Keeping Score

by Regina Hart

  Frozen, Marilyn could only watch him. She’d come to bring her husband home. Instead he’d driven farther away.

  20

  “After a surprising game-one win Wednesday, the Monarchs took a loss tonight.” Kirk West of the New York Horn was barely visible in the throng of national and international reporters in the Denver Nuggets media room. “Did the Jordan Hyatt interview discussing your tattoo have anything to do with your poor performance?”

  “No.” Warrick stared down at the sports reporter from the podium in front of the stuffy, overcrowded room Friday.

  He’d known one of the reporters would ask that question during this postgame conference in Denver’s arena. The Monarchs had stunned the Nuggets on their home court during the first game of the NBA finals best-of-seven series Wednesday night. However, they’d failed to capitalize on that win tonight. Still the media spotlight remained on his bedroom.

  Troy Marshall stepped to the front of the room and waved an arm to claim the reporters’ attention. “Let’s limit the questions to what happened on the court tonight.”

  Kirk looked smug. “But last Saturday’s interview with Ms. Hyatt may have had something to do with what happened on the court.”

  “It didn’t.” Troy’s tone was clipped.

  A young female reporter toward the back of the room popped up from her chair. “Rick, how’s your marriage?”

  With an effort, Warrick held on to his patience. “I’m here to talk about basketball, tonight’s game in particular. Does anyone have any questions about that?”

  A graying gentleman with dark circles under his eyes pushed himself from his seat in one of the middle rows. “You seemed distracted tonight. What was on your mind?”

  All variations of the theme. “The game.” Warrick stepped away from the podium. Troy joined him as he left the room. “I’m not doing any more of those.”

  Troy tossed him a sympathetic look. “I’m sorry, Rick. But you have to do them. League rules.”

  Warrick’s muscles tensed as he strode with Troy down the hall toward the arena’s parking lot. “The rules don’t specify that I’m the one who has to talk with them.”

  “All right. We’ll let Marc handle them from now on.” Troy braced a hand on Warrick’s shoulder.

  The memory of his head coach during past postgame interviews tugged a smile from Warrick’s lips. “I don’t know who to feel sorry for, Coach or the media.”

  Troy’s tone was dry. “Pity the media. But they brought it on themselves.”

  Warrick chuckled. “Payback’s sweet.”

  The next morning, after the long, uncomfortable flight from Denver, Warrick made his way to the New York airport’s parking garage. Still groggy from the nonstop commercial flight, he searched for his car keys. Since he’d checked in to a hotel near the airport, at least he wouldn’t have far to drive.

  DeMarcus caught Warrick’s shoulder. “Could you give me a ride home?”

  Warrick stopped. A survey of the baggage area located Jaclyn exiting the terminal alone. “You usually ride with Jackie.”

  “I need to check on my father.”

  That still didn’t explain why he wasn’t riding with Jaclyn. DeMarcus’s body language was relaxed. His eye contact was direct. It didn’t seem as though the couple had argued. So why weren’t they driving home together? It wasn’t his business.

  “Sure, I’ll take you home.”

  DeMarcus fell into step beside him. “Thanks.”

  “No problem.” He wouldn’t think about the journey ahead, thirty minutes to DeMarcus’s house, then thirty minutes back to his hotel. So much for the convenient commute.

  In silence, he walked with DeMarcus to his black BMW. He deactivated the alarm and they tossed their suitcases into his trunk. “Which way?”

  DeMarcus circled the car to the passenger side. “Take the Jackie Robinson to Eastern Parkway.”

  Warrick made certain his coach was buckled in to his seat before exiting the garage and pointing his car toward the parkway. The four-door sedan felt a little smaller with the larger-than-life presence of the Mighty Guinn.

  A tense silence lasted the first few miles as Warrick drove out of Queens toward DeMarcus’s Park Slope, Brooklyn, neighborhood.

  Finally, DeMarcus spoke. “You were pretty quiet after the game last night.”

  Warrick kept his eyes on the road. Freeway traffic was heavy at nine o’clock on a Saturday morning. “Not much to say.”

  “Not much to say or no one to say it to?”

  Warrick didn’t answer that.

  DeMarcus continued. “You fought two teams to get to the finals—the Waves and your own.”

  Warrick couldn’t ignore that. “We’re playing like a team again. We lost last night, but the series is tied. Everything’s going to be fine.”

  “That’s because you wouldn’t let the other guys continue to shut you out of the team. You have a lot of heart.”

  Warrick felt DeMarcus’s eyes boring in to the side of his head. What did his coach expect him to say? “I don’t know about that.”

  “I do.” DeMarcus shifted in his seat. “When I played for the Waves and we were making our first championship run, the media turned their spotlight on me, just like they’re focusing on you now.”

  “I remember that.” Warrick shifted in his seat to ease the tightness in his back.

  DeMarcus looked away from Warrick. “My teammates tried to shut me out as well.”

  Surprise loosened the muscles in his upper body. “Even Marlon Burress?”

  DeMarcus chuckled. “No, not Marl. He was the only one who didn’t shun me.”

  “Why?” Warrick saw the grin that spread across DeMarcus’s face.

  “In his mind, Marl is always the center of attention.” There was affection in DeMarcus’s voice for his longtime friend and former teammate.

  Warrick smiled. “I can believe that.”

  DeMarcus sobered. “Like you, I wanted the title too much to let my teammates’ jealousy get in my way.

  Warrick checked his car’s mirrors and his blind spot before switching lanes. They were getting closer to the Eastern Parkway exit. “Why are you telling me this?”

  “I know what you’re going through.”

  Warrick caught the exit, then maneuvered the weekend traffic as he mulled over DeMarcus’s statement. Silence again settled in the car for several miles.

  “Turn right at the next light.” DeMarcus moved in his seat. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  Warrick checked traffic before switching lanes. “That the Mighty Guinn—three-time MVP, two-time NBA champion, and Olympic gold medalist—can understand what a mere mortal is going through?”

  “Sarcasm. That’s good.”

  “Sorry.” Warrick tossed out the word without conviction.

  “Sometimes I forget that you even have any emotions. You should show them more often.”

  Warrick glanced at his coach and found the other man watching him intently. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. You’re the leader of this team. If you play tight, the team will play tight.”

  Warrick’s grip tightened around the steering wheel. “You’re wrong. I’m not a leader.”

  “I didn’t think so at first, either. But I was wrong. You’re doing more harm than good by not accepting your role.”

  “It’s not my role to accept.” Warrick sat up to take some pressure off his back.

  “You’re in the role whether you’ve accepted it or not.” Several silent minutes later, DeMarcus waved a hand at the windshield. “Turn left at the next corner. It’s the house toward the middle of the block on the right. You and I are alike.”

  DeMarcus’s words dazed him.

  “How?” Warrick activated his left turn signal and waited for traffic to clear before easing onto DeMarcus’s street.

  “Neither of us was looking to be a leader. But we’ll do whatever it takes to get the W. That makes us leaders by default.” DeMarcus pointed toward his passen
ger window at a narrow brick house. “This is it.”

  Warrick found a parking spot two doors down from DeMarcus’s house. He turned off the engine and popped the trunk open. He climbed out of the driver’s seat and met DeMarcus at the back of the car.

  DeMarcus adjusted his travel bag’s strap onto his shoulder, then inclined his head toward Warrick’s trunk. “Grab your bag.”

  Warrick’s brow knitted with confusion. “Why?”

  DeMarcus gave him a direct stare. “You’re going to stay here until you patch things up with Mary.”

  Warrick hooked his hands on his hips. “Is that why you had me drive you home?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why the pretense?”

  DeMarcus met his stare. “Would you have come if I’d told you the truth?”

  Warrick didn’t have to consider his answer. “No.”

  “Jack didn’t think so.” He started toward his house, calling over his shoulder. “Get your bag and come on.”

  Warrick glared at his coach’s back, half tempted to lock his trunk and return to his airport hotel room. But it had been a long trip. He was tired and he didn’t like hotels. He grabbed his bag, shut his trunk, and activated his car alarm.

  Warrick followed DeMarcus up the staircase to the front door. “You talk about my wife interfering. That’s nothing compared to what you let Jackie talk you into.”

  DeMarcus’s response was a noncommittal grunt.

  Julian Guinn, DeMarcus’s father, must have been watching for them. He opened the door before DeMarcus even reached it.

  “Eastern Conference Champions.” Julian pronounced the title with relish. His voice was thick with pride and pleasure.

  Julian stepped aside, allowing both men to enter the house before pulling his son into a bear hug. “Good start to the finals, son.”

  DeMarcus returned his father’s grin. “Thanks, Pop.”

  Julian released DeMarcus. He slapped Warrick on the back, still beaming with a fan’s joy and pride. “Good game, son.”

  Warrick looked at the older man in surprise. A glow of pride warmed his skin and relaxed his tension. “Thank you, Mr. Guinn.”

  Julian chuckled. “I thought we’d agreed on Julian, Rick.”

  Warrick smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  “I knew the Monarchs had it in them.” Julian stepped back, apparently not interested in moving the NBA finals discussion from the front entrance of his turn-of-the-century home. “You know, I’ve watched you play since you were with the Rutgers Scarlet Knights.”

  DeMarcus set his travel bag on the gleaming hardwood floor. “Pop, Rick already heard this story during our play-off party.”

  Julian’s dark eyes, so like his son’s, still danced with excitement. “It’s my favorite story.” He turned to Warrick. “Never mind. We’ll have plenty of time to talk when Marc leaves.”

  “You’re leaving?” Warrick looked at DeMarcus. “How are you getting home?”

  “I’m driving him.” Jaclyn’s voice joined the conversation.

  Warrick looked up as the franchise owner crossed into the entranceway.

  Jaclyn stopped beside DeMarcus, taking her fiancé’s hand. “Don’t look at me that way. You think you have to do everything yourself. I knew you wouldn’t have accepted a more conventional invitation.”

  Warrick lowered his bag to the floor. “I appreciate your concern, but I’d already checked into a hotel.”

  “Isn’t this better?” Her voice was soft persuasion.

  Warrick looked from the concern in her bright eyes to Julian’s welcoming smile and DeMarcus’s watchful expression. They’d arranged to have him come here not because he needed a place to stay but because he needed a place to heal. They’d tricked him because they cared. “You’re right.”

  Jaclyn looked relieved. Her chin lifted to its normal cocky angle. “Aren’t I always?”

  “Oh, brother.” DeMarcus lifted Warrick’s bag to his shoulder. “Let me show you to the guest room before I throw up the handful of peanuts they served on the plane.”

  “Very funny.” Jaclyn’s sarcasm followed them upstairs.

  DeMarcus took him to the guest room. He deposited Warrick’s suitcase at the foot of the bed. “I’ve never slept in here, but I’m sure you’ll be comfortable.”

  Warrick stood awkwardly with his arms at his sides. “Thanks, man.” The words didn’t seem expressive enough. “I mean it.”

  DeMarcus slapped his arm. “You’re more than a valued member of the Monarchs. You’re a friend.”

  He gave Warrick a quick tour of the top floor before leading him back downstairs. Jaclyn and Julian stood as he and DeMarcus entered the study.

  Jaclyn went to DeMarcus. “Are you ready?”

  “Yes.” DeMarcus hugged his father. “See you later, Pop.”

  “Drive carefully and congratulations again.” Julian released his son to give Jaclyn a hug and a kiss. “Take care of my boy.”

  Jaclyn smiled. “Always.” She turned to kiss Warrick’s cheek. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “Bright and early.” Warrick hugged her tight. “Thanks.”

  Jaclyn returned his embrace. “What are friends for?”

  Warrick’s tension was easing. It was as though a pressure had been lifted from his chest and shoulders. He’d felt on the outside for so long—outside his marriage, outside his team. He hadn’t realized the toll that was taking on him, heart and soul.

  Julian returned from escorting DeMarcus and Jaclyn to the front door.

  Warrick faced him. “Mr. Guinn—Julian—thank you for letting me stay in your home.” For how long was anyone’s guess.

  Julian waved a hand. “You’re welcome, Rick. There’s more than enough room for the two of us. Stay as long as you’d like.”

  Warrick crossed to the study’s bay window. “I don’t know how long it will take for Mary and me to work things out.” Or even if we can.

  “Marriages go through periods of adjustment.” Julian’s voice carried from across the room. “Being a celebrity, you have a marriage with more to adjust to than most.”

  Warrick crossed his arms as he contemplated the quiet Park Slope neighborhood outside. “It shouldn’t matter what other people say or write about us. It’s our marriage—Mary’s and mine. We’re the only people who should matter.”

  “That’s true, in a typical marriage. But your marriage isn’t typical, is it?”

  Warrick considered the other man’s question. Behind him, he heard Julian moving around.

  “Can you cook?”

  Warrick wandered away from the view. “A little.”

  “How about bake?”

  Warrick shook his head. “Sorry.”

  Julian’s disappointed expression quickly brightened. “I still have some of Althea’s cookies left. Come on.”

  Warrick followed Julian down the hallway toward his kitchen. He’d known DeMarcus’s father was dating Althea Gentry, Jaclyn’s administrative assistant. But he hadn’t realized the older woman could bake.

  Julian fished the plastic bowl of homemade cookies from a kitchen cupboard and put it in the center of the table. “Marriage is a union that involves two individuals who are growing and changing. Sometimes, you grow together. But sometimes you grow apart.”

  Was that what was happening to him and Marilyn? Were they growing apart?

  Warrick chose a cookie from the container. “How do you know which one it is?”

  “You don’t, at least not right away. It may feel as though you and Mary are growing apart, but be patient.” Julian paused as he filled two glasses with milk and carried them to the table. “Between the NBA finals, Mary losing her job, and the two of you living in a media storm, emotions are running high.”

  Warrick caught and held the older man’s gaze. “I want you to know that I have never and would never cheat on my wife.”

  Julian sat across the table from Warrick and offered him one of the glasses. “You don’t need to explain anything to me.”
/>   Warrick took a sip from his glass of milk. The cool drink eased his dry throat. “It’s important to me that you don’t think I’m a womanizer.”

  “I don’t.” Julian sipped his milk. “For the most part, the press left Marc alone when he played for the Miami Waves. He was single, but his social life wasn’t interesting enough for them. Still, I know the media can distort a person’s image so much that even their families don’t recognize them.”

  Warrick stared into his glass. “I wish my family had realized that.”

  “Go easy on them, Rick. This situation is hard on everyone.” Julian washed down a bite of cookie with a swig of milk. “I’ll say this for your Mary, though. There are a lot of women who would have left the minute Jordan Hyatt stepped onto the scene. But your Mary stood beside you. She really does believe in you, Rick.”

  Warrick considered Julian’s words. Marilyn had stood by him. She’d even tried to help him discredit the other woman. She’d never doubted him, never questioned him—until Jordan Hyatt told New York about his tattoo. Was he being unfair just because she was asking questions now?

  21

  Faye Ryland walked into Marilyn’s home and rested her hand on her shoulder. “Girl, you look like shit.”

  Peggy and Susan joined the other woman in the entryway. They didn’t echo Faye’s sentiment, but their expressions told Marilyn they agreed. She turned to close her front door, ignoring the lone photographer who slouched against the tree in front of her home, taking pictures. She secured the lock, then led her unexpected guests into her family room.

  Peggy lowered herself into one of the two overstuffed coffee-colored armchairs. She smoothed her turquoise and silver maternity dress around her. “Susan told us you’d called to say you couldn’t make today’s meeting, so we brought the meeting to you.”

  Marilyn wrapped her arms around her waist. Warrick’s worn black Monarchs T-shirt was soft in her fists. “I appreciate your concern, but I’m not really up to company.”

  Susan wandered the room. Her four-inch red stiletto heels tapped the polished maple flooring. In her flowing crimson top and black yoga pants, she was a dramatic figure in front of the white stone fireplace. She paused to study the framed photos arranged on the blond wood mantel.