Keeping Score

by Regina Hart

  Finally, the words returned to her and she began her amateur performance. Marilyn gripped the handrail for balance as she descended the steps in the four-inch heels of her boots. With each unsure step, her voice shook, carrying her farther off key. She’d been right. No good could come from the purchase of these outrageous boots. But Warrick’s reaction made it worthwhile. His expression eased from stunned to confused to amused.

  Marilyn ignored the flashing lights and buzzing cameras she’d known would follow Warrick from the parking lot. Instead, she focused on her husband as she wobbled her way to him—physically and vocally.

  She’d reached the chorus where she insisted he was the one she wanted. Barely an arm’s length from him, Marilyn stumbled in the high, thin heels and fell against his chest. Warrick caught her to him before he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

  It took him a while to catch his breath. Warrick rested his forehead against hers and whispered her name. “Mary?”

  “Yes, Rick?” Beneath her fingertips, his muscles still shook with laughter; muscles she looked forward to exploring later.

  “That was the worst Olivia Newton-John impersonation I’ve ever heard.”

  Marilyn grinned. “I suppose it was.”

  Warrick lifted his head. “What are you doing here? You’ve never traveled to an away game before.”

  “I came to wish you luck.”

  Warrick smiled. “Why would I need luck? You already guaranteed Monarchs fans the championship title during your press conference Friday.”

  Marilyn’s cheeks warmed. “You saw that?”

  He pulled her even closer and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “You were great.”

  Marilyn cupped his cheek with her hand. “I know how important this title is for you. I want you to get it this season. But if you don’t, there’s always next season or the season after that.”

  He grinned. “Let’s take it one season at a time.”

  His midnight eyes darkened as he lowered his head to cover her mouth with his. Marilyn forgot the cameras. Apparently, so did Warrick. As his lips pressed against hers, Marilyn’s blood rushed through her veins. Her toes curled in her thigh-high boots. She’d been too long without his kisses. His taste, his touch, his scent transported her to their own private island. Marilyn pressed her fingertips into his muscled shoulders and tried to move closer to him.

  “Get a room!”

  She blinked as Warrick lifted his head. Marilyn looked around in time to see Jamal Ward toss back his head and laugh as he walked past them and the busy cameras. She stepped back—and lost her balance in her heels.

  Warrick’s arms shot out. He caught her around her waist and held her tightly. “Are you all right?”

  “I think so.” She grinned up at him. “Another benefit of being married to a professional athlete. His cat-like reflexes.”

  His smile chased away his frown. “May I kiss you again?” His voice was low and smooth, seeping into her skin.

  She raised her head. “As long as we keep our clothes on.”

  He drew her closer. This kiss was soft and warm. The buzzing went crazy as the cameras caught their embrace. Too soon, they drew apart, slowly, reluctantly.

  Warrick cleared his throat. “I’ll see you after the game.”

  “You’ll see me before that if you look into the visiting owner’s suite. Jackie invited the Monarchs Wives Club to watch the game with her.”

  He nodded toward her boots. “Are you sure you can walk in those things?”

  “Of course.” She turned to leave. After three steps, she wobbled again. “I’m all right.” She waved over her shoulder, then continued more slowly.

  Marilyn glanced at her watch. The game would start in four hours. She should be able to get to the booth by then.

  The Monarchs hadn’t come to play. They’d come to win. The Denver Nuggets weren’t making it easy for them, though. But then neither had the Cleveland Cavaliers, the New York Knicks, or the Miami Waves.

  By halftime of game five, the Monarchs had scraped and battled to an 8-point lead, 87 to 79. As they’d returned to Vom Two, the tunnel to the visiting team’s locker room, the Nuggets’ arena had rocked with approval from the Monarchs’ fans who’d come to the Pepsi Center. It had sounded like a Monarchs’ home game.

  But the Nuggets had made strategic adjustments during the half, including a decision to be more aggressive than they’d been all series. Now, three minutes into the third quarter, the Nuggets were assaulting the Monarchs’ 8-point spread. Warrick and his teammates were left with a tenuous 3-point lead, 91 to 88. And Jamal picked up his third foul.

  Warrick jogged back up court with the hotheaded rookie. “No more fouls.”

  Jamal seemed ready to argue, but must have noticed Warrick’s no-nonsense glare. “All right. Sofa play?”

  Warrick nodded. “Go.”

  Jamal found his position at the left perimeter. The Nuggets’ Jordan Hamilton joined him. Warrick moved into the paint with Denver’s Kenyon Martin. The Nuggets’ Danilo Gallinari followed Serge to the post. Gary Forbes dogged Anthony’s steps to the right perimeter. Melvin Ely guarded Vincent as he advanced the ball up court. Vincent crossed over, passing the ball to Anthony. Forbes moved in. Anthony shook free, pitching the ball to Jamal.

  Jamal reached for the ball, keeping Denver’s Hamilton at arm’s length. Hamilton flung forward, chopping Jamal’s forearm and making him drop the ball. The referee whistled the foul.

  Jamal straightened, vibrating with fury. He stepped to his defender.

  Warrick moved between them. He settled a firm hand on the rookie’s shoulder. “No fouls. Take the shots.”

  Jamal’s dark eyes glowed with anger. Still, he nodded his understanding. Three more penalties and the hotheaded rookie would be supporting his teammates from the sidelines with Barron Douglas, their team captain who’d come to Denver despite being on the Injured List.

  Jamal missed both free throws. Undoubtedly, that was the reason Denver wasn’t afraid to foul him. They knew his free-throw shooting percentage was pitiful.

  The Monarchs battled back and forth with the Nuggets for the rest of the third quarter and into the fourth. With less than two minutes to the game, Denver stole the lead with a series of lucky three-point shots by Forbes. Panic was settling in. Warrick saw it in his teammates. He sensed it in himself. They had to regain control of the game. But Denver wouldn’t fade into the night. The Monarchs were going for the win and the championship title. Denver was fighting for survival in the form of a sixth game.

  Denver’s Gallinari shot a 2-point basket. Nuggets 103, Monarchs 99. One minute and seventeen seconds left to the game. Anthony recovered the ball. The shot clock counted down from twenty-four seconds. Anthony flung the ball to Vincent, who advanced it past midcourt. Twenty-two seconds on the shot clock.

  Warrick clapped his hands. “Slow it down. Slow it down.” They needed to play their game, not get swept up in the Nuggets’ speed.

  The Monarchs set up the Table Play, clearing Anthony to take the shot. Anthony dribbled twice, spinning around Gallinari. Eighteen seconds on the shot clock. Gallinari leaped with Anthony, colliding with the Monarchs’ forward. Anthony came down awkwardly, landing on his knee.

  Warrick stiffened. His teammates froze. He sensed their collective horror as Anthony writhed in agony on the hardwood court. From a distance, the referee’s whistle sounded. The noise freed Warrick from his spell.

  He jogged forward, reaching Anthony’s side as the trainers did. “Hold still, Tony. Hold still.”

  “My knee, Rick. Oh, my God, my knee.”

  “They’ll take care of you, Tony. Hold still.” Warrick rose to his feet.

  He watched the trainers help Anthony from the court. Warrick felt his teammate’s pain as though it were his own. Pain, frustration, disappointment.

  And rage.

  Warrick turned toward Gallinari. The other man was jogging toward the Nuggets’ sideline.

  “Let it go
.” Vincent grabbed his arm. “It was an accident.”

  He glanced at Vincent, then looked around for the visiting owner’s suite. Warrick could barely make out Marilyn as she stood with the other Monarchs Wives Club members and Jaclyn. She raised her hand and his tension eased. Warrick followed Vincent to their sideline.

  “What are we going to do now? They took out Tony. What are we going to do?” Jamal’s voice was shrill with panic.

  “Calm down.” DeMarcus shot the order like a bullet. “Roger.”

  Roger Harris, whose pregnant girlfriend was in the visiting owner’s suite with Warrick’s wife, shrugged off his jacket before coming forward.

  Jamal gaped. “Roger hasn’t played since the first half, Coach. It’s going to take him a minute to warm up.”

  “He has thirty seconds.” DeMarcus was grim. “Rick, take Tony’s free throws. Make them. We’re down by four. There’s seventy-one seconds on the clock. Manage the game.”

  Warrick hooked his hands on his hips. “We’re playing tight.”

  DeMarcus frowned. “What do you suggest?”

  Warrick looked across the court at the Nuggets. They were a younger team. But where Denver had speed and endurance, Brooklyn had heart.

  He challenged his teammates with a grin. “Let’s have some fun.”

  Vincent nodded. “We’ve got your back, Rick.”

  Jamal’s eyes lit up. “Take us home, Superstar.”

  The referee whistled the game back in. Warrick took to the free throw line and made both baskets. Nuggets 103, Monarchs 101. One minute and eleven seconds.

  The Nuggets’ Ely took possession of the ball. The shot clock reset. Ely jogged down court. Vincent guarded him close. He bent his knees and spread his arms wide. Ely advanced midcourt. He kicked the ball to Martin. Warrick stepped into the open lane and plucked the ball midair. He blew by Martin and Ely. In his peripheral vision, he tagged Jamal on his right and sent the rookie a no-look pass. Jamal stuffed the basket to tie the game at 103 with one minute on the game clock.

  The Monarchs never looked back.

  They kept just ahead of the Nuggets, 111 to 109. The game clock drew down to twelve seconds and the final possession of the game. The Nuggets’ Ely sprinted up court. The shot clock turned off. The Monarchs set up the triangle defense, luring him deeper into the paint—keeping the Nuggets away from the perimeter and a three-point shot that would win them the game.

  Ely pitched the ball to Gallinari, who spun toward the net for the fade away. Serge sprang into the air and rejected the shot. Nuggets fans wailed their dismay.

  Jamal picked up possession.

  Nine seconds.

  “Table!” Warrick shouted.

  Jamal hesitated before heaving the ball to a wide-open Roger, who’d replaced Anthony. Roger flew down court. The Nuggets’ Forbes closed in from behind.

  Seven seconds on the clock.

  The Monarchs hustled across the hardwood. Forbes stretched forward and slapped the ball from Roger. Monarchs fans screamed.

  Denver’s Gallinari claimed the ball on a bounce. He pivoted on one leg and sent it back to Martin. Warrick ignored his swelling knees. He slid into the lane. His right arm shot out, stealing the ball inches from the Nuggets’ Martin.

  Four seconds on the clock.

  Warrick steadied himself. He dribbled once and stepped up to the perimeter line.

  Two seconds on the clock. The arena silenced. The air stilled. His vision narrowed to the net.

  Warrick held his breath, leaped into the air, and sent a rainbow to the basket. The buzzer sounded as the ball reached its highest arc. Its echo held on as the ball descended and slipped inside the rim. Three points. Nothing but net.

  Monarchs 114, Nuggets 109.

  Warrick released his breath and sank to his knees.

  The Monarchs’ bench cleared, sweeping DeMarcus along and raising him to their shoulders. Serge and Jamal raised Warrick from the court and settled him onto their shoulders. Warrick threw back his head and laughed. Confetti fell from the rafters. Balloons lifted to the ceiling. The sound system blared Lady Gaga’s “Glory.”

  Warrick raised his gaze to the visiting owner’s suite. Inside, Jaclyn, Julian, Althea, and the Monarchs Wives Club were dancing and jumping around. Marilyn blew kisses through the glass.

  The Monarchs were National Basketball Association Champions. Warrick raised his fists and roared in victory.

  “Why do they keep playing that video?” Marilyn wiggled closer to Warrick as they lay together in the hotel bed. She buried her face in his bare chest to avoid watching the third replay of her Olivia Newton-John impersonation on the news. Her body warmed again as she inhaled his scent, sex and sandalwood.

  Warrick’s chest shook with laughter. The hair on his skin tickled her nose. “Are you kidding me? I want a copy of this tape. It’s great!”

  “I sound horrible!”

  “I know!”

  “Thanks a lot.” Marilyn swatted him. Her hand probably stung more than his shoulder.

  Still chuckling, Warrick tucked her closer to him. “Seriously, what possessed you to do that? You must have known the cameras would eat it up.”

  Marilyn drew back to meet his gaze. “I didn’t care that the media was watching or that I can’t carry a tune to save my life. I had a point to make.”

  His smile faded. With a gentle touch he brushed her curls away from her face. “What was your point?”

  Marilyn swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. This was so important. “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for all of my life. If being with you—being Dr. Marilyn Devry-Evans—means living in the media’s spotlight, then so be it.” She would never again be foolish enough to let him go.

  Warrick wrapped her in his arms, burying his face in the curve of her neck. “I think I can learn to love Grease.”

  Marilyn laughed in his embrace. “No, you can’t. Be real.”

  Warrick pulled away. “I love you, Mary.”

  Marilyn closed her eyes briefly to count her blessings, then met his gaze. “I love you, too. You were right when you said our marriage is between us. I never should have listened to my parents, Em, or anyone else.”

  Warrick stroked a hand across her left arm. “But you didn’t. You believed in me despite all the media scandals, even though I’m sure they were telling you to leave.”

  Marilyn shook her head. “It was the tattoo that almost did us in. I still can’t believe the trouble those photos caused.”

  Warrick broke the brief silence. “Jordan Hyatt’s statement didn’t explain why she made up that story about an affair between us.”

  “Her mother told me.”

  “What?” Warrick pulled back again.

  “We met for drinks.” Marilyn nodded, studying Warrick’s stunned expression. “Apparently, Jordan has had a crush on you since you played at Rutgers. She had a couple of classes with you. Those photos of you on the Internet must have sent her over the edge.”

  Warrick frowned. “That’s disturbing.”

  Marilyn gave him a quick kiss. “I’ll protect you.”

  “Is that why you did the press conference? To protect me?”

  Marilyn was shaking her head before his last question. “I did the press conference to put the media on notice that they weren’t going to break us apart, and also to prove that I can handle them.... I can handle anything as long as we’re together.”

  Warrick traced a finger across her cheek. “I’m glad, because I can’t imagine my life without you.”

  Marilyn cupped the side of his face and loved him with her eyes. “You never needed the NBA Championship ring. From the day we first met, you’ve always been my champion.”

  Warrick closed what little distance separated them. He lowered his mouth to hers and Marilyn tasted victory.

  If you enjoyed Keeping Score,

  don’t miss Regina Hart’s

  Smooth Play

  Available wherever books are sold

  1


  Troy Marshall needed a plan. But when the Brooklyn Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing had read the Twitter message that the professional basketball team’s captain was drinking heavily at this trendy Brooklyn nightclub, he hadn’t stopped to think. He’d simply reacted.

  He navigated the hot, smoky space past the sweaty, gyrating bodies in the darkened downtown club. The bass of a popular urban song pounded in his chest, echoing his heartbeat.

  Memories of his own club-hopping years came back to him. Another lifetime, another world. Who had he been and what had he been hoping to prove? Trying to hold on to an image and a lifestyle he’d lost.

  Troy mounted the stairs to the club’s VIP floor. Two mountains masquerading as men secured the perimeter of the team captain’s private section. Their stony stares dared him to approach them. Before Troy could introduce himself, Barron Douglas’s voice defused the standoff.

  “He’s OK.” The Monarchs’ captain shouted his grudging approval above the driving beat of the club music. His voice was slurred.

  Troy’s irritation rose. Shit. There were a lot of places he’d rather be at two o’clock on a weekday morning. Like home. In bed. Preferably with a warm and willing female. He’d leave that thought alone for now. He watched impatiently as Kilimanjaro on his left unhooked the purple velvet rope barrier to allow him into Barron’s inner circle. He nodded to the large security guard as he walked through.

  One of the women stood, separating herself from the pack. She moved toward him with practiced sensuality. Her stilettos’ thin heels spotted her an extra five inches. The silver satin of her stingy dress wrapped her generous curves and shimmered against her brown skin. Even in the club’s dim lights, Troy could see the avarice in her dark eyes.