by Regina Hart
The Waves’ Erving grabbed the ball. Vincent guarded him, trying to slow the pace.
And so the dance continued as the game clock wound down. Each time the Miami Waves scored, the Monarchs responded. Burress grew increasingly agitated by the mental game, sending Warrick to the free throw line twice more. He had one foul to give before he was benched.
Warrick came off the charity line. Monarchs 116, Waves 110. The shot clock turned off. The game clock restarted with eight seconds left. The Waves’ Millbank advanced the ball to Erving. The center took off up the court. The Monarchs couldn’t take the pressure off the other team. They had to play hard to the buzzer.
In his peripheral vision, Warrick monitored Vincent and Serge as they blocked their assignments from the basket. He guarded Burress in the paint, keeping his eyes on the ball. Five seconds on the game clock.
Warrick spread his arms wide. “Watch and learn.”
A muscle jumped in Burress’s jaw but he remained silent. He stepped back, preparing for a three-point shot. Warrick gave him just enough room—but not too much. Burress went high. Warrick jumped higher. He slapped the ball away. Anthony caught the rebound and flung it to Vincent. Two seconds on the game clock.
The Waves chased the Monarchs center to midcourt.
One second.
The buzzer sounded. The series was over. The Monarchs had won.
Warrick raised both fists into the air, threw his head back, and roared his joy. Jamal leaped onto him and they crashed to the ground, laughing and shouting. The Monarchs bench cleared and charged onto the court.
They’d won the series. They were the Eastern Conference Champions. They were going to the NBA finals. The quest for the ring continued.
Marilyn had screamed herself almost raw watching Warrick and the Monarchs win the Eastern Conference Championship. The title was the culmination of his dream. It also brought him that much closer to the NBA Championship ring and—hopefully—retirement.
She was dizzy with excitement. She should have watched the game with at least one other member of the Monarchs Wives Club so she could share these feelings with someone else. What were they doing now?
Marilyn reached for her cellular phone to call Peggy Coleman, but the local sportscaster’s words stayed her hand.
“We have in the studio with us tonight Jordan Hyatt, the alleged pregnant mistress of Monarchs’ forward Warrick Evans.”
Marilyn’s eyes shot back to the television to see the tall, thin anchor sitting beside the short, plump imposter. “Oh, my God. Are you kidding me?”
Jordan Hyatt’s round face was heavily made up, even for the television appearance. And sometime between her first press conference and tonight’s interview, she’d had wavy extensions added to her reddish brown hair. She looked like a different person. Who was she trying to be?
Marilyn fisted both hands in her lap and forced herself to watch the program. What did this fraud have to say?
The young man turned to his guest. “Jordan, what’s your reaction to the Monarchs winning the Eastern Conference Championship tonight?”
Marilyn’s jaw dropped. The media had sunk to a new low. It was obscene that the anchor should ask a woman pretending to be her husband’s mistress for her reaction to Warrick’s conference title. Never mind that Marilyn would never have agreed to the interview. Jordan Hyatt’s appearance on the local news program was highly inappropriate.
Jordan cocked her head flirtatiously and granted the former frat boy a shy smile. “I’m very happy for Ricky. I know this championship has been his dream for a very long time.” She touched her stomach and giggled. “And I’m happy for me and our baby as well. Our son—or daughter—will be very proud of his father.”
Marilyn blinked, then blinked again. “This can’t be happening. Am I actually seeing this?”
The sportscaster’s eyes dropped to Jordan’s stomach. “An NBA champion for a father. Who wouldn’t want that, right?”
Another giggle. Jordan petted her stomach. “Right.”
The anchor continued. “Jordan, there are people who think you’re not telling the truth about being Rick Evans’s mistress. What do you say to those people?”
Marilyn shouted toward the television. “She’s lying!” But, of course, the sportscaster didn’t hear her.
Jordan lowered her eyes, still stroking her stomach as though it were a poodle. “I’d say those people were very jealous people who envied my happiness with Ricky. Some people are so mean and unhappy themselves that they don’t want to see other people happy.”
Marilyn’s eyes stretched wide. “Is she unstable?”
The program’s host frowned. “But Rick Evans hasn’t acknowledged your relationship.”
Jordan giggled. Was that noise a nervous tick? “What do you expect Ricky to say, silly? He’s married. Of course he’s not going to admit to being in love with me when he’s still married.”
Marilyn blinked. “She’s unstable.”
The anchor looked nonplussed. “Well, if you knew he didn’t want his wife to know, why did you call a press conference to announce not only your relationship but your pregnancy?”
Jordan lifted her chin defiantly. “I’m not ashamed of our love.”
A wave of nausea washed over Marilyn. She swallowed back the bile.
The anchor waited but Jordan didn’t add anything. “Did you tell him you were going to call a press conference ?”
Jordan shook her head. “No.”
“Have you spoken with him since the press conference ?”
Again her fake curls bounced around her head and shoulders. “He’s been busy.”
The anchor looked nervous. Perhaps he’d finally realized the mistake he’d made in inviting this poser onto his program. Marilyn leaned forward, anxious to see the make-believe mistress and the so-called sportscaster fall flat on their faces.
The young man looked off camera before turning back to his guest. “What proof can you offer that you’re Rick Evans’s mistress much less that you’re carrying his child?”
A sly smile stretched across Jordan’s bright red lips. She looked at her host from under her false eyelashes. “Do you want to hear about his tattoo?”
Marilyn stiffened. What did she say?
“Rick Evans doesn’t have any tattoos.” The anchor tossed another desperate glance off camera.
Jordan straightened in her seat. “Yes, he does. It’s on his right hip.”
Blood drained from Marilyn’s head. How had she known that?
The anchor frowned. “Really?”
Jordan’s voice sounded so far away. “Yes. Really.”
The host leaned closer. “Are you sure?” His voice was a mixture of shock and sensationalism.
Jordan nodded. “I’ve seen it myself.”
The sportscaster looked uncertain for several seconds more. Jordan’s confident expression never wavered.
Finally, the young man grinned into the camera. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. And, of course, we’ll be watching the situation closely to keep you up to date on the developments.” He turned to Jordan. “We’d like to thank Jordan for coming into the studio tonight and graciously giving us some of her time.”
Marilyn’s muscles were heavy as she reached for the universal remote control. She turned off the television and the cable box, then slumped back into her sofa.
Jordan Hyatt knew about her husband’s tattoo. The one on his hip. The only one he had. Only Warrick, his doctor, and she knew of the tattoo.
How was it possible that Jordan Hyatt had seen it? Since Marilyn would never believe Warrick had shown it to her, someone else had to be involved. But who?
“Are you lost?” Warrick paused in front of Marlon Burress.
The Miami Waves star player was propped against the wall near the entrance to the visitors’ locker room. Marlon had lost the Eastern Conference Championship. But he still looked like a winner with his air of confidence and his double-breasted navy pinstriped
suit.
Marlon gave Warrick a half smile. “I deserved that.”
Warrick wasn’t amused. “What do you want?”
Marlon straightened from the wall. “To congratulate you. You played me hard. It was a good series.”
“Thanks.” Warrick didn’t want to like this guy.
Behind him, his teammates, coaches, and trainers filed out of the visitors’ locker room. He sensed their curiosity. In his peripheral vision, he noticed them lingering in the hallway behind him. A hand clamped onto his shoulder. Warrick looked around and met DeMarcus’s gaze.
His coach’s dark eyes pinned him. “All good?”
Warrick nodded. “Yes.”
DeMarcus extended his hand to his former teammate and longtime friend. “Good series, Marl.”
Marlon clasped DeMarcus’s hand. “Don’t embarrass me with the Nuggets.”
“Bus’s leaving soon.” DeMarcus gripped Warrick’s shoulder again before turning to leave. He nodded toward the other Monarchs. “Let’s go.”
Warrick started to follow them, but Marlon caught his arm. “I’m sorry about the trash-talking, man. Just trying to win by any means necessary.” Marlon offered his right hand. “But I crossed the line a couple of times. For that, I’m sorry.”
Warrick hesitated. It was the sincerity in Marlon’s dark eyes that made the difference. Warrick clasped his opponent’s right hand. “Don’t do it again.”
Marlon nodded as he released Warrick’s hand. “I think I learned my lesson.”
Warrick hoped so. He enjoyed the Monarchs divisional rivalry with the Miami Waves. But he could live without Marlon’s mind games. He stepped around Marlon on his way to the parking lot.
Marlon walked with him. “Listen, good luck against the Nuggets. You’re representing the Eastern Conference. Bring back the win.”
Warrick met his gaze. “We’ll do our best.”
They continued to the parking lot in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Security lights kept the night shadows at bay. The smell of the nearby Atlantic Ocean reminded him of the marina.
As they neared the bus, Marlon slapped his back. “I hear your wife’s a doctor.”
Warrick regarded his opponent with suspicion. He may have forgiven Marlon but that didn’t make them friends.
Marlon was oblivious to Warrick’s silence. “You’re lucky. She’ll be able to take care of all of your aches and pains when you retire.” Marlon laughed at his own joke, then turned with a wave. “Good luck. Go get your ring.”
Warrick watched Marlon walk to his car.
Retire.
Even when the Monarchs were at the bottom of the league, Warrick had never considered asking to be traded or retiring from the game. Now with his team battling to the top, the word retirement appeared with increasing frequency.
Sunday morning, Warrick let himself in through his back door. He was still groggy from the flight. “Mary?”
Warrick turned to secure the lock before crossing the kitchen in search of his wife. Was she waiting for him in the bedroom? Heat filled his body at the image.
He started down the hallway toward the staircase, carrying his travel bag with him. “Mary?”
“I’m in the family room.” Marilyn sounded strained.
Warrick found her sitting on the sofa staring at a darkened television screen. He settled his bag beside his feet. “What’s wrong?”
Marilyn stood, turning to face him. Her hair was tousled. Her silver Monarchs T-shirt and navy shorts looked slept in. “How does Jordan Hyatt know you have a tattoo on your right hip?”
Warrick’s muscles went lax. His right hand touched his hip. He’d gotten the tattoo shortly after he’d met Marilyn. It was a private matter. It wasn’t body paint. It wasn’t a fashion statement. It was a personal message, one he’d only confided to Marilyn. No one else. And only a select few had ever seen it.
“What makes you think she knows about it?” He struggled with a sense of betrayal. Who could have told this lying stranger about his tattoo?
“Last night, she appeared on a local news show that aired right after the game. She told the interviewer she’d seen it.” Marilyn gestured toward his hip.
Warrick winced. How many millions of people watched that show and now knew about his tattoo? “Did she describe it?”
Marilyn wrapped her arms around her waist. “No, but she knew where it was. How is that possible?”
“I have no idea.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you believe me?”
“Before last night, I thought the only people who knew you had a tattoo were me, your doctor, and the team trainers.” Her voice sounded brittle enough to break. “Then, Jordan Hyatt popped up on the news telling everyone not only does she know you have a tattoo, but she’s seen it.”
Warrick paced the gleaming hardwood floor on the edge of the family room. “I’ve never taken my clothes off for that woman. Before her press conference, I’d never even seen her.”
“Then how does she know about your tattoo?”
Warrick stopped midstride. “I can’t explain something I don’t understand myself.”
“She couldn’t have just guessed you had a tattoo on your hip.” Marilyn bit her bottom lip.
Warrick gave his wife a considering look. “Have you told anyone about it?”
Marilyn gaped at him. “Of course not. I respect your privacy too much to tell anyone your secrets.”
“Not even Emma?” He wouldn’t put it past Marilyn’s so-called friend to gossip about them.
“No one. I wouldn’t tell anyone.” She frowned. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Maybe one of the team trainers or your doctor.”
“They’ve all signed confidentiality agreements for the franchise.” Warrick’s tone was definite.
“Then how could Jordan Hyatt find out about it?”
Warrick faced his wife, knowing more than a room separated them. That knowledge was heartbreaking. “What are you accusing me of, Mary?”
Marilyn gaped at him. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”
Warrick resumed his pacing. “Yes, you are. Some delusional fan—or more likely a pathological liar—has made a false accusation about me and you’ve chosen to believe her.”
Four years ago, he thought he’d found someone who would always believe in him, unlike his parents, whom he could never seem to please. Today, that had changed because of a stranger’s words.
Marilyn dropped her arms. “Someone is trying to come between us.”
“Who?” He rubbed the small of his back through his dark gray polo shirt. The muscles there were tightening on him.
“That’s what we have to figure out.” Marilyn pulled her fingers through her hair. Her voice was packed with frustration.
Warrick gathered his courage to ask the question they’d both been dancing around. “Do you think I’ve cheated on you?”
Marilyn’s gaze wavered. “I don’t want to believe that.”
A large fist slowly crushed his heart. “There’s nothing more to say, then.”
Warrick reached for his bag. The twinge in his back was nothing compared to the pain in his chest. He left the family room and walked past the stairs back to the kitchen.
Marilyn’s voice came from behind him. “Where are you going?”
“I’m leaving. There’s nothing keeping me here anymore.”
Bare feet rushed across the hardwood floor. A hand tugged on his arm. Warrick turned to look down at his wife. He was looking at a stranger.
Marilyn’s eyes were panicked. “You can’t leave. We have to figure this out.”
“I can’t stay here, Mary. Not when you don’t trust me.” The pain in his chest throbbed like a burn. He couldn’t stand here, talking with her much longer.
“I do trust you.”
“Those are just words. Your eyes and your voice say something else.” Warrick tugged against her hold. “Just because I can’t answer your question doesn’t mean that I’m lying.”
“Rick, wait.”
He didn’t. He unlocked the kitchen door, then closed it gently behind him. He’d believed in them and their marriage, and tuned out everyone else. But Marilyn had let other people’s accusations poison their relationship. She’d listened to the fans who’d thought she wasn’t pretty enough to be a baller’s wife, the media who accused him and his teammates of a night of debauchery in Cleveland, and now a stranger who’d claimed to be his lover.
Warrick’s grip tightened on his steering wheel as he drove his BMW as far away from their Prospect Heights home as possible.
Marilyn had been right. She wasn’t suited to a marriage in the media spotlight. He’d been wrong to expect her to change.
19
If Marilyn had listened to one of the messages Andrea had left Monday morning, perhaps the reporter wouldn’t have shown up on her doorstep that afternoon. Marilyn dried her nose with the ragged facial tissue in her fist. She’d wanted to be left alone with her heartache, but obviously the reporter couldn’t be ignored. She opened the door and stepped back to let in her guest.
Andrea began speaking the moment she crossed the threshold. “I’m sorry to just show up on your doorstep, but you weren’t answering your phone.” She turned to face Marilyn. “I know ... What’s happened?”
Marilyn shook her head. Her face crumbled and she began to cry. Again. “Rick left me.” The words burned her throat.
“Oh, no.”
Maybe it was Andrea’s caring embrace. Or maybe it was her soothing voice. Whatever the trigger, Marilyn found herself crying even harder than she had last night. They were deep sobs that wracked every muscle in her body as they were torn from her soul. Her eyes were too swollen to see. She couldn’t think. She couldn’t speak. She could barely move.
Some minutes later, Marilyn found herself sitting beside Andrea on her thick coffee-colored sofa. “I’m sorry. I’ve been crying all morning.”
“There’s no need to apologize. That explains why you weren’t answering your phone.” Andrea dug into her large brown purse and produced a travel packet of facial tissues. “You can have those.”
