Her Greatest Fan: Brooklyn Monarchs, Book VI

In the game of love, he’s her greatest fan…

Brooklyn Monarchs point guard Barron Douglass put himself on the injured list last season to get control of his alcohol addiction. He cheered from the sidelines while the team earned its first NBA championship in franchise history. This season, Barron’s determined to be on the court, helping the team win its first-ever back-to-back titles. But can he handle the playoff stress without it triggering his drinking?

Tianna Maxwell’s battling her own demons but as Barron’s personal assistant, she insists she has the right game plan to keep Barron on the court. Tianna’s strong and exciting. Barron’s thinking about making their temporary arrangement a permanent romance. But can he be part of her future despite his past?

Excerpt

Her Greatest Fan: Brooklyn Monarchs, Book VI

I’m gonna lose. My. Mind.

Barron glared at the now empty doorway of the Monarchs’s practice facility’s small conference room late Thursday morning. The second of the three candidates for the role of his personal assistant had just left. Thank goodness.

He turned to Vanessa, seated on the cushioned black swivel chair to his left. “Are you playing me?”

Vanessa’s head snapped toward him. Her thin black braids swung above her narrow shoulders. Her dark brown eyes stretched, almost swallowing her brown, diamond-shaped face. “Mr. Douglass—”

“Not ‘Mr. Douglass.’ I asked you to—”

“Bling—”

He pinched the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes as he searched for patience. “Please don’t call me ‘Bling.’”

Bling was the other guy, the self-destructive one who didn’t have a sense of his worth. The one who wasn’t comfortable in his own skin so he took it out on everyone who tried to help him, including himself.

Bling was the guy he was trying to escape.

“I’m sorry. Barron.” Her voice was as thin as butterflies’ wings.

Barron hated himself for making her uncomfortable. He needed to calm down. A deep breath cleared his thoughts. The room smelled like lemon-scented cleansers.

He folded his hands on the mid-sized, rectangular blond-wood table. “I know this isn’t your fault, Nessa. How could anyone, even HR, think those two dudes could be my assistant?”

“I’m sorry, Mr… Bli… Barron. I wasn’t involved in the initial screening. I’m still kinda finding my way, you know? This is my first big project for Jackie since Althea retired. You know, she’d worked for Jackie for years and years and years. I-I can’t mess this up.”

Strange she didn’t have any trouble calling her boss and the owner of the franchise by her nickname, “Jackie,” but she couldn’t wrap her mind around calling one of the players by his given name.

“I get it.” He and Vanessa were in a similar spot. She couldn’t mess up in finding his personal assistant and he couldn’t mess up in the playoffs. He ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. He’d cut it seven months ago. Sometimes he missed his braids, but they belonged to Bling.

The first two candidates couldn’t have been worse. They’d been starstruck, which had made Barron uncomfortable. The first had reminisced about his high school baller days. He’d even insisted on helping Barron with his game. Barron hadn’t had an answer for that, and Vanessa had ended the interview quickly, though not fast enough.

The second had asked if he’d get free courtside seats or whether they’d room together when they traveled to away games. Those questions had earned him a technical foul and ejection from the room.

Jaclyn had said HR had screened out NBA fans. How’d they miss those clowns?

The phone beside Vanessa rang. Barron’s attention drifted while he waited for her to finish the call. The pale silver walls and carpeting coupled with the blond wood made the room seem spacious and bright. Six black, cloth chairs surrounded the table, two on both sides and one at each end. Large, silver-framed, full-color photographs of past Monarchs teams were arranged on the left and right walls.

The most recent addition to the lineup was a full=color photograph of the players, coaches and franchise owner posing for the camera wearing their NBA National Champions T-shirts. Although neither he nor forward Anthony Chambers, who’d had a physical injury, had touched the ball during the playoffs, everyone had insisted they be included in the picture. They’d argued the Monarchs wouldn’t have won the title if he and Anthony hadn’t helped bring them to the dance.

Barron had felt the team coming together. It had been a nice moment. But it had been fleeting. After the picture had been taken, they’d settled back into their functioning dysfunction.

“Are you ready for the final candidate?” Vanessa’s question yanked him back to the present.

No. Never. Not a chance.

Barron checked his silver Rolex wristwatch. “Can you handle the last one on your own?” He started to rise from his seat.

Vanessa’s right hand shot out and clamped onto his forearm. She might weigh a buck-and-a-quarter sopping wet, but she had a grip like a wrestler.

 “You can’t leave.” Her voice tiptoed toward hysteria. “I could lose my job. Jackie made me promise I’d get you to stay for all the interviews. You can’t leave. You have to choose the candidate.”

“Jackie Jones isn’t Cruella DeVille.” Barron tried to tug his arm free. Vanessa wasn’t letting go. Her manicured, black-polished nails bit into his skin through his black, long-sleeved warm-up jacket. “She’s not going to fire you because I skipped out of interviews for an assistant I never asked for and don’t want.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“She made me promise. I can’t break a promise to my boss. She’s Jaclyn Jones.” Vanessa’s voice rose. Her hold tightened.

Barron looked at her white-knuckled grip on his arm. Was she going to leave a bruise? “Tell her I had to leave. I’ve got stuff to take care of.”

“Mr… Barron, you have to cooperate.” She jerked his arm, pulling him off balance enough to fall back onto his seat. “There’s just one more candidate to see. You can handle that. Please.”

Is she cray? “Nessa, Jackie won’t blame you. I’ve already told her I don’t want an assistant, especially some basketball fanatic who thinks they’re gonna critique my game and help me practice. Tell—”

A husky chuckle interrupted his rant. The sound soothed the tension in his neck and shoulders, and made his abdominal muscles quiver. Barrow followed it to the woman standing in the doorway. A soft smile curved her full, red lips. Wide tawny-brown eyes sparkled at him from across the room. A wealth of copper curls framed her sun-kissed face.

“It sounds like your fans have annoyed you. I’m sorry.” White teeth flashed in a wicked grin. “Would it help to know I prefer baseball?”

Who was she? And why was she lurking outside the conference room? Was she one of the applicants? If so, mocking him didn’t seem like her best interview strategy. And yet Barron couldn’t look away from her. If that were any indication of what their working relationship would be like—her mocking him and his gawking like an awkward prepubescent—he should end the interview before it began.

Barron rose. “I’m Barron Douglass, and you are?”

Already she had him acting the fool.