.” DeMarcus took note of Barron’s bloodshot eyes. How late had the guard gone to bed and how inebriated had he been?
    The Monarchs’ captain relaxed into a cocky