by Regina Hart
“You haven’t missed a shot yet.” Serge’s words coming from behind him proved at least one of his teammates couldn’t entirely ignore him.
Warrick crossed to retrieve the ball, catching it just as it tried to roll away. When he turned to face the Frenchman, he found all of the Monarchs had gathered around the perimeter.
“We need dependable free throws.” Warrick returned to the charity line. His teammates’ expressions varied from Jamal’s obstinacy to Vincent’s customary implacability.
“You play well in practice.” Jamal left unspoken his well-known contention that Warrick struggled in game situations.
Warrick tucked the ball on his hip and met each of the other players’ eyes. “Is there a point to this?”
The other men hesitated, looking at one another for guidance. Finally, Vincent spoke up. “Yeah. There’s a point. You were right to call us out. This series hasn’t been easy on you. The media has been invading your privacy—”
“Yeah, they stuck a camera in your window. Damn!” Jamal laughed even as he shook his head. The other players glared at him. “Sorry.”
Jamal wouldn’t be Jamal if he didn’t say something inappropriate and asinine. The question was, were his comments intentionally provoking? Warrick turned away from him as Serge spoke.
“We shouldn’t have added to your strain with our childish resentment.” Serge hooked his basketball in the crook of his right arm.
Jarrett Hickman shook his head. “Yeah, I wouldn’t change places with you on a bet.”
Roger Harris grunted. “Neither would I.”
Vincent let his jump rope pool onto the court beside him. “We talked after you left the locker room Wednesday night. You were right and we’re sorry.”
A chorus of mumbled agreements accompanied nodding heads.
Serge’s shrug was a gesture only he could make look intelligent. “It is as you said. I’ve been wasting this opportunity. I finally have my wish of being on a competitive team but I haven’t been playing my best. That is going to change.”
Incredible. For once, he’d defended himself and it had made a difference. The burden—or at least a large part of it—that Serge had referred to had been lifted from his shoulders.
Anthony cleared his throat. “I haven’t been living the Word as I should have. Thank you for helping me to see that.”
Vincent grinned. “Well, hell, Saint Anthony. I’d be glad to point out your hypocrisy every time you show it, if that would help you.”
Anthony glared at the center. “I’m not a hypocrite.”
Vincent frowned in mock confusion. “Then what do you call it?”
Some things would never change.
Warrick jumped in just as Anthony opened his mouth to respond. “This conversation isn’t helping.” He addressed Anthony. “Tony, we’re all human. Let’s put the rest behind us. We’ve got a championship to win.”
“Hold on.” Jamal looked around. “I’ve got something to say. Rick called me out, too.”
Warrick nodded, bracing himself for the rookie’s response. “Go ahead.”
Jamal hesitated. His gaze was hurt and uncertain. “You said I couldn’t read.”
“I never said you couldn’t read.” Warrick stopped him before Jamal could take a breath. “I asked if you had trouble learning the plays.”
Jamal ducked his head. “I do.”
Warrick sighed. “You said you couldn’t remember them. Why didn’t you ask for help?”
Jamal looked up. “Will you help me?”
“Of course.” Vincent stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “We’ve got your back.”
Vincent released Jamal. He turned to Warrick as their teammates returned to their prepractice warm-ups. “Why didn’t you call me out the other night?”
Warrick shrugged. “Why haven’t you attacked me this postseason?”
Vincent returned his shrug. He scooped up the discarded rope and tossed Warrick a grin before crossing the court.
Warrick shook his head at Vincent’s lack of response. His teammates were back and as close as they’d ever been. It was a relief. But was it enough to carry them through the critical game seven of the Eastern Conference Championship?
Almost three hours later, Warrick walked out of the training room. DeMarcus and Troy waited for him near the practice court entrance.
Warrick stopped a pace away from them. “What’s up?”
“We need to talk.” DeMarcus’s voice was somber.
What is it now?
Troy gestured toward the bleachers. “Let’s sit for a minute.”
The court smelled of wood polish and sweat. The dozen practice nets that circled the court had been lifted and the basketballs piled into the black wire carts near the door.
Warrick changed direction, joining the other two men near the stands. “What’s wrong?” His voice was sharp with worry.
Practice had ended almost an hour ago, but he’d stayed to have a trainer work out the tightness in his legs and lower back. Now the tension was returning.
Troy scowled at DeMarcus before meeting Warrick’s eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. We didn’t mean to give you that impression.”
“Then why do we need to talk?” He dropped his silver and black Monarchs gym bag to the floor beside his feet, but he didn’t sit. He was anxious to get home and spend as much time with Marilyn as possible before leaving for Miami.
With the series tied at three apiece, the Monarchs had one of two choices—win and advance to the NBA finals or lose and spend the rest of the summer wondering what they could have done differently.
Or, in Warrick’s case, spend the summer repairing his strained marriage.
Troy smoothed his silver and blue patterned silk tie over his ice blue shirt. “Everything is fine. But Marc and I wanted to talk with you about Andy and Jackie.”
He was even more confused. “You want advice on your love life?”
“No.” DeMarcus stood beside him with arms akimbo and legs braced on the gleaming hardwood court. He still wore his black Monarchs T-shirt and silver shorts. “We want you to ask your wife to stop meddling in our relationships.”
Warrick gaped at his coach. “What?”
Troy settled onto a bleacher. “Smooth, Guinn. Really smooth.”
DeMarcus shrugged. “You’re the media guy. Spin it.”
Troy frowned at the coach, then looked at Warrick. “Andy and Jackie spoke with Mary this morning.”
“Why?” Warrick sat beside Troy. This was going to take a while if he had to pry every word from his friends.
DeMarcus was almost eerily still as he loomed over Warrick. “Jack wanted to check on Mary. She knows the press coverage has been hard on her.”
Warrick’s brows knitted. He still didn’t see a connection. “I appreciate that. But what does it have to do with your relationships?”
Troy smoothed his goatee. “Apparently, Mary said some things that scared our ladies.”
The brakes squealed on Warrick’s tumbling thoughts. “Like what?”
DeMarcus pushed his hands into the front pockets of his silver shorts. “Jack and I want to start a family. I want to get an earlier start than she does, but I was bringing her around to my way of thinking. One morning with Mary and I’m back to square one with Jack.”
Troy added his piece. “I’ve been trying to get Andy to move in with me. She thinks I’m moving too fast. She said she needs her space.” He grunted. “Andy lives in a shoe box apartment with two other women and a little girl. She’d have more space if she lived with me.”
Warrick burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. “None of that is Mary’s fault. Jackie will make a great mother—when she’s ready.”
DeMarcus sighed. “Neither of us is getting any younger.”
Warrick ignored him. Jaclyn wouldn’t appreciate them talking about her age. “And Andrea’s address isn’t the issue.”
Troy spread his arms. “She spends most nights at m
y place anyway.”
Warrick shook his head, tossing his friends a shaming look. “You both need to learn to compromise. That’s part of the relationship game. I don’t know how you got to this stage of your life without realizing that.”
Troy propped his elbows on his thighs, his hands hanging loose between his knees. “So speaks the old married guy.”
Warrick sobered. “That’s the key. I’m the married one.” Though for how much longer was anyone’s guess.
DeMarcus rubbed his hand over his close-cropped hair. “All I’m saying is that it would be helpful if Mary could talk about the positives of starting a family. She’s an obstetrician. She must have something good to say about having kids.”
Warrick pushed himself to his feet. “Sorry, Coach, but I’m not going to ask my wife to lobby for you. You’re on your own.”
“All right.” Troy stood as well. “I understand your reluctance to ask her to speak on our behalf. But maybe you could ask her to ease up on the Independent Ladies platform while we’re trying to convince our ladies that they need us.”
Warrick couldn’t hold back a smile. “If your girlfriends really needed you, it wouldn’t matter what my wife said. Now, fellas, I need to get home.” He lifted his gym bag onto his shoulder and started to leave, but turned back as an idea came to him. “Coach, wasn’t your father a high school teacher?”
DeMarcus nodded. “Both of my parents were. Why?”
Warrick cocked his head. “Do you think he could create a study plan to help Jamal learn the playbook?”
A spark of interest lit DeMarcus’s black eyes. “I’ll ask him.”
Troy smoothed his goatee. “How’s Mary holding up?”
“As well as could be expected.” Warrick’s grip tightened on the gym bag’s strap. “Short of a media blackout, I don’t know what to do to help her.”
Troy offered a smile. “Just continue being the perfect husband you’d have us think you are.”
Warrick appreciated his friend’s attempt at levity. “I wish I was the perfect husband. Then I’d be able to shield her from the media.”
DeMarcus held his gaze. “There’s nothing you can do. The media will play itself out. Once the finals are over in June, baseball season starts. The reporters will be Jeter’s problem.”
Warrick gave a mock wince at DeMarcus’s reference to the New York Yankees’ shortstop. “What do you have against the guy?”
“Nothing, but he’s not one of my players.” DeMarcus grew serious again. “Don’t let the media distract you from your game. You’ve got to find a way to quiet the noise.”
Warrick saw the look in DeMarcus’s eyes. His coach knew what he was talking about. DeMarcus’s mother had died the summer before his last season as a player in the NBA. He’d still managed to quiet the noise and lead his team to a third title.
“You’re right.” But Warrick had more than the title on his mind.
Warrick caressed Marilyn’s back, from her shoulder to her waist. Her body was warm and soft as she lay on top of him. Tonight’s lovemaking was the memory he’d hold on to as he traveled to Miami tomorrow afternoon, not the image of her brittle with tension, locked inside a darkened house, hiding from reporters.
Every kink and ache, every knotted muscle of his body was relaxed. He stroked his hand back up to her shoulder. He turned his head into the curve of her neck and inhaled her scent, jasmine and sex.
Marilyn shifted above him. She pressed her mouth against his and coaxed his lips apart. Warrick didn’t need persuading. He stroked his tongue over hers.
Marilyn broke the kiss. She raised her head and met his gaze. “I still can’t believe you rented Grease.”
He brushed her hair back from her face. “Neither can I.”
Marilyn laughed and smacked his bare shoulder. She tucked her face into his neck. “Thank you, Rick. I wish we could stay in bed and watch movies forever.”
“Not always Grease, though.” Warrick felt her smile against his skin.
“Fair enough.” Marilyn rose to look at him. Her expression sobered. “I also wish movie nights were enough to save our marriage.”
17
Warrick froze. “What do you mean?”
Marilyn rolled off him to lie on her back to his right. “I know what you’re doing, Rick. The Grease soundtrack, the dancing, breakfast in bed, movie night.”
“I’m wooing my wife. I told you from the beginning that’s what I was doing.” It had seemed like a good idea. Was she telling him it wasn’t working? What should he do now?
“But we danced in the house because your fame would get us trampled at the club. You made me breakfast in bed—”
“It wasn’t breakfast in bed.” Warrick rolled his head on his pillow to look at her. “You’d sneaked downstairs before I could bring it up to you.”
“It was still incredibly sweet. But it was a reminder that, whenever we go out, people continually interrupt us to talk about the team or the game.”
Warrick frowned. “It wasn’t supposed to be a reminder. It was supposed to be romantic.”
“It was.” Marilyn gestured toward the television. “And we had movie night in bed because at the theater, people ask for your autograph.”
“What are you saying, Mary?” Warrick wasn’t sure he wanted to know.
“You don’t have to win me over. I’m in love with you. It’s our lifestyle that I’m uncomfortable with.”
“I can’t change that.”
She hesitated. “Is this what you want? Don’t you feel like a prisoner in your own home unable to go out because of fans and the media?”
He’d dreamed of playing in the NBA for as long as he could remember. But in his fantasies, he hadn’t imagined what that achievement would do to his private life. “It’s not an ideal situation. But if it weren’t for the fans, the franchise wouldn’t exist.”
“You’re right.” Marilyn heaved a sigh. “I’ve never experienced so much exposure, though, not even growing up as the daughter of Terrell and Celeste Devry.”
Warrick studied her profile. He could barely make out her features in the gathering dusk. “The media isn’t parked outside our house anymore.”
“No, but we still can’t go out.” She turned to him. “I wish we could go back to the way it used to be when it was just the two of us.”
“So do I.”
“Those days are long gone, though. Aren’t they?” Her voice was soft, wistful.
“They’ll come back. It’ll just take a while.”
Marilyn waited a beat. “Why didn’t you tell me you confronted your teammates in the locker room after the game Wednesday?”
The question blindsided him. Warrick searched his memory. Jaclyn must have told her when they met this morning, which meant DeMarcus had told his fiancée last night. He should have anticipated that. “I didn’t want to talk about the loss.”
“I could tell.” Marilyn prompted him when he remained silent. “Is everything okay with your teammates ?”
Warrick gave a ghost of a smile. “Yes. I think we’ll be fine.”
“I’m glad.” She shifted in the bed. “I’m proud of you, you know.”
Warrick stared at the ceiling. “Oh, yeah?”
“Not many people make it to the NBA and not many NBA players get to their conference championship. You’ve accomplished both. I just wish it hadn’t come at such a high price for us.”
Warrick watched Marilyn adjust the sheet more closely around her. It was like she was putting up a protective shield between them. So much for warm, soft memories as he traveled to Miami. “What can I do to make the situation better, Mary?”
She rubbed a hand over her face. “I don’t know. I just know I want my privacy back, and my career.”
Warrick felt her frustration coming between them. He reached out and, with his index finger under her chin, turned her face back to his. “Just give me until the end of the postseason. Then baseball will start and the cameras will turn to Mariano Rivera and ARod
.”
His lips curved as he sensed her confusion. She probably didn’t recognize the names of two of the New York Yankees’ biggest stars. But that wasn’t important now. Her response to his request was. He held his breath and waited for her answer.
“What about next year?” Her voice was a whisper.
Warrick dropped his hand. “I can’t predict what will happen next season.”
“Will the media harass us again? Will all of this start over?”
He went back to staring at the ceiling. “God, I hope not.” Warrick took a risk and reached for her hand. He relaxed when her fingers entwined with his.
Marilyn reached behind her head and pressed the switch on top of the headboard. The light above the bed jumped on. The shadows slid back. “Why haven’t we heard anything else from Jordan Hyatt? What is she waiting for?”
Warrick rose up on his right elbow and studied Marilyn’s illuminated features. “I don’t care about Jordan Hyatt. I care about us.”
Marilyn turned onto her side to face him. “You said that we can’t ignore her and I agree with you. But Andrea and I haven’t found any useful information.”
“That makes three of us.” He lay back down.
Marilyn tensed. “How much longer are we going to wait? She’s granting interviews but we’re not even releasing comments.”
“Something will turn up, Mary. Give us time.”
Marilyn squeezed his hand. “I feel as though we’re running out of time. Game seven is Saturday. Are we going to have to deal with Jordan Hyatt during the finals?”
“I hope not.” The idea made his blood boil.
Marilyn tossed in the bed. “The media is putting enough pressure on us without the Jordan Hyatt story.”
“Don’t let them.” Warrick reached behind his head and pressed the lamp switch. The light winked out and the shadows rolled back deeper than before.
“How do you do that? How are you able to block out the press?”
Warrick rolled his head on the pillow to face her silhouette in the dark. “When you want something badly enough, you make it work. That’s why love is enough for me, Mary. Why isn’t it enough for you?”
