Keeping Score

by Regina Hart

  “He thinks he’s our savior.” The disgust in Anthony’s olive eyes chilled Warrick. “As if all he has to do is walk onto the court and he’ll bring home the trophy.”

  DeMarcus’s anger was unmistakable as he addressed the forward. He lifted his left hand and spread his fingers. “There are five men per team on the court at any one time. Where the hell were the rest of you?”

  Jamal jutted his chin. “Rick needs to stop thinking about the hype and get in the game.”

  Fire burned in DeMarcus’s gaze as it took in the players. “The team is more than one man. All of you need to get your heads in the game.”

  Warrick froze. After benching him at the beginning of the season, DeMarcus was the last person he’d expected to defend him. In fact, he wasn’t used to anyone defending him. He forced himself to continue buttoning his shirt. The task was difficult as shock had rendered his fingers numb.

  Anthony jerked on his shirt. “We’re not the ones the media is treating like the second coming of the Messiah.”

  Jamal tossed a sneer over his shoulder at Warrick. “You ain’t got game.”

  Every game, he did his best. Sometimes it was enough; sometimes it wasn’t. Tonight, it hadn’t been and he’d be the first to admit it.

  DeMarcus hooked his hands on his hips. “Rick’s game wasn’t the worst tonight. You have that honor, rookie.”

  Serge tied his shoelaces, then stood. “Barron was supposed to be starting in this series.”

  The Frenchman’s words blindsided him. Warrick opened his mouth to say something—anything.

  But DeMarcus spoke first. “Barron took himself out of the play-offs so he could get well. Was his absence the reason for your poor performance?”

  Serge looked away.

  Why was DeMarcus continuing to deflect blame from him? He hadn’t played as well as he could have, as he should have. He was willing and able to accept that responsibility. Why wouldn’t DeMarcus let him?

  Jamal slammed his locker door shut. “Even with a hangover, Barron’s a better leader on the court than Rick.”

  Warrick stared at the rookie. Was that true?

  DeMarcus’s chuckle was dry and devoid of humor. “How quickly everyone’s forgotten. If it weren’t for Rick’s winning basket during the last game of the season, none of you would be here.”

  Warrick’s shoulders dropped. No one cared about past accomplishments. Professional sports was a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately? culture.

  The pressure increased as one by one Warrick’s teammates refused to meet his eyes. Jamal, Serge, Anthony, Vincent—all of them turned away from him. It hurt.

  Warrick cleared his throat. “I’ll play better Sunday.”

  DeMarcus glared from Warrick to the other players gathered in the locker room and back. “We’re two games away from elimination. Everyone has to play better Sunday.”

  Serge adjusted his tie before securing his locker. “What is it they say? Shit rolls downhill.”

  Warrick frowned at the Frenchman. “What does that mean?”

  Serge looked at Warrick. “It means that when you have had a bad game, we all get blamed. When you play well, no one knows who we are. We are just the supporting cast.”

  Warrick braced his legs and forced himself not to rock back on his heels at the surprise attack. “I’ve never taken credit for that win. Or any win. I know victory is a team effort.”

  Jamal sneered. “And that’s what you’ve been telling all the papers. We don’t need you to defend us, man. We can defend ourselves.”

  “No, we cannot.” Serge shrugged. “Not unless the media listens to us. But they are too busy listening to Rick.”

  “I didn’t elect you to speak for me.” Anthony’s tone made him seem like a nine-year-old child in a thirty-year-old’s body; a thirty-year-old with a 1970s throwback natural. “I can speak for myself—”

  “Enough.” DeMarcus’s command cut through the resentment in the room like a machete. “The media are not on this team. We win or lose with the people in this room. Making Rick the goat is not going to get us the ring. We all need to raise our game.” He expelled a rough breath before checking his wristwatch. “Let’s go. They’re waiting for us at the press conference. All of us.”

  Warrick shrugged into his suit jacket and swallowed a sigh. Whatever the media chose to ask him about tonight’s game, their questions couldn’t be harder than his teammates’.

  Marilyn had fallen asleep curled up on the sofa with the television on again. The tension torturing Warrick’s shoulders and the nape of his neck eased. She may resent his career, but she still watched his games. That had to mean something. She’d had a long Thursday of her own at the hospital. She’d have another long day tomorrow. His gaze flickered to his silver Movado wristwatch. Correction. Today. It was after one in the morning.

  Warrick loosened his tie further. He crossed the family room with silent steps. Even in sleep, Marilyn wouldn’t release the universal remote. She lay with it pressed to her stomach. Warrick eased it from her to switch off the television and cable box. He laid the remote on the coffee table and stared down at Marilyn. When had he last seen her looking so relaxed and content while awake?

  He rested his right hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. Her jasmine scent surrounded him. “Mary.”

  Marilyn blinked several times before focusing on him. “What time is it?” Her voice was low and rusty.

  Warrick continued in a whisper. “One. Let’s go up to bed.”

  She sat up, setting her bare feet on the hardwood floor. Her green nightgown exposed her toned arms and long legs. She lifted her gaze to him. Her eyes were dark and sad. “I’m sorry the Monarchs lost.”

  With those five words, his tension and fatigue returned with a vengeance. He was sorry she’d witnessed the debacle. “Thanks.”

  “Do you want to talk about it?” She sounded tentative.

  “No, thanks.” After the confrontation in the Monarchs locker room and the interrogation at the postgame press conference, there was nothing left to say. The Monarchs’ losses used to be status quo. Now they led the local nightly news.

  Marilyn pushed herself to her feet. “All right.”

  Had he offended her? “How was your day?”

  She started toward the hallway. “Fine.”

  When had they stopped talking with each other? How had their conversations devolved to No, thanks; All right; and Fine?

  He wouldn’t accept that. “Did Arthur give you any more trouble today?”

  Marilyn stopped at the foot of the stairs. She wouldn’t look at him. “We used to talk about our days. This is another example of how the Monarchs’ miracle season has changed us.”

  Warrick flinched. Marilyn had quoted the nickname the press had given his team’s championship run. “I’m sorry. It’s one in the morning. The postgame press conference was tense. I’m all talked out.”

  Tense was an understatement. Reporters had put his every move and emotion under a microscope.

  Marilyn faced him with irony in her eyes. “I’m not going to read the newspaper to find out how you’re feeling.”

  He scrubbed his hands over his face. “That’s not what I’m saying.”

  He should have left bad enough alone with No, thanks; All right; and Fine.

  She spread her arms. “Then tell me how you’re feeling.”

  “Are you a psychologist now, too?”

  She stepped back. “I’m sorry.”

  Warrick took a long step forward, catching her arm before she could turn away. “No, I’m the one who’s sorry.” He released her. “I’m tired and not thinking straight.”

  Marilyn’s voice softened. “I know the fans booed the team.” She raised her hand as though reaching for his jaw, then let it drop to her side without achieving her goal.

  Warrick flinched. The echo of the crowd’s disgust still reverberated in his head. “It’s probably all over ESPN now. They’ll replay that from now until the next game Sunday night.”
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  “Tell me how you feel.”

  He couldn’t bring himself to say the words. “How would you feel if someone jeered at you in the delivery room?” He forced a smile.

  Marilyn still looked sad. “I’m sure it bothered you. It bothered me.” She hesitated. “Are you feeling discouraged ?”

  “No.” He knew she wouldn’t stop until he answered her questions. He admired her tenacity—but not tonight. “I’m embarrassed, frustrated, and tired. But I’ll be fine after I get some sleep. In the morning, we have to prepare for Sunday’s game.”

  Marilyn’s expression eased. “That’s all I wanted to know.” She turned to mount the steps.

  Frowning, Warrick followed her. “We’re two games away from elimination, but there are three games left in the series.”

  “I know.”

  Did she think he was a loser? Is that the reason she wanted a divorce?

  “There’s no reason for us to give up.” On the championship or their marriage.

  Marilyn continued up the stairs, not bothering to look back. “No, there isn’t.”

  At the top of the stairs, he took her arm. “What are you thinking?”

  She returned his gaze for several silent moments. “I want you to win this championship, Rick.”

  He blinked. Was he dreaming? Had he fallen asleep standing up without realizing it? He’d go with that. “I’d have thought you’d want the season to end. Why do you want us to win the championship?”

  “Because it’s what you want.”

  God, if only she’d give him everything he wanted. The thought gave him a sweet ache in his gut. “You realize that, if the Monarchs win the conference championship—”

  She pressed the fingertips of her right hand against his lips. “When you win.”

  His lips itched to kiss her fingers. She lowered her hand before he gave in to temptation. “When we win the championship, the media attention will increase. Have you thought of that? It would be the Monarchs’ first championship in more than ten years. A win will extend our season for another month, too. Could you handle that?”

  Marilyn’s gaze was steady on his. “I know how much the championship ring means to you. Whatever we decide about our marriage, I’ll never root against you. Ever.”

  Besides, “Yes, I’ll marry you,” those words were the sweetest she’d ever spoken to him.

  He cleared his throat. “Whatever you decide. I know what I want. You.”

  Her features softened. Her body relaxed. Her eyes darkened with the same need and yearning that twisted inside him. “I want you, too.”

  She stepped into him, lifted up on her toes, and pressed her lips to his. Lightning flashed inside him. His body tightened with desire. Suddenly, Warrick wasn’t sleepy anymore.

  He swept Marilyn off her feet without breaking contact with her pliant lips. Warrick cradled his wife in his arms as he carried her to their bedroom at the end of the hall. The feather-light touch of her fingers left a path of heat from the crown of his head to the nape of his neck. She sighed his name, parting her lips for the sweep of his tongue. Her taste heated him from the inside out.

  Warrick crossed into their bedroom, not stopping until he reached the bed. He freed Marilyn’s legs, then held her close as he let himself fall backward onto the mattress. She laughed as she landed with a bounce on top of him. The carefree laughter of a woman in love. His muscles tightened at the sound. He held her close and kissed her deep, thirsty for the joy that had all but drained from their marriage.

  Marilyn’s body softened against him. The scent of jasmine clouded his mind. Her arms and legs moved restlessly over his. Her kisses scorched him. Her caresses burned him. Her desire branded him a champion. She needed him, wanted him, believed in him. In her embrace, there wasn’t room for doubts.

  She broke their kiss. With fast, efficient movements, Marilyn undressed him. A tug here, a yank there and he found himself wearing nothing but his underpants. Her desire for him was almost painfully exciting.

  He tried to smile through his arousal. “I didn’t know you were a magician.”

  Marilyn’s grin was mouthwateringly wicked. “It’s not magic. It’s motivation.”

  His eyes tracked her tongue around her lips. His body throbbed. “You’re still dressed.”

  She rolled to his left side and lay on her back. “How motivated are you?”

  Warrick’s laughter eased the tightness in his chest and beyond. He raised up on his side and played with the top button of her nightgown. “Highly.”

  Marilyn held her breath as Warrick’s long, nimble fingers released the remaining buttons of her gown and peeled apart the edges. The tip of his finger traced the curve of her breast. Marilyn’s nipple puckered. Her breath exhaled on a quivering sigh. Her eyelids drifted closed.

  Warrick’s body was above her. His heat was around her. His mouth was on hers. And when his tongue slipped past her lips, her toes curled. Marilyn kissed him back, hard and deep. She strained into him, rocked under him. His hard, hot palm traveled up her thigh, over her hip and past her waist to cup her bare breast.

  When had he removed her clothes?

  Marilyn groaned and released his mouth. “Now who has the magic?” Her voice was husky.

  Warrick’s sexy grin left her breathless. Marilyn sighed as he kissed the spot behind her ear. She moaned as his teeth nipped her neck, shivered as his tongue trailed her collarbone.

  His lips and tongue followed a path over her breast. Marilyn held her breath. Her right nipple pinched tighter as he drew closer. She gasped when his mouth closed over her breast, stroking its tip and suckling her nipple. Marilyn’s hips undulated beneath him. Blood rushed hot and fast through her veins. Her heart pounded in her ears. She gripped the bedsheets in her fists.

  Warrick raised his head. He blew a soft, warm breath over her nipple. Marilyn bit her bottom lip at the intense feeling. Her body wouldn’t—couldn’t—remain still. She pressed the tips of her fingers into the taut muscles of his back. Her hips strained toward Warrick. His hips pressed into hers. Two strips of clothing—his and hers—separated her from what she wanted most.

  “Rick, I need you now.” Her words were thin and brittle in her ears.

  Warrick released her breast. His left hand followed her curves to her hips. Shifting his body, he slipped his hand inside her lingerie. Marilyn groaned as she felt herself dampen against his fingertips.

  “I need you, too, Mary. I’ll always need you.” His words husked against her ear.

  Warrick moved down her body, kissing and licking her exposed skin. He pulled her silk underwear—the last remaining article of clothing—from her pliant body and stood to shed his briefs. Marilyn’s thighs went lax at the sight of his full arousal.

  He climbed back onto the bed. Marilyn rose to her knees to meet him. As he knelt before her, she skimmed her fingernails over the spare flesh of his torso, marveling again at his strength and power. She lifted her gaze to his midnight eyes and lowered her right palm to cup him. His hips pressed into her hand. Marilyn stroked him until he grew even hotter and harder to her touch. Warrick’s body shook and he reached for her. Marilyn pressed him onto the mattress and straddled him.

  She swallowed hard as she lowered herself onto his rigid erection. Warrick gripped her hips, helping them settle into a rhythm that was fresh yet familiar. She rocked with him. She worked her hips against him. Her heart pounded in her chest. Her breath caught in her throat. She closed her eyes and arched her back.

  Warrick slid his large, hot hands up her torso to palm her breasts. Marilyn moaned as he massaged her sensitized skin. She rode him harder and faster as he rubbed her nipples and pinched their tips.

  He drew his hands back down her body, inching closer to her thighs. Marilyn spread her legs wider. Warrick strained upward, lifting her. Her body grew hotter, damper. Her abdomen shivered as his fingers trailed over her. He slipped his hand between them and touched her. Stroked her. Explored her. Marilyn’s inner muscles pulled tighter
and tighter until her body shattered. She screamed. Her muscles trembled on the waves of release.

  Warrick’s back arched, filling Marilyn deeper, lifting her higher. His body exploded, shaking Marilyn again. Spent, she collapsed onto him, breathing in his scent, soap and sandalwood; listening to his heart echo the wishes in her own.

  Warrick pulled his black BMW into the front row of the Empire Arena’s parking lot Friday morning. He collected his sports bottle and unfolded from his car. He inhaled the tangy breeze carried from the marina. A gentle wind swept over him and rustled the trees that lined the sidewalk in front of the arena’s rear entrance.

  After activating his car alarm, he stepped onto the sidewalk for some easy stretches before his jog. He scanned the lot. Jaclyn’s car stood a couple of spaces from his, but she wasn’t anywhere in sight. He was doing this morning’s run solo. That was a little disappointing.

  A movement in Warrick’s peripheral vision drew his attention to the building. Troy appeared from the rear entrance and crossed to him. His suit coat was missing. The sleeves of his pale yellow shirt were rolled to his elbows. He’d loosened the brown and yellow tie he wore to coordinate with his shirt and brown pants. But it was the tightness of the media executive’s features that set off an alert system in Warrick’s mind.

  “What’s going on?” Warrick drained the water from his sports bottle as he tried to read the other man’s body language.

  Troy stopped an arm’s length from Warrick. “The Horn wrote an article on your possible reconciliation with Mary. It’s in today’s paper.”

  Troy’s words were wonderful news. But his stance—wary and stiff—warned Warrick that another shoe was ready to drop.

  Warrick’s attention dipped to the newspaper in Troy’s hand before returning to the executive’s face. “The morning after game four, they’re more interested in my marriage than our loss?”

  “This story ran on the front page of the gossip section.”

  Warrick’s neck muscles tightened. “How bad is it?”

  Troy sighed and offered him the paper. “The article comes with pictures.”