Smooth Play

by Regina Hart

  He rested a hip against the conference table and slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “Let’s talk about the article you wrote on Barron.”

  She remained near the door. “What about it?”

  “You weren’t fair to him, were you?” Troy tossed the words as a friendly question. But he was here to demand a retraction.

  Andrea’s eyes widened. “What makes you say that?”

  “You accused him of being on drugs without giving him a chance to respond.”

  Andrea’s smooth brow wrinkled. “I never mentioned drugs.”

  Troy shrugged. He hoped his smile would mask the frustration roiling in his gut. “The accusation was implied.”

  “Only if the idea of Barron using drugs is already on your mind.” She tilted her head, causing her thick brown hair to sway behind her. “Is it?”

  The muscles in Troy’s shoulders bunched even as he strained to keep his tone light. “Come on, Andy. You know as well as I do that your article put that idea in readers’ minds.”

  “I quoted people who know Barron. They’re concerned about his increasingly irresponsible behavior. And don’t call me Andy, Slick. You know I don’t like it.”

  “Why didn’t you interview Barron?”

  She shrugged. “He refused to speak with me.”

  “Can you blame him? He knew your article could ruin his reputation. What gives you the right to do that?” He hadn’t meant to ask that question.

  Color dusted Andrea’s high cheekbones. “I speak for the sports fans who want to see a competitive play-off series. I represent the ticket holders who want their money’s worth. That gives me the right.”

  Troy met the challenge in her electric eyes. “Your media credentials allow you into the press section with the other reporters for free. We all know reporters will write any sensational piece—fact or fiction—to get a headline.”

  Andrea’s full red lips tightened. “You know the truth matters to me. That’s why I came to you first when Gerry was planting lies about Marc’s supposed drug addiction.”

  Her hard gaze forced Troy to face the facts. He remembered when Jaclyn Jones’s franchise partner, Gerald Bimm, had tried to smear DeMarcus Guinn in the media. Gerald would have succeeded if Andrea hadn’t warned him and Jaclyn of Gerald’s plan. By her actions, Andrea had proven the truth did matter to her. Then what was behind her damaging story about Barron?

  Troy leaned more heavily on the conference table and crossed his ankles. “We can’t have negative stories about the team, Andy. They’re a distraction. Instead of focusing on beating the Cleveland Cavaliers when the series starts Saturday, the players are wondering whether their captain has a drug problem. How does that help anyone?”

  “If Barron’s on drugs, you can’t sweep that under the rug.” Her voice was urgent.

  “He’s passed his drug tests. He’s clean.”

  “Then what’s causing his destructive behavior?”

  He wished he knew. “That’s Barron. That’s just the way he is.”

  “But why?”

  Troy dropped his arms to his sides and tried another persuasive smile. “Frankly, Andy, I’m not here to be interviewed. I want you to stop writing negative stories about the Monarchs.”

  2

  Andrea considered the Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing. Was he serious? Should she be offended or amused?

  Troy Marshall was a hazard to her mental health. He was handsome, charming, self-confident. His warm sienna skin, intense ebony eyes, and wicked goatee could make a woman stupid. Andrea had done stupid. She didn’t intend to repeat the act. Now she carried her self-control like an American Express card. She wouldn’t leave home without it.

  She shifted her weight and crossed her arms. “I don’t work for you, Troy. I’m not a member of the Monarchs’ publicity team. I’m a reporter.”

  His heavy black brows knitted. “And you’ve had open access to the players and coaches. Until now.”

  Was he threatening her job? Andrea wouldn’t be intimidated. She’d survived more dangerous challenges than this one. Barely. “I’m the only reporter who pays any attention to your team.”

  Troy shook his head. The room’s dim lighting moved over his short, wavy black hair. “Not any more. We’re getting more column inches in the Times, the Daily News, and the Post. This morning, I had a call from the Cleveland Plain Dealer.”

  “Will you cut them all off if they don’t give the Monarchs positive coverage?”

  Troy pushed his hands back into the front pockets of his gray suit. The gesture opened his jacket, exposing his burgundy shirt and calling more attention to his broad chest than seemed necessary. “I’ll do whatever I need to do to protect the team.”

  Andrea blinked. His mask had fallen to reveal the steely determination beneath his calculated charm. “Does that include ignoring a player who’s in crisis?”

  Troy’s gaze wavered. His square jaw tightened. “Barron’s fine.”

  She studied his chiseled features. “What’s changed, Troy? This isn’t the first article I’ve written that hasn’t been completely glowing about the Monarchs. Why are you jumping down my throat this time?”

  “Nothing’s changed.”

  That wasn’t true. In the past, he’d flirted rather than fought with her. “You’ve never threatened my access to the team before.”

  “You’ve never attacked a player’s character before.”

  Andrea’s temper bristled. She hooked her hands on her hips. “That story wasn’t an attack. It called attention to Barron’s risky behavior, which, by the way, is getting worse.”

  “Barron’s always been disruptive.”

  “This isn’t ‘Barron being Barron.’ If you don’t know what’s wrong with him, you need to find out.”

  Troy cocked his head. “And then what? Should I schedule an interview with you?”

  “I won’t lie to you. I’d like to cover the story. But it’s more important that someone find out what’s wrong with him.”

  Troy tore his hands from his pockets. “Why are you so focused on Barron?”

  “Why are you so determined to ignore him?”

  “I’m not going to allow you to ruin a good person’s reputation to sell a few papers.”

  “I don’t do sensationalism. You’ve read enough of my work to know that.”

  Troy dragged his right hand over the glossy curls crowning his head. Andrea’s palm tingled as though it were her hand touching his hair.

  Troy seemed to regain his self-control. “You’re right. I’m sorry. But I want you to stop writing negative stories about the team.”

  Andrea shook her head. “I don’t take requests, Troy. You should know that as well.”

  He straightened from the conference table. “You have plenty of other things to write about. This is the first time the team has made the play-offs in four seasons. You don’t have to write about Barron.”

  “You should be concerned about Barron, too. His attitude will infect the whole team.”

  Troy stared at her for several silent moments. He scratched his chin. Andrea visually traced his neatly trimmed moustache and goatee. She wasn’t given to fantasies, but she could come up with several for Troy.

  “I don’t need your advice on taking care of the team.” Troy started toward the door.

  Andrea moved into his path. “You were a reporter. Are you holding me to the same standards you set for yourself ?”

  Troy stepped around her and opened the door. Air scented with burned coffee and newsprint rushed into the room. From over her shoulder, she watched him leave.

  Why wouldn’t the stubborn man believe this was about more than a story? If Barron was struggling with the same personal demons from her past, she couldn’t live with herself if she walked away. She had to help the NBA player for her peace of mind as well as his.

  Andrea left the conference room, closing the door behind her. She’d barely sat down at her desk when her editor appeared.


  “Is Marshall pissed over the Barron Douglas story?” Willis Priestly sounded almost disinterested.

  He gulped his coffee. The dark liquid dribbled from a crack in the chubby, white mug. Not for the first time, Andrea wondered why her boss kept the aging cup. It leaked as much coffee as it contained.

  “He wants only positive stories on the Monarchs.”

  Willis took another drink and nodded his head. He brushed his lank, gray hair from his forehead. He needed a haircut. He also needed more sleep. The bags under his dull green eyes carried bags. “What did you say?”

  Andrea sat back in her worn, brown chair. It squeaked as she forced it to turn toward her editor. “I told him I’m a reporter not a publicist.”

  Willis nodded again. His questions seemed more like idle conversation. Had he even heard her answers?

  “You know, Benson, the paper distributed almost double its usual number of copies when you wrote that piece exposing Bimm. I know when we take a count of the copies that circulated with this Douglas story, we’ll have sold at least that many more copies of this issue as well.”

  She knew where this was going and she wouldn’t let it get there. “I’m not going to write negative stories just to gain an audience, Will. You know that’s not my style.”

  “That article on Bimm caught the attention of other papers. The story on Douglas will, too. Keep it up and pretty soon some big paper with deep pockets will make you an offer you’d be a fool to refuse.”

  “Are you suggesting I sell my soul to the devil?”

  “You deserve much more money than I could ever pay you.”

  “And what would I do with these ill-gotten gains?”

  Willis snorted. “Buy a car with an engine that doesn’t fly south at the hint of cooler weather.”

  A sense of foreboding stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. “Are you trying to get rid of me?”

  “You’re better than this place.” Willis inclined his head toward the other reporters in the newsroom. “Your coworkers are kids fresh out of school. And while you’re trying to move up, you’ll set the standard for these kids and help me build a name for Sports.”

  Andrea studied the fresh-faced cub reporters with whom she worked. Their careers were just starting, while she felt every one of her twenty-eight years.

  She lifted her pencil, bouncing its eraser against her desk. “I’d like more money and a bigger audience. But I’m not going to jump on the negativity bandwagon. The Jones family and the Monarchs have given a lot to this community.” And to her. “I won’t repay them that way.”

  Willis gulped more coffee. “You said you weren’t the Monarchs’ publicist.”

  She smiled. Her boss was trying to use her words against her. “Well played, Will. I’ll report the news—good, bad, or indifferent—as long as it’s relevant. But I won’t deliberately smear anyone’s character.” Not ever again.

  “Sometimes you have to play hardball to get ahead.”

  That route hadn’t worked for her in the past, and it wasn’t the person she was trying to be. “At the end of the day, I need to be able to live with the decisions I’ve made.”

  He gestured toward the newsroom with his mug. “Look around you, Benson. Do you want to be working here in five years? Three years? Next year?”

  She shrugged. “Worse things could happen.” She’d already lived through some of them. Andrea bounced her pencil eraser against her desk again.

  Willis scanned the room. “I had big dreams when I first started this paper. It’s eight years later and they’re still only dreams.” He looked at her. “You’re good, Benson. I don’t want you to end up with stale dreams, too.”

  “Thanks, Will. But I’ll take my chances and see what happens.”

  Willis’s eyes were inscrutable as he held her gaze for a long silent moment. “Don’t wait too long to see what happens. You’ll never get that time back.”

  Andrea considered his drawn features and rounded shoulders. “What aren’t you telling me, Will?”

  Willis sighed. “Nothing. Keep up the good work.”

  Andrea watched him plod back to his office at the other end of the hall. What had that been about? She shifted her gaze to her coworkers. They were hard at work, unaware anything could be wrong.

  She liked the other reporters. She enjoyed their drive and enthusiasm. But Willis was right. She’d had a much higher profile position in the industry just four years ago, and she wanted it back. Had enough time gone by to allow her to leave her past behind? She didn’t know if she could handle having the doors slammed in her face again.

  “Why are we meeting in a conference room?” Kirk West, sports reporter from the New York Horn, settled into the black swivel chair.

  Troy didn’t like the reporter’s tone or his dismissive expression as he took in the Monarchs’ small meeting space. Kirk’s blue gaze settled on him and Monarchs head coach DeMarcus Guinn.

  DeMarcus’s brown features were tight. He folded his hands on the rectangular mahogany table and leaned forward. “Where else would we meet?”

  Troy winced at the chill in the coach’s tone. The newspaper interview had barely begun and things had already taken a bad turn. A winning season and an NBA play-off spot had increased attention on the Monarchs, a team the media had all but forgotten the past three years. But with each interview, DeMarcus grew more annoyed.

  The sports reporter lifted his nose and straightened the blue tie knotted under the collar of his white cotton shirt. “Byron Scott entertained me in his office.”

  Beside Troy, DeMarcus stiffened at the reference to the Cleveland Cavaliers head coach. “I’m not here to entertain you.”

  The truth was, DeMarcus didn’t want the reporter anywhere near his players and assistant coaches. He hadn’t even wanted Kirk in the Empire Arena, home of the Brooklyn Monarchs since the franchise’s birth in 1956. Conducting the interview in one of the arena’s conference rooms had been a compromise.

  But if Kirk was baiting the coach, DeMarcus’s image was deteriorating faster than Troy had anticipated. He glanced at Kirk and swallowed a sigh. One crisis at a time.

  Troy leaned into the table. “Coach Guinn has schemes and game plans in his office that aren’t for public viewing. That’s why we’re holding this interview in our conference room.”

  He used a reasonable tone to counterbalance DeMarcus’s impatience. He deserved a Most Valuable Player award for his performance, considering he’d had only three hours of sleep after driving Barron home from the club that morning. He also was still distracted by his less-than-successful meeting with Andrea earlier.

  Kirk laid his reporter’s notepad on the table and tapped his pen on the blank page. “Byron went over his game plans with me.”

  In Kirk’s dreams. Troy looked away to keep from rolling his eyes.

  DeMarcus didn’t show such restraint. “He knew you wouldn’t understand them.”

  “You’re wrong.” The reporter’s voice was tight.

  Troy rested his left hand on DeMarcus’s shoulder. “Marc, let’s stick to the interview.”

  DeMarcus’s expression questioned Troy’s intelligence at scheduling the reporter. “What interview?”

  Good point. Troy shifted his attention to Kirk. “What did you want to ask us?”

  Kirk glared his dislike at DeMarcus. “I wanted to ask what makes the Mighty Guinn think he won’t be swept out of the play-offs in the first series.”

  Dammit. The interview was turning into a disaster. Did Kirk know DeMarcus hated that nickname? Probably. Like DeMarcus, Troy was beginning to question his intelligence at agreeing to this meeting.

  DeMarcus sat back in the cushioned conference chair and ignored the reporter’s hostility. He crossed his arms, covering the Monarchs logo centered in the chest area of his silver jersey. “Anything could happen. That’s why we play the game.”

  Troy smothered a groan. That was the worst non-answer DeMarcus had given a reporter to date.

 
; Kirk’s pen hovered over his notepad as though waiting for the coach to elaborate. He moved on when DeMarcus remained silent. “Your first game is with the Cleveland Cavaliers. How do you think the Monarchs will match up with the Cavs? Your roster is a lot older and slower.”

  DeMarcus uncrossed his arms and sat straighter in his chair. “We split the regular season with the Cavs with one game a piece. The Cavs are a good team. They’re fast, strong on defense, and quick on offense. But we’ve beaten them once. We can do it again.”

  Troy heard the relish in DeMarcus’s voice and knew the head coach look forward to the best-of-seven series against the Cavaliers.

  Kirk wrote a few lines in his notepad. “The Monarchs got to the play-offs despite your poor offense and lack of a defense. Do you think you’ll make it to the second round?”

  “We have a will to win.” DeMarcus’s response was curt.

  Considering even he had been insulted by the reporter’s question, Troy applauded the coach’s control.

  Kirk spread his hands. “‘Will to win’? What does that even mean?”

  Troy leaned forward, drawing the reporter’s attention to try to prevent the explosion he sensed building in DeMarcus. “What Coach Guinn—”

  DeMarcus interrupted. “Now we know why you report sports instead of playing them. The will to win is what separates winners from losers.” The inflection in his words made it clear in which category DeMarcus considered the reporter.

  Kirk heard the implication. His face flushed to magenta. He pushed to his feet. “I have everything I need for this article.”

  Troy stood as well. Thoughts sprinted across his mind as he sought a way to salvage the interview. “Are you sure that’s all you need? We can give you more time.”

  “I can’t.”

  Troy stiffened at DeMarcus’s grumbled words. They couldn’t continue now. “Thanks for coming, Kirk. Call me if you have any questions or need more information.”

  Kirk glared at DeMarcus. “I won’t need anything else.”