Keeping Score

by Regina Hart

  “Maybe Rick or his coach should tell people to stop blaming you.”

  Should he? “That would only keep the topic alive. If we ignore it, hopefully, it’ll go away.”

  Emma grunted. “I’m not so sure about that.”

  Marilyn slid her hand into her backpack, reaching for the treatment notes she’d worked on overnight. Her fingertips brushed the sharp edge of an unfamiliar object. She opened her backpack wider and pulled out a gift-wrapped package.

  “What is it?” Emma stood behind her.

  “I don’t know.” Marilyn read the gift label. “To M, From R.” She tore at the wrapping, knowing Warrick used too much tape to harbor any hope of preserving the paper.

  Marilyn’s lips stretched into a broad grin. Sandy and Danny smiled at her from the cover of the Grease compact disc.

  “I thought Rick didn’t like musicals.”

  Marilyn’s smile broadened. “But he knows I do. And Grease is my favorite.”

  “That’s such a guy thing to do.” Emma straightened away from Marilyn. “A couple of songs won’t make everything better.”

  “Speak for yourself.” Marilyn used her scissors to slit open the compact disc wrapper. “You’re welcome to stay and enjoy the songs with me, if you’d like.”

  “No, thanks.” Emma turned to leave. “I agree with Rick. People don’t just spontaneously break into song.”

  Marilyn loaded the compact disc into her laptop. She sighed as “Summer Love” played softly on the computer’s drive. If only she and Warrick could overcome their relationship obstacles with a few songs and a couple of dance moves the way Sandy and Danny had in Grease.

  6

  Warrick came slowly awake Tuesday from his midday nap to the sound of the ringing telephone. What time was it? Three-thirty in the afternoon. The alarm would have gone off in another thirty minutes, giving him just enough time to get to the arena and warm up before game three of the Eastern Conference Championship.

  The phone rang again. Thinking wistfully of another thirty minutes of sleep, Warrick hit the alarm’s off button and shed the bedsheets. He strode down the hallway to use the master bedroom’s telephone extension. He should have been napping in that room. The answering machine picked up the call before he could.

  He cleared his throat. “Hello.”

  “Rick?”

  “Hi, Dad.” Was he wrong to wish he hadn’t answered the phone?

  “Were you sleeping? You should be getting ready for the game.” John Evans’s voice was sharp, his tone disciplinary.

  After this morning’s workout, his body had needed the two-hour rest before tonight’s game. But try explaining that to his father. The older man had cheated him of thirty minutes and criticized the other ninety.

  Warrick sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. “I am getting ready. What can I do for you, Dad?”

  “Napping before the game didn’t help you Thursday night. You looked as though you were sleepwalking. Everyone said your head wasn’t in the game. Marlon Burress made a fool of you.”

  After thirty-four years, Warrick had given up hoping for positive feedback from his father. Nothing he did was ever good enough. “Thursday was a tough loss, but we won Saturday.”

  “Which only goes to show that you’re inconsistent.” His father pounced on a new line of attack. “Your team needs to be able to depend on you. But from game to game, they don’t know which one of you will show up, the sleepwalker or the playmaker.”

  Warrick’s patience was wearing thin. “The series is tied.”

  “That’s why you’ll never be a champion.” John was accusing. “You’re satisfied with the series being tied at one apiece. You had an opportunity to be ahead two to nothing but you blew it.”

  Warrick stood. He didn’t need this. “I have to get ready for tonight’s game.”

  John grunted. “You’ve always chosen to run from the truth rather than admit when you’re wrong.”

  Warrick gritted his teeth to keep from defending himself. It never did any good. “As much as I enjoy our talks, Dad, I have work to do.” He checked the clock on the nightstand. The green liquid crystal display numbers read three thirty-eight. He needed to get to the Empire Arena by five o’clock—three hours prior to the game—for his pregame ritual warm-up and preparation.

  “What did Mary say about your game?”

  Warrick gripped the receiver. Nothing. She hadn’t asked about the loss or the win. What did she think about the first two games? Did she even care anymore? They used to talk about his games and her deliveries. When had that stopped?

  He pulled his attention back to the phone conversation and his father. “She wasn’t as critical as you.”

  “Everyone is talking about your separation. Why did I have to read about it in the paper?”

  Because failure wasn’t a subject one broached with John Evans. Warrick swallowed hard, part regret, all frustration. “I’m sorry.”

  He’d hoped the response would end the conversation. That strategy had worked in the past.

  “You’re not going to win Mary back unless you get your act together.”

  Was his father gloating? He had to end this call. “I appreciate your concern—”

  “She’s a medical doctor. She saves lives. You play ball and you don’t even do it well. How do you expect to hold on to a woman like that?”

  The barbs were flying faster now, eliciting both fear and anger, two emotions that were always present during exchanges with his father. John Evans had erred on the side of discipline rather than affection. In fairness, he’d taken his paternal responsibilities seriously. Warrick wouldn’t have achieved his dream if it weren’t for his father. For that, he’d always be respectful. But now, he needed to get the older man off the phone.

  He took a deep breath. The scent of jasmine lingered in the room, filling his head, easing his tension. Marilyn. “Dad, it’s getting late. I’ve got to go. Give Mom my love. I’ll talk with you later.” He hung up before his father could respond.

  Warrick rotated his head, trying to relax the muscles in his neck. His father’s idea of a motivational speech was to identify your most vulnerable area and put a bullet in it.

  He wandered toward the room’s dressing table. His gaze lingered on their wedding photo before landing on Marilyn’s ring box. Holding his breath, Warrick opened the case. He exhaled. It was empty. At least she was still wearing her rings. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? He closed the box.

  You’re not going to win Marilyn back unless you get your act together.

  He was beginning to wonder how he’d won her heart in the first place. He studied their wedding photo. She looked so happy with him. They’d held each other so tightly. Now other people were coming between them.

  Marilyn hadn’t married him for his celebrity. The media attention was tearing them apart. She wasn’t with him for his money; she had plenty of her own. Then why had she married him? And why wasn’t that reason enough anymore?

  Burress shot the basketball over Warrick, raising the Miami Waves to an 81 to 76 lead over the Monarchs during game three at home. Two minutes and seventeen seconds left to the third quarter. Warrick caught the condemnation in DeMarcus’s eyes. He’d hear about that play in the locker room. He turned, ignoring the twinge in his back as he jogged up the court.

  Barron Douglas stood behind DeMarcus in a bronze three-piece suit. The Monarchs captain wasn’t ready to travel with the team, but he’d show his support during every home game—a constant reminder that Warrick wasn’t supposed to be here.

  “Am I that good or are you that bad?” Burress’s laughing taunt came from behind him.

  Warrick ignored the words that echoed the question in his mind. Burress shadowed him as Warrick found his position at the post. Monarchs’ center Vincent Jardine dribbled the ball past half-court, slowing the tempo of the game and taking control of the shot clock. The Waves’ Chad Erving danced in front of him, bending low and waving his arms. Jarrod Cheeks guarded Serge
at the left perimeter and Phillip Hawk hampered Anthony at the right.

  “You’re kind of slow tonight. You feeling all right?” Burress’s tone was meant to irritate. And it was working. Why wouldn’t the other man stop talking?

  Warrick was tangled in Burress’s coverage. His opponent’s left hand braced his waist. His right hand stretched over Warrick’s shoulder. Warrick extended his right leg and turned his torso to claim more room. He clenched his teeth at the shooting pain around his waist.

  The shot clock was at nineteen seconds. Warrick gestured Jamal to the left corner with an impatient wave of his hand. When would the rookie read the game plan? Walter Millbank trailed Jamal.

  With his teammates in place, Warrick opened his hands for the ball. Vincent kicked it to him. Burress pressed in to intercept the pass. Warrick stepped forward to block Burress’s access. He wouldn’t let the other man show him up again. Warrick made the catch with his right hand and twisted his body to protect the ball. His back protested.

  His opponent pressured him, crowded him, jockeyed for position. He held Burress off with his back and shoulders, skirting the edge of his third foul. Warrick dribbled the ball, dancing forward, trying to find a good look for the basket. He had nothing. The shot clock counted to thirteen seconds. Two minutes and four seconds remained in the third period.

  Warrick watched his teammates shift position, crossing in and out of the paint, circling the perimeter. The Waves stuck to them like a bad odor. Burress bedeviled him, waving his arms in Warrick’s face and jumping up and down.

  Serge shook off Cheeks and worked his way open under the basket. A window of scoring opportunity. Warrick took it. A split-second decision to pass him the ball.

  Jamal lost his man as Millbank launched his seven-foot body into the lane. The Waves forward came up with the steal. The Monarchs fans groaned their displeasure. The Miami big man powered past the flat-footed Monarchs. Warrick chased after him. His back muscles tightened with every move. His knees protested at every step. Play through the pain. Just play through it.

  Burress dashed past him like a locomotive. Warrick dug deeper to pick up his game. A foot from the basket, Millbank launched himself into the air, reaching for the hoop.

  No!

  Warrick launched himself beside the Miami Wave forward, straining higher, farther, stronger. Wanting it more. He extended his body. Warrick found the ball above the net with the tips of his fingers. One knuckle deep. He smacked it aside.

  Rejected!

  Monarchs fans went wild. Shouts of approval bounced off the court and echoed around the arena. Relief sapped his adrenaline. Warrick felt himself falling. He slammed to the ground. White-hot pain exploded in his back, blanking his thoughts and taking his vision. He writhed on the court, gritting his teeth against the agony. His body felt like a human torch. Warrick squeezed his eyes shut.

  Hands grabbed at him, trying to keep him still. He wanted to shout, “Don’t touch me!” Instead, he allowed them to calm him and eventually help him from the court.

  Minutes later, Warrick sat in a straight-back chair in the lounge outside the Monarchs’ locker room. One of the trainers had taped an ice bag to his waist. His feet were propped on a nearby seat. On the television mounted to the wall, his teammates were giving away game three midway through the fourth quarter.

  Barron strode into the lounge in his bronze suit. The diamond studs in his ears winked at Warrick. “You’re good?”

  “I’m good.”

  They both ignored his lie and focused on the Monarchs’ desperate struggle to prevent a game three slaughter.

  Barron broke the awkward silence after a few possessions. “There’s a lot of pressure out there.”

  “It’s the play-offs.” Just tell me I played like shit, then leave me alone.

  “I couldn’t handle the pressure.” Pain and disappointment thickened the other man’s voice.

  Warrick shifted his gaze from the television to the back of Barron’s head. His thick cornrows were shorter now. “You’ll be back next season.”

  Barron turned to him with a chuckle. “You were always my wingman, on and off the court.” He sobered. “There’s a lot of pressure out there, bro. The other guys, they’re icing you out. I can see it. But that shit doesn’t matter.” He jerked his head toward the televised game. “You’re just as good as the rest of those fools and better than most. Take that to the bank.”

  Warrick watched his captain leave. Barron’s words had done more to heal his back than the trainer’s ice pack and massage.

  Warrick’s heart contracted at the familiar scene. Across the room, Marilyn had fallen asleep on the sofa. Her slender body half sat, half lay on the dark brown cushions. Warrick smiled, imaging she hadn’t fallen into sleep willingly.

  He crept farther into the family room and gazed down on her, careful not to disturb her. The corner lamp cast highlights on her dark brown hair. The thick tresses fanned out behind her shoulders.

  Marilyn’s cheek rested on her folded hands. She’d changed into her hot pink shorty pajamas after she’d returned from the hospital. The outfit bared her well-toned arms and long, shapely legs. Warrick’s smile widened at the sight of toenails painted a glittery purple.

  He rescued the universal remote she’d tucked against her stomach and switched off the television and cable box. His brows knitted. Had she caught any of the game after she’d returned from the hospital? She must have. What did she think of how he played tonight? Did his poor numbers and the team’s loss make her think less of him? Were his father and Marlon Burress right?

  Warrick carefully returned the remote to the center of the table and checked his silver Movado wristwatch. It was after one in the morning. Marilyn looked so relaxed and peaceful. He didn’t want to wake her. Maybe he could carry her upstairs. He’d had an ice bag around his back for the better part of the fourth quarter. After the game, the trainer had worked his knotted muscles until he’d felt loose again. Maybe he could risk the movement. He wanted to risk it. He needed to hold her in his arms. Warrick stepped closer to the sofa and leaned toward her.

  Marilyn’s eyes snapped open. She blinked twice, then stretched, rolling onto her back and raising her arms above her head. “Hi.”

  Warrick grinned. “Hi, yourself.”

  She gave him a drowsy smile. Her voice was groggy. “Thank you for the Grease CD.”

  He touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. “You’re welcome.”

  She lowered her arms. “What are you doing?”

  Warrick straightened. “I was going to take you upstairs.”

  Marilyn suddenly seemed wide awake. She struggled into a sitting position. “You can’t carry me anywhere. You’ve hurt your back.”

  She’d seen the game. Warrick tensed. “I could’ve carried you. But, since you’re awake, we can walk up together.”

  Marilyn’s chocolate eyes darkened with concern. She searched his features as though trying to read his thoughts. “How are you feeling?”

  “My pride hurts more than my back.” Warrick reached beside her to turn off the lamp. The hallway light strained to illuminate the family room. He offered her his hand. Marilyn’s palm felt small and delicate in his hold.

  She rose to her feet with his assistance. The care in her dark gaze made his knees shake. “Would you like me to give you a massage?”

  Warrick hesitated. After the trainer’s ministrations, he didn’t actually need Marilyn to massage his back.

  “That would be great, if you don’t mind?” Warrick loosened his black necktie, pulled it free of his collar, and shoved it into the front right pocket of his gray suit pants.

  Marilyn moved past him to lead the way upstairs. “Of course, I don’t mind.”

  The thought of Marilyn’s hands on him, her fingers pressing into his muscles, her body close enough to warm his, was almost enough to send his back into spasms. “I’d appreciate it.”

  She tossed him a cheeky smile over her left shoulder. “We need to
get you ready for Thursday night’s game.”

  Warrick mounted the stairs behind her. His gaze settled on her gently swaying hips. The pink pajama shorts cupped her firm bottom.

  “I didn’t play well tonight.” He’d felt compelled to make the admission, but now he wished he hadn’t.

  “I’m not an NBA expert, but I think you did play well tonight, although you played better Saturday. The team still won.”

  Surprise eased his frown. Even though she resented his career, she was still watching him play?

  Warrick followed Marilyn down the hall to their bedroom, shrugging out of his suit jacket as he walked. “You saw Saturday’s game?”

  “Of course.” She sounded startled by his question. “Even I could see you were brilliant that night.”

  “Thank you.” Her praise warmed him. But then, he’d always felt that she believed in him—until she’d asked for a divorce.

  Warrick strode to the closet to hang up his jacket. He pulled his shirt free of his pants to unbutton it. It felt odd dressing and undressing in the master bedroom, but sleeping down the hall. How long would this continue? And how would it end?

  “I don’t think anyone could play with that level of intensity every night.” Marilyn’s voice carried from across the room.

  Warrick turned from the closet and wandered to the dressing table to drop off his cuff links. “My game needs to be consistent. My teammates should be able to count on me to come through when they need me.”

  He sounded like his father, but the old man had been right.

  “That’s a lot of pressure on you.”

  He came to a stop at the foot of their bed and unbuttoned his shirt. “A professional should be able to play at a high level every game, especially during the play-offs.”

  “You know better than I do.” There was a shrug in Marilyn’s voice. “But I think you’re being too hard on yourself.”

  He removed his white shirt and undershirt. Marilyn’s eyes darkened and her throat muscles moved as though she were swallowing. Her reaction to him went a long way toward restoring the confidence battered by tonight’s game. It was good to know he could still turn his wife on.