Keeping Score

by Regina Hart

  He turned onto his side, not waiting for her answer. In the growing silence, he didn’t know what scared him more, that she’d have an answer he didn’t like or that she wouldn’t have an answer at all.

  “I’m surprised you went to see Mary yesterday.” Warrick squinted toward the sun as he jogged beside Jaclyn on their regular route along the marina Friday morning. They were nearing the halfway point of their eight-mile jog.

  “Why?” Jaclyn sounded a little out of breath, but not enough to prompt Warrick to slow down.

  “She doesn’t like you.” He automatically leaned forward and shortened his stride as they climbed the hill.

  “She’s not jealous of our friendship anymore.” Jaclyn sounded matter-of-fact. “Besides, she’s a part of the Monarchs family. I should have gone to see her sooner.”

  Jaclyn was serious about treating the Monarchs players, executives, staff, and their relatives as one extended family. It was the culture her grandfather and his three franchise partners fostered when they established the franchise almost six decades earlier. Jaclyn worked very hard to continue the tradition.

  Sweat rolled down Warrick’s bald pate. He wiped it from his brow without adjusting his pace. “I appreciate your concern, but Mary and I are coping with the situation.”

  “Are you sure?”

  Warrick felt Jaclyn’s eyes on him, staring as though she hoped to read his mind. He turned toward her and captured her gaze. “Why?”

  Marilyn wiped the sweat from her eyes. “Because Mary is depressed. She’s struggling under the strain.”

  “And you’re concerned, just like everyone else, that trouble in my marriage is distracting me on the court.” Warrick’s chest compressed with disappointment.

  “No.” Jaclyn exhaled as she kept pace with him. “I’m concerned that there’s trouble in your marriage. What can I do to help?”

  “Could you get the media to stop stalking me and my wife?” Warrick kept jogging. He led Jaclyn around the loop at the five-mile point of their run.

  Jaclyn’s expression was apologetic. “I’m afraid not. I’m sorry, Rick. I know the press is a pain.”

  “That’s an understatement.” The marina waters were a brilliant blue this morning. Sunlight danced on their gentle waves. The peaceful scene did nothing to soothe Warrick’s troubled thoughts.

  Jaclyn was silent for several strides. “Maybe Mary should stay with your parents while you’re in Miami.”

  He gave her a wry look. “If you were me, would you want your spouse to stay with my parents?”

  She gave him a sympathetic look. “Point taken. Does she have friends she could stay with?”

  Warrick banished Emma’s image from his mind. “We’ll figure something out. And hopefully our marriage won’t fall apart in the meantime.”

  “What about after the finals?”

  Warrick allowed himself a smile. Jaclyn already had them winning the Eastern Conference Championship Saturday and moving on to the finals. “If we win the title this season, great. If not—I don’t know. But I won’t make a championship title a bigger priority than my marriage. I won’t put one ring above the other.”

  “I wouldn’t ask you to, Rick. But I think you should consider your decision about next season carefully.” Jaclyn kept pace with him. She caught her breath before speaking again. “You know as well as I do that most athletes don’t get even one shot at a championship ring. Don’t take this opportunity lightly.”

  “I’m not.” Warrick matched his strides to Jaclyn’s, trying to slow his pace. “But this is my marriage. I love Mary. I don’t want to lose her.”

  “You’d sacrifice your dream of a championship title for your marriage?”

  Warrick flicked his friend a look. “I want to be a good husband to Mary first. I can’t be that when I’m the source of the strain on our marriage.”

  “But you’re not causing the strain. The media is. Mary knows that.” Jaclyn’s reasonable tone reminded Warrick of his efforts to explain the media madness to his wife.

  “And they’ll continue to be a problem as long as I’m an active player.”

  “You mean as long as you’re a public figure, which is what they’ll consider you for the rest of your life.”

  “You won’t change my mind, Jackie.”

  Jaclyn wiped her upper lip with her right wrist. “Will Mary be all right with you giving up your lifelong dream?”

  Warrick recalled an image of Marilyn standing at the top of their staircase the night she’d told him she hoped he got the ring this season so he could retire.

  Warrick looked at Jaclyn. “It wouldn’t be her first choice. But I don’t think a divorce would be, either.”

  Jaclyn shook her head. “I can’t imagine the Monarchs without you. And I can’t imagine you retiring without at least one ring. I really want that title for you. I’m certain Mary wants that as well. She believes in you, Rick. And she loves you. She wouldn’t want you to retire with regrets.”

  The Empire Arena came back into view. Warrick checked his watch. They were going to complete their run in less than fifty minutes.

  Warrick wiped the sweat from his brow. “Then I’ve got one of two choices. I can either retire after this season without a ring, if it comes to that. Or I could continue my career until I earn a ring and retire without a wife.” He caught Jaclyn’s eyes. “Which would you choose?”

  Jaclyn returned Warrick’s steady stare with one of her own. “The Rick Evans I know would find a way to retire with both.” She shook her head and rubbed her eyes. Was it frustration, perspiration, or both? “When did you become such a defeatist?”

  Warrick’s eyes widened. “I—”

  “You told me yourself your father didn’t believe you’d make it to the NBA. Well, you did. And several All-Star selections.”

  Warrick’s stomach muscles clenched. Mercifully, they were closing in on the arena’s rear parking lot. “What’s your point?”

  “You’ll find a way to get the championship ring and keep your wedding ring. I have confidence in you. You need to have confidence in yourself.”

  Warrick broke eye contact with his friend and franchise owner. He stared at the arena looming larger as they jogged closer. She made it sound so easy. But it wasn’t just up to him. Other teams would have a say in who won the championship. And Marilyn would have input into whether their marriage was worth saving. Right now, he wasn’t confident in either outcome.

  “It’s been a week since Arthur fired me. It feels more like a month.” Marilyn jogged to the end of her first lap of Prospect Park. She veered to the left of a slow-moving older couple just as Emma passed the pair on the right.

  “It’s the stress of the unknown. It always makes time seem longer.” Emma’s voice was thin and breathy. But to her credit, she didn’t ask Marilyn to stop before beginning their second lap.

  It was still early enough to be cool on this first Saturday in June. Marilyn’s gaze swept over the area. To the right, Prospect Park’s Eastern Parkway entrance was teeming with shoppers from the farmers’ market stands assembled just outside the park.

  Marilyn glanced at her watch. It was almost eight-thirty in the morning. In just over eleven hours, the Monarchs would play the seventh and final game of the Eastern Conference Championship. Would they return home winners and prepare for the long-anticipated finals? Or would they lose and begin their off-season? She wanted Warrick to get his championship ring, but what would that mean for them?

  She looked toward the Eastern Parkway entrance again. Almost four years ago this month, she’d met Warrick for the first time at the farmers market. They’d both completed their separate runs and were waiting to buy produce from one of the vendors. She hadn’t known who he was. He’d seemed amused—and pleased—by that fact.

  Marilyn called herself back to the present and her problems. “I haven’t even received one return phone call or e-mail in response to my job applications.”

  Emma panted. “You probably won’t, ei
ther.”

  Marilyn glanced at her friend. “Why not?”

  “Because no one wants to hire someone who’s tainted by scandal.” Emma sounded almost smug. “As long as you and Rick are together, you’ve got two choices.”

  “Which are?” Marilyn controlled her increasing agitation with an effort.

  “You can either end your career or start your own practice.”

  Cyclists flew past them on the trail. More serious runners sped by them. Marilyn veered to the left of two parents with their toddler triplets. Triplets. God bless them.

  “I’m not prepared to start a practice on my own right now.” Marilyn looked over her shoulder at the three small children moving forward on unsteady, chubby little legs. So cute.

  “Then you’re going to end your career?”

  Marilyn inhaled a deep breath in an effort to figure out what to say next. She and the other Monarchs Wives Club members had discussed this. “You sound happy about that, Em. Almost satisfied.”

  Emma shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve warned you since you and Rick started getting serious that his career would destroy yours. You wouldn’t listen to me.”

  Marilyn reined in her temper. “I’m trying to save my marriage and my career. I’d appreciate a little support from my best friend.”

  Emma looked at her in concern. “Are you sure you have a marriage to save?”

  The other Monarchs wives had told her she’d have to confront Emma. Marilyn had dreaded this moment. She feared the outcome. She stepped off the pedestrian path and turned to face the woman she’d called “friend” for fifteen years—through college, medical school, and residencies; boyfriends, breakups, makeups, and marriage. “Em, are you jealous of my marriage to Rick?”

  Emma’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “Jealous? Why would I be jealous of you and Rick?” But her friend wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “There’s no reason for you to be.” Marilyn led Emma farther across the park’s lawn. “But you’ve been criticizing our relationship since the day I told you he’d proposed. Why is that?”

  “He’s cheated on you.” Emma almost spat the words.

  Anger clouded Marilyn’s vision. “For the hundredth time, no, he hasn’t.”

  “You’re beautiful, intelligent, and successful. But that doesn’t inoculate you from lying, cheating men.”

  Marilyn searched the bitter glow in Emma’s green eyes. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat was stuck. “All of these years, Em, and I never realized how much you hated me.”

  “You never appreciated what you had.” Emma shoved her hands onto her hips. “You wanted to get away from your parents. You had wealth and prestige and you wanted to throw it away. I would have loved to have grown up in your family. I never would have left.”

  Talking with this Emma was like meeting a stranger. “You encouraged my applying to medical schools on the East Coast. You said you admired my independence.”

  “But marriage changed you.” Emma’s tone was a sneer. “You weren’t independent anymore. And you weren’t going to return to California.”

  “I made it clear before I left for medical school that I wasn’t returning to San Francisco.”

  Emma shrugged. “You could have changed your mind.”

  “But I didn’t.” Marilyn stared at Emma’s defiant expression. “Were we ever friends or did you just want to get in good with the Devrys’ daughter?”

  Emma nodded once. “We were friends before you became Rick’s wife and didn’t have time for me anymore. Didn’t I warn you he was going to break your heart?”

  “You’re the one who broke my heart, Em. You’d have done better to warn me about that.”

  A flicker of uncertainty moved across Emma’s round face. She shrugged her shoulders and checked her watch. “I guess this jog is over. I’m going home.”

  “Good-bye.” Marilyn inclined her head, too numb to think of anything else to say.

  She watched her former best friend forever turn and walk back toward Eastern Parkway.

  Emma merged with the crowd at the park’s entrance. With a heavy heart, Marilyn struggled to continue her second lap. This was the hardest summer of her personal life yet. But it wasn’t due to the heat. She was hanging on to her marriage by a thread. Her husband’s integrity was being publicly debated. She’d learned that her father had cheated on her mother, and the woman she’d considered her best friend since college had been pretending for all of these years.

  It was telling that, through it all, the one person who’d remained true to her was Warrick.

  18

  The Waves had figured out their offense. Warrick stood on the sidelines with his team. DeMarcus had called a time-out. The Monarchs had gone into the halftime with a thirteen-point lead and a silenced Marlon Burress. At that point, Warrick had hoped they’d win and return home Sunday as conference champions.

  Warrick lifted his gaze to the scoreboard, 108 to 105, Monarchs. One minute and eight seconds remained to the game. Too much time. At least he wasn’t in foul trouble.

  DeMarcus shouted to be heard above Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory” as it competed with the cheers of the Waves fans. “We can’t make any mistakes. You can’t give them the win.”

  “It’s as though they are reading our minds.” Serge smoothed back his dark blond hair, which hung in a damp ponytail behind his head. “They know what we’re going to do before we do it.”

  “We need to open the playbook.” Anthony tossed aside his towel.

  “We can’t.” Warrick shut down that option before it gained traction.

  He avoided looking at Jamal. The rookie’s tension spiked each time he was reminded the shortened playbook was for his benefit. Warrick didn’t want the young player’s confidence shaken on the court.

  DeMarcus pinned him with his coal black gaze. “Rick, you need to get into Burress’s head.”

  Warrick’s brows knitted. “How, Coach?”

  “You know Burress’s game better than anyone else.” DeMarcus was impatient. “You know him better than his mother.”

  Vincent clamped a hand around Warrick’s right arm. He gestured across the Waves’ arena, drawing Warrick’s attention to Burress. The Waves player stood with his team on the other side of the court. “Be Burress.”

  Warrick stilled. He understood what he needed to do. He’d always depended on physical ability and mental strategy to earn victories. Now he had to take his game to another dimension. He had to tap into a skill he’d never exploited before. His teammates needed it. His coach demanded it. But could he do it?

  The buzzer sounded.

  He was about to find out.

  Vincent inbounded the ball over the Waves’ Chad Erving. The game clock restarted. The shot clock counted down from twenty-four. Serge worked his way to the post. The Waves’ Jarrod Cheeks defended him. Jamal took the left perimeter as Walter Millbank followed him. Warrick made his way to the right perimeter. Burress covered him like body odor.

  Anthony couldn’t break free of the Waves’ Phillip Hawk. He tossed the ball to Warrick. Warrick used his back to block Burress. He stepped into the open lane and claimed the pass. Gripping the ball with his fingertips, he spun to face Burress. He stared into the other man’s fevered eyes. He gave the Waves’ point guard a small smile. It was a little amused and a bit mean. Burress’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

  That got your attention.

  Warrick would have powered through his defender on the inside for a run at the basket. Burress knew that. His body signaled he anticipated the move. But Warrick had gotten into Burress’s head. He’d read his thoughts and knew his intentions. Warrick dribbled once, feinted right, then danced a tightrope around Burress’s weak side. He sprang from the court. His jump shot rippled the net. Monarchs 110, Waves 105. Fifty-nine seconds left to the game.

  The Waves’ Erving claimed the ball. He advanced it up court at lightning pace. The Waves needed time to close the score.

  The Monarchs couldn’t allow that.


  Staying in character, Warrick channeled Burress’s trash-talking. “Everybody’s going to know my name tonight.”

  Burress cut Warrick a look, part surprise, part anger. “I doubt it. No one remembers second best.”

  Warrick laughed. He fed off the power of getting under the other man’s skin.

  From the sidelines, DeMarcus urged the Monarchs to a faster pace. Warrick played through the fire in his knees and the knots in his back. The Waves center pitched the ball to Walter Millbank. Jamal missed the block but pressured his man in the paint. Unable to take the shot, Millbank bounced it to Burress. Eighteen seconds remained on the shot clock, fifty-six seconds on the game clock.

  Warrick moved in hard on Burress, careful not to draw a foul. Funny how silent the Waves’ point guard became when he played offense. Burress feinted inside. Warrick anticipated the trickery. Quick as a thought, he blocked Burress on the outside. Burress stumbled but protected the possession. Fifteen seconds on the shot clock.

  Burress moved up to draw a charge. Warrick inched back to avoid the foul. He saw the exact instant when Burress realized he was mirroring him. Awareness dropped into his eyes, followed by anger. Warrick gave him the smile, part humor, part meanness. Burress came at him. Warrick planted his feet. Burress’s shoulder drove into his chest. Warrick allowed himself to fall to the court.

  The referee blew his whistle. “Offensive foul. Number thirty-two.” That was Burress’s third foul. Three more and the point guard would find himself on the bench. The tables were turning.

  The shot clock reset. The game clock drained to forty-seven seconds.

  Vincent extended a hand to help Warrick to his feet. The center didn’t say a word, but his brown eyes gleamed with laughter. Warrick inclined his head. He arched a brow at the now furious Burress, one more dig before ambling to the free throw line. Warrick bounced the ball three times for luck. The first shot dove through the net, accompanied by boos and catcalls from the Waves’ fanatics. The second shot wheeled around the rim before dropping into the basket.