by Regina Hart
“I can’t wait that long.” Marilyn’s voice trembled.
Warrick heard his heart beating. “What are you saying?”
“Your celebrity is affecting our marriage. Now, it’s also affecting my career.” She paused for forever. “Maybe we should get a divorce.”
Marilyn’s words echoed in his head. Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce.
Warrick’s body shook. The room spun. If he weren’t leaning against the threshold, he would have crumpled to the floor. Marilyn’s face, stiff and pale, went in and out of focus.
“You want to divorce me so you can get your partnership ?” His lips were numb. If only his heart were, too.
Marilyn raised her hands, palms up. “Our relationship is already under a lot of strain.”
“So you’re going to throw it away for your career.”
“Rick, it’s—”
He left the room, closing the door with quiet restraint behind him.
Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce.
Warrick’s legs carried him down the hall toward the master bedroom. On autopilot, he found a pair of socks and his running shoes. Minutes later, he jogged down the stairs and out of his home. A cool evening breeze softly kissed his heated cheek and wrapped the scent of spring around him. Warrick blinked the sting from his eyes. He had to keep moving. He didn’t know what would happen if he stopped. And he was afraid to find out.
“Get your head in the game, Rick.” DeMarcus sounded like he was chewing nails. The same nails he’d use to pin Warrick’s ass to the wall after this debacle, otherwise known as Thursday’s game one of the Monarchs’ Eastern Conference Championship series against the Miami Waves. His coach was using the team’s final time-out to make that clear.
Standing on the sidelines surrounded by exhausted teammates and an apoplectic head coach, Warrick wiped the sweat from his brow with his right forearm. He hadn’t spoken with Marilyn since Tuesday night. Was she watching the game?
DeMarcus got in his face. “Are you hearing me, Rick?”
Warrick flinched. At DeMarcus’s caustic tone or Marilyn’s request for a divorce? “I heard you, Coach.”
Would Marilyn stay with him if the media gave him positive press? Would that make a difference or was she opposed to any type of coverage?
Warrick glanced at the clock. Twenty-nine seconds remained to the game. The Monarchs were down by 12 points, 98 to 86. No way were they getting back into this contest. All they could hope for was a more respectable final score. A loss was a loss. But no one wanted to be blown out.
DeMarcus continued growling at him. “Burress is getting into your head. You’re missing rebounds, breaking plays. Focus.”
The buzzer sounded. Warrick followed his teammates onto the court. Vincent Jardine, the Monarchs’ center, inbounded the ball to starting forward Anthony Chambers. The shot clock gave the Monarchs a fresh twenty-four seconds. Warrick felt Marlon Burress leaning against him. He pushed back, keeping his arms free.
Burress pitched his voice to be heard above the roar of the Waves’ fans. “You never answered me. You and your shortie getting back together?”
“Mind your business.” Warrick mentally kicked himself for responding to his opponent. Again. Block out the noise.
He watched Anthony dribble to the paint, then pass the ball to Serge at the post. A swarm of green and white Waves jerseys covered him. Warrick drew closer to the paint, ready to grab the ball if Serge couldn’t get to the basket. The game clock counted down to seventeen seconds. The shot clock flashed off.
Burress was on his back like white on rice. “Heard your shortie moved out. Been gone long?”
Warrick strained to shut out Burress’s words and focus on the game.
Maybe we should get a divorce.
Get your head in the game.
Serge kicked the ball ahead to Warrick. Warrick missed the pass. Walter Millbank, the Waves’ near-seven-foot shooting guard, slapped the ball aside right into Burress’s hands.
“Are you here to play?” Vincent snapped the question as he raced back up the court.
Warrick gritted his teeth as he also gave chase. How had he missed that grab?
Burress jumped to the basket for an easy layup and another two points for the Waves. Vincent recovered the ball with seven seconds left to the game. He raced back down the court. Warrick hustled to the basket. He could hear Burress’s footsteps behind him.
The Monarchs set up in the paint and around the perimeter. The Waves covered them. Three seconds 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 knot in his gut. “All right. Ten.” He stood, hoping to bring the conversation to an end. “I’m sorry I let you down, Coach. I’ll get my mind back in the game by Saturday.”
DeMarcus claimed the matching armchair and looked up at Warrick. “I don’t blame you for the loss, Rick.”
Warrick clenched his teeth and settled back into his seat. Obviously, DeMarcus wasn’t done. “I appreciate that, Coach.”
DeMarcus shrugged. “I blame myself. I thought the team could lean on you, but I was wrong.”
The backhanded criticism was a punch to the solar plexus. How had his career fallen so far? A couple of years ago, he’d been the team’s captain and a starting player. Now he was coming off the bench because the current team captain was on the Injured List while he rehabbed at a substance abuse facility.
Warrick forced a smile. “Nice try, Coach. But that mental game works better on a rookie.”
DeMarcus’s grin turned into rueful chuckles. “I said the same thing when my coach tried that line on me. It was during my final season in the league.”
That was the year after DeMarcus’s mother had died, Warrick realized. “Real sensitive guy.”
DeMarcus smiled at Warrick’s sarcasm. “He did what he felt he had to do to win. We should take a page from his book. Do you have what it takes to be a winner, Rick?”
He didn’t think about it. He didn’t hesitate. He just answered. “Yes.”
“That’s what matters. It doesn’t matter what the media writes, what fans say, or what opponents do on the court. All that matters is what you believe.”
“I believe in this team and myself.” And I believe in my marriage. “We can win the conference, Coach.”
DeMarcus nodded. “Then fight for it. Nothing worth having ever comes easily.”
Warrick’s heart beat faster. “You’re right.”
He was going to fight for both rings, the championship ring and his wedding band. He knew what he needed to win the conference championship—a strong defense and a relentless offense. What did he need to save his marriage?
“Rick had a tough game last night.” Emma shook dressing over her chicken Caesar salad.
The hospital cafeteria was almost empty on this Friday afternoon as Marilyn joined her friend for a late lunch. She popped open the tab on her can of diet soda and took a long drink. “In all of the series, the Monarchs have struggled with the first game.”
“They may need to have someone else play against that Miami Waves guy they’ve matched Rick with.” Emma stabbed several lettuce leaves and a chunk of chicken.
Her friend knew less than she did about basketball—which meant Emma was clueless about the sport. But she spoke as though she were on the coaching staff.
Marilyn squelched a smile. “It was one game, Em. I don’t think Marc Guinn should throw out the game plan just yet.”
Emma swallowed the forkful of salad. “Well, I hope Rick does better tomorrow night.”
“He will.” Marilyn warmed with pride each time she thought of her husband’s contributions to get his team to the play-offs for the first time in fifteen years. But was the price he was paying worth it?
Emma gathered more salad. “Have you heard from the clinic partners?”
“No, and I don’t think I will.” Marilyn spooned up her Italian wedding soup.
Emma’s eyes narrowed. “Stop being so negative. Of course they’re going to call you. They’ll probably offer you the partnership.”
“But who will they want, me or the Devrys’ daughter?”
Emma’s tone was exasperated. “Who do you want to be?”
Marilyn sighed, part irritation, part frustration. “Marilyn Devry-Evans. That’s who I am. I think we’ve met.”
“Come on, Mary. Everyone is defined by someone, whether it’s your kids, career, or spouse. Someone defines you.”
Marilyn spoke with measured calm. “I’m aware of that and it makes sense on some level. But these other identities shouldn’t overshadow who I am.”
Emma snorted. “This is the opportunity you’ve wanted for years. If they offer it to you, whether they want you to be Marilyn Devry, Marilyn Evans, or Marilyn Monroe, you’d better grab it.”
Marilyn spooned more soup. “They don’t want Marilyn Evans, remember?”
“Have you heard from Rick?” Emma’s question interrupted Marilyn’s gloomy thoughts.
“He hasn’t returned my calls.” Her heart was like a dead thing in her chest.
Emma shrugged one shoulder. “Well, when you first moved out, you didn’t return any of his calls, either.”
Marilyn lowered her spoon and pushed away her soup. The tiny meatballs and barley weren’t as appealing now.
“I asked him for a divorce.” She drew her gaze from her lunch to her friend.
Emma dropped her fork. Her green eyes widened and her red lips parted. “Do you want a divorce?”
Marilyn crossed her arms and leaned them on the table. She studied the sanitized gray and white room. The blue soda vending machine in the corner gave the space its only splash of color.
Her eyes returned to Emma. “I don’t know. When I imagine my life without him ... I’m still in love with him.”
“Then why did you ask for a divorce?”
Marilyn shook her head in a helpless gesture. “I traveled three thousand miles to escape the media scrutiny of being the Devrys’ daughter. Then I married an NBA player. Now I’m being scrutinized as Rick Evans’s wife.”
“I’ve always admired you for wanting your own identity. But you have to make the decision about a divorce for yourself. Don’t let the media make it for you.”
Marilyn clenched her fists. “The media is the reason my marriage is falling apart.”
Emma gave her a searching look, the remnants of her salad apparently forgotten in front of her. “I agree. I’d never have married someone who lived in front of the camera. It was bound to cause a strain on your personal life. And now it’s hampering your career.”
Marilyn leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms and legs. “I never wanted to choose between my marriage and my career.”
“I know. All I’m saying is that, if you really do love Rick, there’s got to be another solution to your problem rather than a divorce.”
Marilyn pulled her hand over her hair. “Like what?”
“I don’t know. But if your marriage is worth it, you’ll figure something out to save it and your career.”
Marilyn swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “I’m still in love with Rick. I just don’t want to share him with millions of NBA fans. And I don’t think being married to a professional athlete should make my private life fair game.”
Emma leaned into the table, moving closer to Marilyn. “Well, no matter what happens, I’m here for you.”
“I know, Em.”
They were as different as oil and water, but somehow they’d maintained a friendship that had spanned sixteen years. Emma’s advice against marrying a professional baller had been the only time they’d seriously disagreed. Had she been right?
Emma grinned. “If you do get that divorce, you should go for the house and a big alimony.”
Marilyn’s brow furrowed. “I don’t need alimony. I have a job. And I wouldn’t ask for the house. It was his before we got married.”
“So what? You both live there now.
And, if he paid you alimony, you wouldn’t have to work.” Emma returned to eating her salad with newfound gusto.
Marilyn glanced at her soup. She still wasn’t hungry. “I enjoy working. I love what I do.”
“I suppose you love Arthur, too.” Emma’s voice was dry.
Marilyn’s nose wrinkled at the mention of the grouchy hospital administrator. “I could live without his micromanaging everyone.”
Emma’s green eyes glowed with triumph. “And you would—if you fought for alimony.”
“I’m not going to ask for alimony.” Marilyn’s tone was final. “My parents had wanted me to marry a doctor. I became one instead. I’m not going to give up my career to sit at home, waiting for Rick’s check.”
“I would.” Emma shrugged again. “But it’s your choice.”
Marilyn shook her head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Yes, they were oil and water. Sometimes it surprised her that they were friends.
4
The last time the press had written about the Monarchs, they’d skinned the team alive. Warrick had been sleeping alone for the past month because of the press. So why was he sitting in the Miami Waves Arena’s conference room Saturday morning, waiting to start this interview with Kirk West of the New York Horn instead of preparing for tonight’s game?
Troy Marshall.
Warrick slid a glance at the Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing sitting beside him. Troy had insisted the team needed this interview to help with publicity. Did the marketing executive know what he was asking? Probably not, and Warrick wasn’t eager to enlighten him.
With his classic features and close-cropped hair, the media executive looked like a male model. Well over six-feet tall and physically fit, the desk jockey also looked like a professional basketball player. But Troy hadn’t played competitively since his college years at Georgetown University in Washington, DC.
Warrick returned his attention to the sports reporter across the table. Kirk held his pen with surgical precision above a blank page in his notepad. The audio device in the center of the circular, blond wood table was recording.
