Keeping Score

by Regina Hart

  The side yard was empty. Warrick glanced at the kitchen window. The blinds were turned up to allow light in while still protecting their privacy. But, if you stepped closer to the window, you could see the kitchen table. A chill rolled down his spine. Warrick continued to the front of the house. The gate was closed and no one was nearby. The movement outside their window must have been his imagination. He was chasing shadows.

  Warrick turned back to his yard—and almost walked into Marilyn.

  “Did you see anyone?” She leaned to the left, trying to see around him.

  Her thick brown hair was tousled. The straight tresses swung around her shoulders with her every move. Her cream blouse hung loose over her baggy brown slacks and revealed much of her cleavage. Her narrow feet were bare. Her neat toenails, polished silver with multicolored sparkles, peeked from beneath the pant legs.

  Marilyn’s buttoned-up physician’s identity had slipped, exposing his wife’s sensuality. He wanted her again.

  Warrick swallowed to ease his dry throat. “I asked you to wait inside.”

  Marilyn stilled, frowning into his eyes. “If there was an intruder, I could help you.”

  She was fit and toned from regular and strenuous workouts. Still the mental image of her confronting an intruder would keep Warrick awake for weeks. “Help me by calling nine-one-one.”

  With his hands on her shoulders, he turned Marilyn toward the backyard. Warrick wrapped his right hand around her slender waist and escorted her back to the house.

  She looked around the side yard, glancing up at the window. “Maybe you were imagining things.” She sounded hopeful.

  “Maybe.” He pulled her closer.

  They continued into their home in contemplative silence. The scent of grass and blossoms carried on the late-spring breeze. It felt so good to have her back in his arms after a month without her. The longest month of my life. Now they could put the media and public scrutiny of their private lives behind them, and get back to being married. He stepped aside to let Marilyn precede him into their home.

  “Rick, I’m going to check into a hotel.” Marilyn’s words came from behind him as he locked the door. They were like knives slipping into his back.

  Warrick forced himself to face her. His voice was tight, controlled. “Why?”

  She shrugged as she turned to walk farther into the house. “I can’t continue to impose on Em’s generosity.”

  Emma Mane had been Marilyn’s best friend since college. She gave man haters everywhere a bad name. What was she telling Marilyn while his wife was deciding whether to stay with him or leave? The possibilities made his blood run cold. Still, the fact Marilyn hadn’t asked for a divorce after four weeks with Emma told Warrick their love could survive an apocalypse. Why couldn’t Marilyn see that?

  Warrick unclenched his jaw. “How much longer are you going to keep us apart, Mary?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “You don’t know.” Warrick dragged a hand over his scalp. If he hadn’t already shaved his head, he’d have ripped his hair out by the roots. Marilyn sounded like a broken record and the lyrics were worse than the bubblegum pop she enjoyed.

  He exhaled a soul-deep sigh, trying to lessen the pain that threatened to bring him to his knees. “You don’t know how long it will take to decide whether you can live with me. You don’t know what to do about us. What do you know?”

  “I know this situation would be a lot easier if I weren’t still in love with you.”

  The words weren’t enough anymore. “If you love me, come home.”

  She shook her head, tangling her hair even more. “I don’t know if I can live with you and the media.”

  “Then what was this?” He nodded toward the kitchen table and gestured toward the floor. “What were we doing here?”

  Color darkened Marilyn’s brown cheeks. “I do love you, Rick. But I don’t know if love is enough.”

  Her words were a sucker punch. Warrick struggled to stay upright and breathing. What more did he have to do to prove he was worth loving?

  “Not enough for what?” His voice was raspy with fear. Could she hear it?

  “I’d never planned to live my life in the spotlight. I don’t want strangers judging me, my husband, or our marriage.”

  “I can’t control the media, Mary, no matter how much I want to.”

  “I understand. That’s why I have to decide whether I can live under this constant pressure. What will it do to our marriage? What will it do to us?”

  Warrick fisted his hands in the front pockets of his khakis. Were these Marilyn’s words or Emma’s influence? “I think our marriage is worth fighting for. Do you?”

  She wrapped her hands around her arms. “How do you fight the media? Troy tried and lost his job.”

  Troy Marshall, the Brooklyn Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing, had had a tough time with the increased press scrutiny as the team had entered the play-offs for the first time in fifteen years.

  Warrick closed the gap between him and his wife. “But he kept fighting until he got his job back.”

  Marilyn waved her arm in an agitated gesture. “Thanks to that newspaper reporter, Andrea Benson.”

  Troy and Andrea had jumped through a lot of hoops to find their happily-ever-after. In contrast, Warrick and Marilyn’s love story had been a slam dunk—until recently. Had their easy courtship made him too confident about their marriage?

  Warrick ran his hand over his head again. His fingers shook just a bit. “They make a good team. I think we do, too.”

  Frustration swept across Marilyn’s features. “I don’t want to be judged by people, like when the Monarchs Insider wrote that I ‘wasn’t worthy to be seen on a professional athlete’s arm.’”

  Warrick’s jaw clenched. He’d never get over his anger with the blogger who’d called herself the Monarchs Insider. She’d posted insults about his wife on the Internet, causing them both pain.

  “Honey, I’m sorry about that blog, but it was written by a jealous woman with an ax to grind.”

  Marilyn turned away. Her voice was sad. “And hundreds of readers agreed with her.”

  “Don’t let other people come between us, Mary. What they think or say doesn’t matter. All that matters is what we think and what we feel.”

  She gave him a cynical smile. “You know you can’t fight public opinion, Rick. How long will it be before you start believing what other people write about us? How long will it be before one of those young, scantily clad women who wait beside the tunnel to your locker room catches your attention?”

  This wasn’t Marilyn talking. Emma’s cynicism sounded in those words. “I’ve been walking past those women since I was in college. You’re the one who caught my attention.”

  She gave him a skeptical look. “Are you telling me you never slept with any of those groupies?”

  He crossed his arms over his bare chest. “I’m not going to give you a report of the women I slept with before I met you—”

  “Of course not—”

  “And I won’t ask you to give me one, either. But I do expect you to believe me when I say I haven’t slept with anyone else since I first laid eyes on you.”

  Marilyn’s gaze dropped. “I don’t want to argue, Rick. I just wanted you to know where I’ll be in case you need me.”

  Warrick took a breath. “I need you now.”

  She shook her head. “That’s not a good idea.”

  Warrick lowered his arms. “Fine. The team’s traveling to Miami Wednesday night.”

  “I know. Thursday’s the first game of your series against the Miami Waves. You e-mailed your schedule to me.”

  At least she was reading his e-mails even if she didn’t always return his calls. “You can move back in while I’m gone. I’m sure Emma wouldn’t mind putting you up for another three nights.”

  Marilyn frowned. “Em’s not rushing me to leave—”

  “I’m sure she’s not.”

  Marilyn must have
heard the sarcasm in his tone. “You’ve never liked her.”

  “I’m not her favorite person, either. So will you move back while I’m gone?”

  Marilyn hesitated. “You don’t mind?”

  “Of course not. This is your home.”

  “Where will you stay?”

  Warrick kept his expression neutral. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a place to stay.” Their home had a perfectly comfortable guest room.

  Marilyn’s smile of gratitude was worth the risk he was taking. “Thank you, Rick.”

  “You can thank me later.” Once their marriage was back to normal.

  All’s fair in love and war. He was in love with Marilyn and would fight anyone and everyone who tried to come between them. His trick to get her back into the house was worth the risk. Hopefully, in the end, she would agree.

  2

  Warrick jogged across the Monarchs’ practice court Monday morning. He and his teammates were running a series of plays, preparing for the Eastern Conference Championship against their rivals, the Miami Waves. He found his position in time to catch the pass from his practice squad teammate, Roger Harris. Roger usually warmed the Monarchs’ bench until the second quarter. Why had his head coach, DeMarcus Guinn, assigned Warrick to the team with the bench players for this morning’s practice? Shouldn’t he be on the squad with the starters? What had he done wrong?

  Warrick pressed the doubts to the back of his mind. He dribbled once, then drove hard toward the corner of the court, matching the ball’s bounce to his steps.

  Jamal Ward cursed as Warrick powered past him. The rookie turned to hustle after Warrick. But, caught off guard, Jamal was too late to defend him. Warrick steadied himself at the corner of the court, leaped, and sent a teardrop shot toward the basket. The ball kissed the backboard before diving through the hoop.

  Warrick pivoted to jog back down the court. He caught up with Jamal. “Marlon Burress is going to do the same thing to you that I just did. Didn’t you study the Waves’ game film?”

  “Obviously not; otherwise he would have known that.” DeMarcus’s voice dripped with disgust. His coal black eyes snapped with impatience. He blew the whistle to stop the practice, then turned to Jamal. “That two-point play should never have happened.”

  Warrick agreed. The rookie hadn’t read the scouting reports and he wasn’t giving his full effort during practice. Yet Warrick was in a white jersey with the bench players while Jamal was with the starters wearing black.

  Don’t let it matter. Just focus on whatever the team needs to get the win.

  DeMarcus continued to glower at Jamal. Two years after retiring from the NBA, the rookie head coach’s lean, six-foot-seven-inch frame was still in playing shape. “I want you to cover Burress. He can’t match your speed. But if you can’t anticipate his movements, your speed won’t matter.”

  Jamal, a nineteen-year-old rookie with an attitude, curled his lip. The starting shooting guard’s six-foot-four-inch wiry body seemed covered in ink. “Man, that old guy can’t get past me.”

  DeMarcus jerked his head toward Warrick. “Rick is older than Burress, and he’s already gotten past you three times this morning.”

  Warrick searched his coach’s expression. Did DeMarcus think he was too old to start? At thirty-four, his age was the reason he had to prove himself with every game, every practice. But DeMarcus, a former NBA three-time Most Valuable Player, had stayed in the league until he was older than Warrick was now.

  Jamal cocked a hip. “I’ll turn it on for the game.”

  Snickers and groans echoed around the practice court. Hadn’t Jamal learned anything this season? If the rookie guard didn’t change his attitude, it was going to be a long seven-game series.

  “Turn it on now.” DeMarcus’s words were sharp with impatience. “I played with Burress on the Waves for almost ten seasons. He’s going to take every advantage you have over him and turn it against you. And he’ll take every advantage he has over you and bury you with it.”

  Jamal held up his arms. “I got this, Coach.”

  DeMarcus raised his right hand for the ball.

  Serge Gateau, the Monarchs’ six-foot-ten starting forward, lobbed it to him. The Frenchman from Lourdes wore his dark blond hair pulled straight back in a shoulder-length ponytail. His lean square features were clean-shaven, his blue eyes sharp.

  DeMarcus pressed his clipboard against Jamal’s chest. “Take a seat and watch how it’s done. I’ll guard Rick while he plays Burress.”

  Jamal took the clipboard. “Why can’t I be Burress?”

  Vincent Jardine, the team’s center, chuckled. “You can’t even play Jamal.”

  Jamal glowered at the other man. “Shut up.”

  DeMarcus spoke over his shoulder. “Rick does a better Burress than Burress. Sit down.”

  Warrick watched Jamal trudge off the court. His sneakers squeaked against the gleaming hardwood floor as he crossed the practice facility to stand sulking on the sideline. Would they ever get through to the rookie? Almost a year ago, Jamal had left Michigan State University after his freshman year. One and done. Now, at the age of nineteen, he had a seven-figure contract with the Monarchs. He had the skills, the payday, and the job. When would he get the maturity?

  DeMarcus blew his whistle, a wordless command for the team’s full attention. He heaved the ball at Warrick. “Show me what you’ve got.”

  Warrick caught the basketball at chest level. Hadn’t he been doing that all season? What more was his coach looking for? Warrick dribbled the ball while he considered his next move. He was Marlon Burress playing against his longtime teammate and fellow future hall-of-famer. What would Burress do? Warrick got into character, giving DeMarcus a small, taunting smile. His coach’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Warrick feinted right, then spun left, switching the ball to his left hand.

  DeMarcus moved to Warrick’s left. He gestured toward point guard Darius Williams, a bench player wearing the starters’ black jersey. “Box him in.”

  Darius crowded Warrick on his right, blocking his access to the paint. The bench players swarmed the perimeter in a ring of white jerseys. The starters clad in black covered them. With Warrick double teamed, one of the white jerseys was left undefended. Warrick exchanged a look with Roger Harris, his open teammate. A split second of silent communication.

  Get ready.

  Warrick heaved the ball into the open lane. Roger snatched it from the air and slammed it into the basket. Two points.

  Adrenaline rushed through Warrick. He clenched a fist. From the sideline, Jamal cheered. Warrick turned to jog back up the court. The sound of DeMarcus’s whistle brought him up short.

  DeMarcus stood with his hands on his hips and a reluctant smile easing his expression. “I didn’t see that coming.”

  Warrick faced his coach. “You thought Burress would take it in.”

  DeMarcus chuckled. “He usually does.”

  Warrick wiped sweat from his brow. “That’s why he would’ve passed.”

  Jamal ran onto the court and stopped beside DeMarcus. “In your face! In your face!”

  DeMarcus gave the younger man a look that humbled him. Jamal joined the other starters.

  Oscar Clemente, the Monarchs’ first assistant head coach, drew nearer. His intense dark eyes gleamed. “You beat him with your mind.”

  Warrick nodded. “Burress plays smart as well as hard. If he’s up against someone who knows his moves, he’ll do something unexpected.”

  Oscar smoothed back the few gray hairs circling his rounded pink pate. His expression was smug. “You read your opponents the same way Marc does.”

  That was the second time Oscar had made a comment comparing him to DeMarcus. What was the old guy up to?

  DeMarcus took his clipboard from Jamal. “Rick, I’m putting you on Burress. You know his moves and what he’s thinking. Jamal, you take Millbank.”

  Jamal sighed. “Whatever. I just hope we can finish one series without having to go all seven g
ames. I’m tired.”

  Warrick cleared the sweat from his forehead. “I don’t care how many games we have to play as long as we get the ring in the end.”

  Oscar glanced at DeMarcus. “Spoken like a champion.”

  DeMarcus jerked his chin toward Warrick. “Rick, get a black jersey. Darius, put on the white one.”

  Warrick breathed easier. He was still on the starting roster. He hustled to the benches to grab a fresh black jersey. He’d won the fight to save his starting position. Now if he could win the battle to save his marriage, he’d have everything he’d ever wanted.

  Marilyn took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and exhaled. The meeting room of the Linden Boulevard Women’s Health Clinic was scented with peach potpourri. She checked her posture and concentrated on not fidgeting. Her gaze bounced off the Georgia O’Keeffe paintings mounted to the pale peach walls before landing on the two women seated across from her. They looked fresh from the salon. Their tailored power skirt suits dripped with accessories.

  She crossed her legs under the round blond wood table. She’d taken an early lunch break this Monday morning to meet with the clinic partners before returning to the hospital. “I’m excited about the prospect of joining your practice.”

  Janet Crowley gave her a gracious smile. Her cap of glossy black hair framed her thin dark features. “We’re excited about our plans for the future of the clinic. Health care lectures, free screenings for women with low income. We’re looking for corporate sponsors to partner with us to grow these programs.”

  Dionne Sproles, the more animated of the two, spread her arms. Her large gray eyes shone with enthusiasm. “Women are the backbone of our families. We’re the nurses, chauffeurs, accountants, tutors. We take care of everyone else. Who takes care of us? We do. Well, it’s time we got some help and the knowledge to make ourselves better, healthier. The LB Clinic is going to lead the way with that effort.”