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remained to the game. The Monarchs now trailed by 14 points, 100 to 86.
    “You know your wife saw that.” Burress’s taunt was breathless. “Wonder what she thinks about your game now.”
    Vincent lobbed the ball to Anthony, who passed it on to Warrick. Warrick caught the ball with his right hand and jabbed his left elbow into Burress’s gut. An eagle-eyed referee blew his whistle to stop the clock. He called a well-deserved offensive foul on Warrick. It was his fourth foul of the game. Warrick tossed the ball to the referee. His steps dragged as he went up court to the basket.
    The Monarchs and Waves lined up in the paint, waiting for Burress to take his free throws.
    “Focus on the game, Rick.” Serge’s French accent sharpened as he hissed the command.
    Burress made the first basket, increasing the score to 101 to 86. He missed the second basket.
    Jamal jumped for the loose ball, then heaved it across the court. The ball caught air, coming up short. The game clock buzzed at zero seconds. Final score, Waves 101 to Monarchs 86. Blowout.
    Warrick turned toward Vom Two, the tunnel that led to the visitors’ locker rooms. Guilt dragged on his body. He’d allowed Marlon Burress so deep inside his head that if he sneezed, Burress would be torn apart. Not a completely unpleasant image.
     
     
    Hours later, Warrick sprawled on top of the covers on the hotel bed. He replayed his game. What could he have done better? He reran the postgame conference. What could he have explained more clearly? He relived his argument with Marilyn. What could he do to save his marriage?
    A knock on his hotel room door startled him. He glanced at the radio alarm clock beside his bed. It was after one in the morning. The sound came again. Warrick ignored it.
    The knock was louder, firmer, and accompanied by a voice. “It’s Marc. Open the door.”
    Warrick recalled the look on DeMarcus’s face as the team rode back to their Miami hotel. He never wanted to see that look on his coach’s face again.
    He rolled off the bed and padded barefoot across the room. He opened the door and stepped aside. “What can I do for you, Coach?”
    “What the hell’s going on with you?” DeMarcus strode into the room, still wearing his black European-style suit. He looked as tired as Warrick felt.
    Warrick had discarded his suit coat and tie. The first two buttons of his white shirt were undone. “It’s after one in the morning, Coach. Do we have to do this now?”
    DeMarcus turned toward him, loosening his silver tie. “Talk fast.”
    Warrick swallowed a sigh and closed the door. “You were right. I let Burress get into my head. It won’t happen again.”
    DeMarcus studied him for several intent seconds. Finally, he shoved his hands into the front pockets of his pants. “I don’t get you, Rick. On the one hand, if it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be in the conference championship. Hell, we wouldn’t have made it to the play-offs.”
    “It was a team effort.” Warrick shrugged off the accolade and stepped around DeMarcus. He folded his body into one of the room’s doll-sized armchairs.
    DeMarcus circled to face him. “The team came together under you. You changed the chemistry.”
    “I can say that about you.”
    DeMarcus ignored his interruption. “You’re hot on offense, strong on defense, and have the mental game. But tonight, you came up with crap. What happened?”
    The criticism was as hard to take as the compliments. “I wasn’t ready for Burress’s trash-talking.”
    “It’s more than that.”
    “No. It’s not.” Warrick lied without flinching.
    DeMarcus gave him another long, silent stare. “You’ll be ready by Saturday?”
    “Yes, Coach.” He hoped.
    “You’d better be. No one steps up when you’re off your game.”
    Warrick shifted restlessly in the stingy chair. “We have eleven other guys who can step up.”
    DeMarcus arched a cynical brow. “Jamal?”
    Warrick sighed, a deep exhale that didn’t relieve the