by Regina Hart
Marilyn accepted the gift with unsteady hands. “Thank you.”
“When did Rick leave?”
Marilyn’s head felt as though it was filled to bursting with foam. “Yesterday.” She took several quavering breaths. “He didn’t even unpack. He came home Sunday morning. We had an argument. He picked up his bag and left.”
Andrea was silent for several moments. “Did you argue about Jordan Hyatt?”
Marilyn wiped her nose, then pulled another tissue from the small, soft packet. When would her crying end? “How did you know?”
“I saw her interview on the local sports show Saturday night as well. I was shocked.”
“You were shocked? I’m his wife.” Righteous indignation stemmed her tears. Marilyn surged from the sofa to wander the family room.
“You don’t believe Rick slept with her, do you?” Andrea’s question carried from behind Marilyn.
“No, but I haven’t told anyone about Rick’s tattoo. Neither has he. So how would Jordan Hyatt know about it? Who could have told her? Whoever it is, that person is deliberately trying to destroy our marriage.”
Marilyn strode from the room.
Andrea’s footsteps hurried after her. “Where are you going?”
Marilyn crossed into the kitchen and marched to the refrigerator. “I need a glass of water. Would you like some?”
“Sure.” Andrea sounded preoccupied.
Marilyn opened a cupboard for two large glasses and filled them with ice and water. “I’m sorry. I’m very poor company right now.”
Andrea took one of the glasses from Marilyn with a hasty thanks. “Mary, I know how Jordan Hyatt learned about Rick’s tattoo. Or at least I have a theory.”
Marilyn turned from the refrigerator to face the reporter. Hope eased the tightness in her chest. “What is it?”
“Sit down.” Andrea sat beside Marilyn at the table. “As I said, I saw the interview Saturday night, too. And I was stunned. Rick would never cheat on you.”
Marilyn fisted her hands in her lap. “I want to believe that. But how could another woman know about his tattoo?”
Andrea reached into her shoulder bag and pulled out several sheets of folded paper. “Because she saw it—but Rick didn’t show it to her.”
Marilyn frowned. “You’re not making sense.”
The reporter smoothed the papers on the kitchen table between them. Marilyn glanced at the printouts. Her eyes widened as she realized what the color images represented.
Her hand flew to her mouth, smothering a gasp. “Oh, my word! Where did you get these?” Marilyn didn’t recognize her own voice.
There were six sheets, four full-color images on each, of her and Warrick making love in their kitchen. Marilyn was shocked. She was angry. She was embarrassed and ashamed.
“I asked Troy to get them from Jackie for me.” Andrea’s voice was hesitant. “She’d demanded the photographer and the Horn turn over all of the original images they’d taken through your kitchen window. Troy offered the disc to Rick. But he was too angry to take them, so Jackie secured them.”
“She should have destroyed them.” Marilyn could barely hear herself over the buzzing in her ears.
The contact sheets showed Marilyn and Warrick in some of the most intimate poses. They were kissing, caressing, and undressing each other. Thank the Lord they’d disappeared onto the floor behind the table before they’d progressed any farther.
Andrea reached into her bag of tricks again. “Be glad she didn’t.” She extended the camera disc to Marilyn. “Now you can.”
Marilyn stared at the object. How could something so innocuous have caused so much trouble? No wonder Warrick didn’t want to touch it.
She took it from Andrea’s hand. “Thank you.” Marilyn turned back to the printouts, stealing herself against the embarrassment of seeing herself and her husband together while a complete stranger looked on. “Have you ... looked at these?”
“Yes.” Andrea’s voice was without discernible inflection. “That’s how I knew Jordan Hyatt had seen them also. In some of these, you can tell that Rick has a tattoo.” She tapped a couple of the images.
Marilyn winced. “You’re right.” She let the sheets drop from her hands. “Now I know how that woman found out what my husband looks like naked.”
“She can thank the paparazzi.”
Marilyn fisted her hands. “That wretched photographer. What made him think he could invade our privacy? Did he have any idea of the trouble he’d cause? Did he care?”
Andrea squeezed Marilyn’s shoulder. “If this had happened to me, that photographer would have had to take out a restraining order for his own protection.”
“I should have thought of that.” Marilyn’s eyes widened with worry. “You’re not going to do a story on these photos, are you?”
“There isn’t a story here.” She tapped the images of Warrick’s tattoos again. “But at least now the mystery is solved.”
Marilyn’s head felt clearer and her eyes were finally dry. But a burden still weighed on her shoulders. “This is only part of the mystery. I still don’t know why Jordan Hyatt is lying about having any kind of relationship with my husband. What does she want?”
Andrea stood with Marilyn, taking her oversized purse with her. “One step at a time.”
Marilyn escorted the other woman to the front door. She gave her a hard hug. “I’m very grateful for your help.”
“It was my pleasure.” Andrea hugged her back before stepping away. “Now go save your marriage.”
Marilyn locked the door behind her guest, then ran upstairs to get dressed. She was anxious to bring her husband home.
Warrick’s sneakers squeaked against the hardwood Monday afternoon. DeMarcus and Oscar sat on the bleachers deep in conversation on the other side of the practice court. Warrick’s gaze dropped to the scouting reports and game plans for the Monarchs’ first game against the Denver Nuggets Wednesday night. The papers lay forgotten on the bleachers beside the coaches.
So what were they talking about so intently?
Warrick adjusted his gym bag on his shoulder as he drew closer to the other men.
“All this traveling is beginning to piss me off.” Oscar’s tone was grouchier than usual.
DeMarcus emitted a surprised laugh. “The play-offs are pissing you off ?”
Oscar’s features compressed into his default expression of irritation. “Did I say play-offs? I said the traveling is pissing me off. You should listen to someone other than yourself once in a while.”
Warrick wasn’t in a rush to return to the hotel. He stopped in front of the bleachers to listen to the coaches’ exchange.
DeMarcus’s smile widened. “Unfortunately, we can’t play all of our games at home.”
Oscar continued to scowl. “If you’d taken us to a better record, we’d have had home court advantage.”
“Ease up on Coach, O.” Warrick lowered his gym bag to the court beside his feet. “No one thought we’d make it to the play-offs. Now, we’re the Eastern Conference Champions. Not bad.”
DeMarcus chuckled. “You sound as though we’ve made it. We’re not done.”
Oscar grunted. “Maybe you’re not. But I am. We’ve traveled all over the country. Twice. Now, we’re going to fly back and forth to Denver. If the time change doesn’t kill you, the damned altitude will.”
DeMarcus slapped the older man’s shoulder. “But it’s the play-offs, Oscar. It’s worth it.”
Oscar shot DeMarcus a look of mingled aggravation and affection. “Keep telling yourself that.”
Warrick laughed. “You sound as though winning a championship is something you do every season.”
Oscar snorted. “This may be your first run at the championship with the Monarchs, but I’ve been here before. I’ve got my ring. Now I’m old and tired. I’m not looking forward to four-hour flights on airborne sardine cans.”
“What are you saying, Oscar?” There was a trace of concern in DeMarcus’s tone.
The assistant coach gave the younger man a patient look. “You need to listen harder. I’m saying this will be my last season.”
Warrick drew a sharp breath, catching the scent of sweat and floor wax. Oscar Clemente had been the Monarchs’ assistant coach before Warrick had been drafted to the team. He’d been the organization’s dependable constant through all of its coaching carousels. Oscar Clemente and Franklin Jones—Jaclyn Jones’s grandfather and one of the franchise’s founding members—had been father figures to Warrick. Franklin had passed away recently and now Oscar was talking about retiring.
Warrick’s mind went blank as he tried to process the information. “I can’t imagine the team without you, O.”
Oscar grunted again. “I can.”
“You sell yourself short, old man.” DeMarcus’s voice was strained. “You’re a great coach and a valuable member of the franchise.”
Oscar’s cheeks turned pink. His gaze flicked to Warrick before returning to DeMarcus. “There are plenty of assistant coaches out there, younger men who enjoy having their circulation cut off in those flying matchsticks.”
DeMarcus shifted on the bleacher. “None of them are as good as you. Are you sure you won’t reconsider?”
Oscar pinned Warrick with his brown gaze. “Rick would make a good assistant coach.”
Shock rattled Warrick’s system again. “Me? What makes you say that?”
Oscar waved his hands. “You’re doing it already. You’re always talking and teaching, on the court and on the sidelines.”
DeMarcus’s lips tipped up. He gave Warrick a curious stare. “I hadn’t realized constant talking was a sign of a future coach.”
Oscar angled his chin toward DeMarcus. “Watch your game film. You never shut up.”
DeMarcus arched an eyebrow. “I never noticed that.”
“Neither have I.” Warrick’s thoughts were spinning. Could he go into coaching after he retired? It was a possibility he’d never considered. The job would keep him in basketball. But he’d miss the court.
“And selflessness. A lot of players don’t put the team first.” Oscar waved a hand from DeMarcus to Warrick. “You two do. And Jardine. The others don’t.”
Warrick pictured the Monarchs’ center. He’d often admired Vincent’s game. If he had the look, he’d take the shot. Otherwise, he’d pass the ball. He’d never force it.
Vincent also stayed out of locker room drama. He was the only teammate who hadn’t said anything—for or against him—regarding all the media attention on Warrick.
Oscar crossed his arms. “Yeah. You’d make a good coach. Maybe better than Marc.”
Warrick laughed. “That’s raising the bar pretty high.” There was a strange expression in DeMarcus’s eyes. “What’s wrong, Coach?”
DeMarcus shook his head. “I think I may have just solved a puzzle.”
Oscar snorted. “’Bout damn time.”
Warrick frowned, but neither man enlightened him.
DeMarcus addressed his assistant coach. “Does Jack know about your retirement plans?”
Oscar sighed. “No.”
DeMarcus smoothed a hand over his hair. “She’ll probably try to talk you out of it.”
Oscar looked away. “Probably.”
Warrick considered the assistant coach. Oscar’s words were confident but his body language told a different story. His fingers were knotted together. His shoulders were rounded. Warrick didn’t care what the older man said. His decision wasn’t set in stone.
Still, he’d given Warrick a lot to think about. Coaching. Could it be in his future?
His gaze roamed the practice facility, bringing to mind images of the practice that had ended almost two hours ago. The Monarchs were on their way to the finals. The NBA Championship ring was so close his hand itched.
He turned back to Oscar. “It’s your decision when you retire. I just hope you’ll continue to help us through the play-offs.”
Oscar scowled. “Season’s not over yet.”
In Oscar-speak, he’d just given his word that he wouldn’t leave before the finals were over. Satisfied, Warrick shrugged his gym bag back onto his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”
Warrick made his way to the parking lot. He slipped on his sunglasses as protection against the 3:00 P.M. SUN. SUMMER WAS ONLY WEEKS AWAY.
“Rick.”
The sound of Marilyn’s voice surprised him. It was unusual that she’d come to the practice facility. But then, she wasn’t working right now.
His pulse beat faster at the sight of her hurrying toward him. Her dark brown hair—free of that clip thing—swung frantically behind her shoulders. A brisk marina breeze molded her thin tan T-shirt to her firm curves. Dark brown shorts bared her endless legs from midthigh. She stopped in front of him. He could reach out and touch her.
Warrick fisted one hand in the front right pocket of his gray khaki shorts. His other hand held the strap of his gym bag in a death grip. “What’s wrong?”
Marilyn’s gaze scanned his features. “Andrea stopped by this morning. She has a theory about how Jordan Hyatt learned about your tattoo.”
Warrick shifted his gaze from her lips. “How?”
Her expression was strained. “It appears in some of the pictures that Peeping-Tom photographer took of us in our kitchen.”
Warrick gripped his gym bag even harder. “It’s on my hip. Did the guy use a telephoto lens?”
“It’s true. I saw the photos.”
“You’re kidding.” Warrick felt sick.
Marilyn’s scowl cleared. “We can use this information to discredit her.”
“How?”
Marilyn’s eyes reflected her confusion. “By telling the media that Jordan Hyatt isn’t having an affair with you. She only knows about your tattoo because of those pictures.”
“And when the reporters demand to know which photo, what am I supposed to do? Show them the pictures of you and I making love?”
The faint dusting of color on Marilyn’s cheekbones was answer enough. “Of course not.”
Warrick sidestepped her. “That’s not my first choice, either.”
Marilyn kept pace with him. “We’ll figure out something.”
We. That word, when applied to them, had been the culmination of a dream.
Warrick paced to his black BMW in silence. He deactivated the car’s alarm and tossed his bag onto the passenger seat.
Marilyn fished her car keys from her purse. “I’ll follow you home.”
Warrick pushed the door shut. “No, you won’t.”
Marilyn froze. “Why not?”
He turned his back to her and circled the hood of his car. “I’m not going home, Mary.”
“Why not?”
Warrick faced his wife. She was so close he could smell her jasmine scent carried on the cool breeze. “I was never worried about proving myself to the media. They could think whatever they’d like. But I never thought I’d have to prove myself to my wife.”
Marilyn’s gaze wavered but didn’t fall. “It’s not that I didn’t believe you. I didn’t know how she could have known about your tattoo.”
Warrick grunted. “It sounded as though you didn’t believe me. Have I ever given you a reason to distrust me?”
“Of course not.” Marilyn’s words came with satisfying speed. But were they only words?
“Then why didn’t you trust me this time?” Warrick genuinely wanted to know. Had Marilyn felt confused and uncertain because of the media pressure? Or were they growing apart?
Marilyn’s gaze swept the parking lot. Warrick’s regard remained squarely on her. His car alarm reset with a chirp.
She returned her attention to him. “Maybe I did have a little bit of doubt because I learned a few days ago that my father recently cheated on my mother.”
Warrick didn’t hesitate. “I’m not your father.”
Marilyn’s brown eyes darkened. “I know and I’m sorry, Rick.”
“So
am I.” He turned toward his car and deactivated the alarm.
Marilyn took his arm. “I was wrong to have ever doubted you, even for a second. How can I make it up to you?”
Warrick stared into her eyes for seconds that felt like an eternity. Hurting her was killing him. “I don’t know if you can. I needed for you to believe in me. I thought you did. But when I asked you to take a leap of faith in me, you wouldn’t.”
Marilyn’s hand fell away from him. “None of this would have happened if it weren’t for that damned photographer.”
“Maybe he did us a favor.”
She looked stricken. “How could you say that?”
“He’s helped us to realize that we don’t trust each other as much as we thought we did.”
Marilyn didn’t recognize the bitter man standing before her. “I think most spouses would have had some doubt in our situation.”
“But you aren’t most spouses. You’re my wife.” He cocked his head to the side. “When did you stop trusting me, Mary?”
“The media have caused a lot of upheaval in our lives.”
Warrick crossed his arms. “You’re hinting at my retirement again, aren’t you? I’ve never even considered asking you to give up your career when the late-night deliveries pulled you out of our bed or when evening labors interrupted our dinner.”
“That’s different.”
“Why? Because it’s your career?”
Frustration tore through her. “My job doesn’t inspire photographers to take pictures of us having sex.”
“You have a vision of a perfect life for yourself. Everything and everyone in its place.” He straightened away from his car. “Well, my life isn’t perfect. Does it still have a place in yours?”
Marilyn stepped back. “You expected me to take a leap of faith in you, but you’re the one who walked away. You’re still walking away.”
“What am I supposed to do?”
“Fight.” She fisted her hands. “If our marriage means anything to you, fight for it.”
Pain and anger darkened his features. “I have been fighting to save our marriage ever since you asked for a divorce three weeks ago. I’d have saved myself a lot of trouble if I’d given it to you.” Warrick climbed into his BMW and drove away.