Keeping Score

by Regina Hart

  Kirk’s sharp blue gaze dissected him. “Rumor has it that you and your wife are separated. How is that affecting your game?”

  Warrick shot a look at Troy. This interview was going to help the team with publicity? How?

  He gave Kirk a stony stare. “Are you a sports reporter or a gossip columnist? The lines are blurring.”

  Kirk’s cheeks darkened with an angry blush. “Fans are paying a lot of money to watch you play. They have a right to know whether you’re going to give them one hundred percent on the court or if you’re going to be distracted.”

  “Is that the fans’ question or yours?” Warrick truly wanted to know.

  Troy rested a hand on Warrick’s shoulder but kept his gaze on Kirk. “Questions about Rick’s personal life don’t belong in this interview. You know that, Kirk. When the Monarchs are on the court, it’s all about the game. That’s what you can tell the fans.”

  Warrick’s muscles relaxed. He’d been angrier than he’d realized. Troy’s support went a long way toward defusing his temper.

  Kirk looked at Troy. “The fans are already asking what happened to Rick’s game. He’s the one who carried the team to the play-offs.”

  Irritation surged through Warrick. “There are thirteen Monarchs. It took every one of us to get to the conference championship. Put that in your article.”

  Kirk pressed the tip of his pen against the blank page. “But if Marc Guinn hadn’t benched Barron Douglas in favor of playing you, the Monarchs would have lost their final game of the regular season and missed the play-offs.”

  “You’re speculating.” Warrick frowned.

  Kirk gestured with his pen. “It’s not speculation that, when you have a good game, the team wins, and when you don’t, they lose.”

  Warrick shook his head. “You can say that about all of us—Vinny’s rebounds, Serge’s jumpers, Tony’s assists. It’s simple mathematics. When we score more points than the other team, we win.”

  Kirk narrowed his eyes. “Why are you reluctant to admit that, with Barron on the bench, you’re the team’s de facto leader?”

  Warrick swallowed a sigh. When will this ordeal be over? “Not having Barron on the court with us is a great loss for the team. No one can fill his role.”

  Kirk lowered his pen. “Why won’t you accept the team’s leadership role? Are you afraid of the responsibility ?”

  The reporter was baiting him. And it was working. “Why are you determined to single out one player? Is it too much work to interview all of us?”

  “Rick.” Troy’s warning tone reminded Warrick not to push the media too far. Fair or not, they always had the final word.

  Kirk’s thin face flushed to the roots of his blond hair. His blue eyes narrowed. “I’ve interviewed the key players of all thirty NBA teams. Your chemistry is what makes the difference for the Monarchs.”

  Warrick leaned back in his seat. “We don’t have individual stars. We play as a team. That’s what we’re going to have to do to earn the title.” He couldn’t have the media singling him out continually. It was causing dissension in the team.

  Kirk arched a brow. “Well, since you aren’t interested in individual accolades, I guess it doesn’t bother you that you were passed over for Defensive Player of the Year or that your name hasn’t been mentioned for Most Valuable Player. You’re probably used to being passed over for recognition in the league.”

  Warrick kept his features controlled. He pushed back from the table and stood. “I have a game to prepare for.”

  He didn’t look back. He didn’t say another word. Warrick crossed to the door and left the room.

  He couldn’t have cared less for individual accolades. What he was after was his team’s support. Twelve years ago, the franchise had drafted him to bring home the NBA Championship trophy. With each passing season, the fans and his teammates had lost faith in him. And he’d failed to impress his head coaches.

  Yes, the reporter had struck a nerve. Why would he expect the league to present him with honors and awards when the Monarchs and their fans didn’t believe in him?

  Marilyn jerked awake at the telephone’s sudden shrieks. Who was calling so early on a Sunday morning? Was Warrick all right? Was it one of her patients? What time was it?

  She grabbed the receiver for answers. “Hello?”

  “Did you see today’s paper?” Celeste Devry’s tone was disapproving. That wasn’t unusual.

  Marilyn wilted with relief, then tried to focus on her mother’s question. “I haven’t seen the day.”

  “Don’t be smart, Marilyn.”

  The green digits of the radio alarm clock beside the phone read three-twelve. On Sunday morning. Was her mother kidding?

  Marilyn closed her eyes. “What are you doing up? It’s after midnight over there.”

  She refused to believe her mother was already dressed with her hair perfectly arranged and cosmetics flawlessly applied. At this hour, that was too much to expect, even for Celeste Devry.

  “Have you seen the article in the New York Horn about Rick?”

  Marilyn opened her eyes and frowned toward the ceiling in the dark. “You live in San Francisco. How did you get a copy of the New York Horn?” Why would she get a copy of the New York Horn?

  “We don’t get that paper. We read the article online. It was posted at three A.M. THAT’S MIDNIGHT OUR TIME.”

  “That’s three A.M. MY TIME, MOTHER.”

  “After the media reported that whole bar-hopping business with Rick last month, your father and I got one of those Google message alert services for Rick’s name.”

  Her mother had to be kidding.

  Marilyn closed her eyes again. “I’m not interested in what the media have to say about my husband.”

  The article couldn’t be that bad. The Monarchs had won the game in Miami last night. Warrick was coming home this morning. Her heart leapt with anticipation—then stilled. He was returning to Brooklyn, but not to their home. She’d moved back in and he’d offered to make other living arrangements. Where would he stay?

  “You should be concerned.” Celeste’s tone carried a bite. “They’re blaming you for Rick’s poor performance Thursday night.”

  Marilyn’s eyes shot open. She sat up in her king-sized bed. “How am I at fault?”

  “They’re saying your separation is a distraction for him.” Celeste made a tutting sound. “This is outrageous, Marilyn. The media are speculating on your marriage. This can’t be allowed to continue.”

  Marilyn pinched the bridge of her nose. “We can’t stop them. The press will print whatever they want, whenever they want, regardless of whether it’s true.”

  “These personal attacks aren’t hurting only you. They’re damaging the Devry name. We can’t allow these smears to our reputation to go unchallenged.” Celeste spoke with increasing anger.

  “They aren’t attacking you, Mother. They’re aiming at me.”

  “You’re a Devry. By targeting you, they’re attacking the whole family.”

  Her mother was trying to make her feel guilty. It was working. “I’m sorry you feel that the entire family is under assault. But I’m afraid there isn’t anything we can do to prevent the media from writing these stories.”

  Celeste’s sigh was dramatic in its weight. “Your father and I warned you that marrying Rick was a mistake. What is a ‘professional athlete’? He plays a game for a living, for pity’s sake. How can he be expected to take anything seriously?”

  Marilyn bristled at the attack against her husband. “This isn’t Rick’s fault. He didn’t ask the press to badger him.”

  “He should take responsibility for his own shortcomings instead of trying to blame you. He plays basketball. All he has to do is put a ball through a basket. How hard could that be?”

  Celeste Margot Whittingly Devry had probably never touched a basketball in her entire life. What qualified her to judge Warrick or his career?

  Marilyn drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Is
Rick quoted as blaming me for having a bad game?”

  “How am I supposed to know what he said?” Her mother’s response was indignant.

  Marilyn held on to her patience. “You read the article. I doubt he said anything about me. Rick doesn’t want the media discussing his personal life any more than I do.”

  “Then tell these reporters to stop.”

  “They won’t listen to us.” Marilyn enunciated every word in an effort to help her mother understand. “They believe these stories sell papers. They think this is what the public wants to read.”

  Celeste emitted a short, harsh breath. “Well, if you won’t stop them, your father and I will.”

  Marilyn squeezed her eyes shut and did a rapid ten count. “What are you going to do, Mother? You and Father don’t subscribe to the Horn. You aren’t advertisers. Are you going to buy the paper, then shut it down?” She could envision them doing that.

  “No. We’ll sue them.”

  Marilyn tightened her grip on the telephone receiver. “Don’t do that.”

  Celeste sniffed. “Why not? You and Rick may be afraid of the media, but I’m not. They should fear me.”

  Save me from bossy, arrogant parents who believe the world should live in dread of them.

  Marilyn pursed her lips. This wasn’t a conversation she needed to have. Not at three o’clock on a Sunday morning. Not before her first cup of coffee. Not. Ever.

  “Mother, what do you think would happen if you sued the Horn?”

  “They would stop printing this nonsense.”

  “You’re wrong—”

  “Don’t take that tone with me, Marilyn Louise Devry-Evans. I’m still your mother.”

  Marilyn closed her eyes and strained for patience. “I apologize. But I need you to understand that a lawsuit against the newspaper for printing articles about Rick written in good faith will only make the situation worse. It will draw even more unwanted attention to us.”

  Celeste made another tutting sound. “Am I supposed to just sit here on my hands like you and Rick are doing?”

  “I’m certain that, if the article is as bad as you say it is—”

  “You don’t believe me?”

  Marilyn gritted her teeth. “I’m not saying that, Mother. But I’m certain Rick has already discussed it with the Monarchs’ media executive.”

  The silence dragged on longer than Marilyn thought was necessary. She could hear lowered voices in the background. Were her parents conferring over whether to respect her wishes on how to handle the media? That was so unfair. Did she direct her mother’s promotional efforts for her philanthropic campaigns? Or tell her father how to brand his investment firm? Why did her parents think they had better insight into her marriage and Warrick’s career than she and Warrick did?

  Her mother’s voice was grudging when she finally responded. “We’ll give you one more chance. If these articles continue, we’ll handle the matter our way.”

  Like hell they would. “If it’s the damage to the Devry name that’s causing you such concern, I’ll just stop using it.”

  Marilyn recradled the receiver with restraint. It was almost half past three in the morning. The room was still dark, but she couldn’t go back to sleep—not because of the media but because of her parents. They made her feel as if she were sixteen years old and needed permission to date the neighborhood bad boy.

  No, she definitely wouldn’t be going back to sleep. Marilyn swung her legs over the side of the bed. She glowered at the phone. Yes, she was sixteen again. Her parents were telling her what to do, and her friends were telling her who to date. Warrick was the only one encouraging her to be herself. But could she be herself if she stayed with him?

  Warrick unlocked the front door of his home late Sunday morning and crossed the polished hardwood entryway. He left his travel bag at the foot of the stairs, then continued down the hall. Marilyn stood in the kitchen, as still as a statue.

  His gaze moved from the rolling pin raised in her right hand to the cordless phone gripped in her left. “What are you doing?”

  She spoke at the same time. “You scared the crap out of me. I thought you were a burglar. I was getting ready to crack open your skull with this.” She waved the rolling pin.

  He glanced again at the weapon. “That would have hurt.”

  “That was the point.” She set down the rolling pin and leaned heavily against the blond wood and white-tiled kitchen island.

  Guilt shivered through him to see her so shaken. “I’m sorry. I told you I’d be back today.”

  Marilyn looked up, pressing her right hand against her heart. “You said you’d be back in Brooklyn. What are you doing here?”

  Warrick shrugged. Since she was no longer armed, he took the chance of moving closer. “I live here.” He almost smiled at the confusion that blinked across her honey features.

  Marilyn’s brows knitted. “You said I could move back in.”

  “You can.” Warrick stopped less than an arm’s length from Marilyn, crowding her. He leaned a hip against the island.

  Marilyn stepped back. “But you’ll be here, too.”

  He searched her chocolate eyes. They were wary but warm. “It’s a big house, Mary. You’ll have as much—or as little—room as you’d like.”

  Marilyn dragged a hand through her glossy, dark brown hair. “Rick, I need time to think about where we’re going—and what we’re going to do about us.”

  He moved closer. Her jasmine scent teased him with memories of happier times. “Why do we have to be apart for you to do that?”

  Marilyn walked away from the island in the center of their silver and white kitchen, increasing the distance between them. “Because I can’t think when you’re around.” She stood with her back to him.

  Her voice was low and frustrated. But her words were like an aria to his soul.

  “Then maybe we’re supposed to stay together.” Warrick’s gaze moved over the green T-shirt hugging her torso and the black biker shorts tracing her curves.

  She sighed. “Rick ...”

  “We’ve been apart for four weeks and you haven’t made a decision. You need a new strategy.”

  She threw him a skeptical look over her right shoulder. “What would you recommend?”

  Two long strides carried him to her. “Instead of thinking about the things that are trying to tear us apart—and I’m not minimizing them—remember why we got married in the first place.”

  Warrick drew his fingers through her loose hair. Marilyn’s sharp intake of breath made his knees weak. He wasn’t too late. He hadn’t already lost his wife.

  But did he have what it took to keep her? He didn’t even know what that was.

  Marilyn turned. Her movement brought her closer to him. Warrick wrapped a loose embrace around her waist. She could pull away from him if she chose to. She didn’t move.

  “I remember. But I don’t know if it’s enough.”

  “It is for me.”

  Marilyn’s gaze shifted from his, then returned. Her eyes were dark with uncertainty. “I need to decide on my own, Rick. I don’t want you to influence me.”

  But it was all right for Emma to influence her?

  Warrick crossed to the kitchen doorway. “Like I said, Mary, the house is big enough for both of us. I’ll stay in the guest room until you make your decision.”

  “I need to be alone to think.” Marilyn’s voice followed him down the hallway.

  Warrick strode to the staircase. “Then you can leave.”

  “And go where? I can’t stay with Em any longer.”

  Warrick’s shoulders relaxed. A small victory. He mounted the steps. “I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “You’re not being fair, Rick.” Marilyn climbed the stairs behind him. “You let me think you’d move out so I’d move back into the house.”

  “I never said I was moving out. You made that assumption on your own. I can’t control what you think.” If he could, he wouldn’t have been sleeping alon
e for more than a month.

  “You lied to me.”

  Warrick carried his travel bag to the now empty guest room. “What are you afraid of, Mary?” He put down his bag and faced his wife. “That you won’t be able to fall out of love with me?”

  “It’s not a matter of how I feel about you. I didn’t sign up to be a celebrity’s wife.”

  He hooked his hands onto his hips and ignored the stir of anger. “No, you signed up to be my wife, in good times and in bad. I guess this is the bad part.”

  Marilyn stepped back as though she were under attack. “You didn’t tell me you were a magnet for the media.”

  “And you didn’t tell me you’d run at the first sign of trouble.” Warrick held Marilyn’s gaze, forcing her to face the truth about what she was doing.

  Marilyn hesitated in the doorway. “I’m not running, but I’m thinking about it.”

  “I won’t give you a divorce, Mary. I don’t like living under a microscope. But I won’t give up my job because of it. I won’t give you up, either.

  The silence was long. Marilyn seemed relieved—or was that his imagination?

  “Then we’ll have to figure out something else, won’t we?” She turned away.

  Warrick listened to her footfalls taking her back downstairs. Then silence.

  He’d expected her to put up more of a fight. Warrick scowled at the room’s deep green carpeting. As his first move toward wooing his wife, he probably could have delivered a better homecoming. He scrubbed both hands over his face, then turned to unpack his bag.

  No doubt about it, he needed to work on his game—on and off the court.

  5

  “Dr. Evans?”

  “It’s Devry-Evans. How can I help you?” Marilyn paused in the Kings County Medical Samaritan Hospital’s parking lot Monday morning. She gave the stranger in front of her a visual once-over. Average height, average weight. A drinker with poor eating habits and a vitamin B deficiency. He wasn’t one of her patients’ husbands and he didn’t seem in need of medical attention.

  The middle-aged man pulled a business card from the right inside pocket of his brown sports coat. “Kirk West with the New York Horn. Can I ask you a couple of questions?”