by Regina Hart
Troy raised his hands, palms out. The situation was getting out of control. “Barron, the point is, your behavior’s hurting the team.”
Instead of calming him, Troy’s words seemed to push Barron over the line. He shoved his way past his teammates to the door. “Man, forget this. I’m not some head case on The Tyra Banks Show.”
DeMarcus called after him. “Barron, my office.”
Barron didn’t acknowledge his coach. He pushed through the exit. The heavy metal doors slammed behind him.
Oscar turned to Troy. “Good job.”
Troy braced his shoulders against the weight of defeat. The remaining twelve players stared at the metal exit with varying degrees of surprise and disappointment. All except for Warrick. The point guard studied the doors with a distant, impassive expression.
DeMarcus broke the silence. “Let’s get back to work.”
The players muttered to each other as they returned to practice.
Troy turned to DeMarcus. “I made things worse. I’m sorry.”
DeMarcus gave him a narrow-eyed stare. “Do you still think Barron’s not using?”
Troy held the other man’s gaze. “I know he’s not.”
DeMarcus’s expression didn’t change. “Why do I have the feeling you know more than you’re saying?”
“I don’t.”
Oscar grunted. “You’re lying.”
Troy gave the older man an annoyed look. “Why would I?”
Oscar surveyed the action on the court before turning back to Troy. “This team is your family just like it’s mine. Brothers don’t betray brothers. But you can’t ignore when one has a problem.”
“I don’t know what’s bothering Barron. He won’t tell me.” Troy turned again to DeMarcus. “What are you going to do?”
DeMarcus shrugged. “Fine him for skipping practice, for all the good that does. He just writes the check. I’m sure Morning Glory appreciates his generosity.”
Troy knew Morning Glory Chapel’s food bank and homeless shelter could use the money generated by the team’s fines. Still, the Monarchs needed their captain. “What about his playing time?”
DeMarcus rubbed his forehead. “That depends on how he plays. I won’t risk the playoffs to spare his feelings.”
The coach was right. They had to protect the team. But Barron was part of that team. Troy would make sure it stayed that way.
Andrea chose one of the tables in the front section of the coffee shop. Gerald settled into the cracked, red vinyl chair across from her. The display of fresh pastries whispered her name. Andrea forced her gaze away, resisting temptation. She was getting better at that.
She sipped her coffee. It was strong, but anything was better than that battery acid that passed for coffee in the newspaper’s community kitchen.
Gerald lowered his mug. He seemed even less comfortable with these surroundings than the New York Sports office. “I enjoyed your article on Barron Douglas.”
What is he up to? It didn’t bode well for the franchise that Gerald and Troy had very different reactions to the same story. “What did you like about it?”
“It’s about time someone held Barron accountable for his actions.” Gerald sounded ready to do a campaign stump speech on morality.
Andrea angled her head. “What’s stopping you?”
“What do you mean?”
“You co-own the team. Why don’t you hold Barron accountable?”
Gerald’s gaze slid away from hers. “Jackie protects him.”
Andrea didn’t buy that, and not just because Gerald couldn’t look at her as he made the claim. “You were the one who arranged the Monarchs’ trade for Barron.”
Gerald shrugged. “I thought the coach at the time could handle him.”
Andrea remembered the Monarchs’ former coach. Everyone had liked and respected him. Gerald had fired him after one season. Barron had stayed. “You made Barron captain, although that had been Warrick Evans’s role for almost ten years.”
“I thought the responsibility would mature him.”
“You have an answer for everything.” Andrea sipped more coffee as she tried to discern truth from lie in Gerald’s eyes.
“That’s usually the case when you’re telling the truth.”
Was he telling the truth? Probably not.
Gerald’s expression was earnest. “I want you to keep the pressure on Barron and the rest of the team.”
Andrea blinked. Troy had demanded she write only glowing articles about the Monarchs. Gerald wanted her to expose the players’ failings. It was as though they represented rival teams. The only thing both men shared was the mistaken idea they could tell her how to do her job.
She lowered her mug. The table rocked on uneven legs as she braced her forearms on its black-and-white tile surface. “What are you doing, Gerry?”
“As general manager, everything has to go through Jackie. But she’s too soft on the players.” He leaned toward her. “I want you to help me improve the team’s reputation.”
“Why the sudden concern for the team’s image? You never cared before.”
He gave her a sincere look she didn’t buy for a New York minute. “I want to polish the team’s image. I don’t want to be associated with the bad boys of Brooklyn anymore.”
Andrea stilled. Gerald had quoted a headline from an article about the Monarchs that had appeared in this morning’s New York Horn. Had he planted the story? “You tried to keep the Monarchs out of the playoffs and were campaigning to move the team out of Brooklyn. I have a hard time believing you’re this upset over the team’s bad image.”
Gerald’s features tightened. “The Monarchs are in the playoffs, and they’re staying in Brooklyn.”
Andrea suppressed a grin. “Not by your choice. Jackie Jones co-owns the Empire Arena now. She won’t let you break the Monarchs’ lifetime contract to play there.”
“Believe what you like.”
She’d hit a nerve. Andrea ignored his spark of temper. “Why would you want to work with me? Did you forget the article I wrote exposing your plan to move the team?”
Gerald’s grunt of laughter sounded forced. “Hardly. But I’m willing to put that behind us if you’ll help me monitor the team.”
He was the second person in less than an hour who wanted her to grab a seat on the Bash the Brooklyn Monarchs train. Willis said the negative coverage would increase sales. What was Gerald’s true motivation?
Andrea picked up her mug and sipped her coffee. The scalding liquid had cooled. “You expect me to believe you want my help improving the team’s reputation? I didn’t come down with the last rain, Gerry.”
Gerald leaned back in his red chair. “You should consider my offer. I doubt you want to spend the rest of your professional career with Sports. Let me use my contacts to get you a better job.”
Maybe it was in Gerald’s power to get her a better paying position with a higher profile newspaper or magazine—like the job she’d lost four years ago. But she wouldn’t accept his help. Her soul was too high a price to pay for a better career.
Andrea stood, adjusting her brown purse strap on her shoulder. “No, thank you.”
She turned to leave. Once bitten, twice shy. Andrea had forgotten her integrity four years ago, and she was still working hard to get it back.
Gerald rose to accompany her. “Think about it.” His tone was urgent, persuasive. “We’d be doing each other a favor.”
“There’s nothing to think about.” She walked faster, anxious to return to the Sports’s building so she could get away from Gerald. He easily kept pace with her.
They were almost to the corner of the block when Gerald broke the silence. “I’d hate to give this opportunity to another reporter.”
Andrea stopped to turn on him. “You’re not going to find anyone unscrupulous enough to help you.”
Gerald laughed. “Do you really believe that?”
No, she didn’t.
She watched Gerald continue a f
ew feet farther down the street to a red Lexus coupe. He climbed into the car and pulled away from the curb. To go where? Home? The Empire Arena? Another newspaper’s office?
Andrea glanced at her navy Ford Escort. Little did her editor know her twenty-one-year-old compact wasn’t temperamental only in cold weather. Andrea walked across the street to the bus stop to wait for the line that would deliver her two blocks from the Empire Arena. She crossed her arms and scowled. Troy had been judgmental and rude to her earlier. Why was she making a personal visit to tell him about Gerald’s latest scheme? Was it professional courtesy—or an excuse to see the media executive again?
Serge Gateau’s broad back blocked Andrea’s view of Troy’s administrative assistant. The Monarchs forward towered over the desk.
Andrea stopped beside the giant Frenchman. “I’m sorry to interrupt.”
“Non. Non.” Serge’s blue eyes twinkled with humor. His golden locks grew in sexy waves to his broad shoulders. “I was welcoming the newest member of our team.” He swung his large hand between Andrea and the slender woman seated behind the desk. “Andrea Benson, may I present Troy’s new administrative assistant, Constance Street. Connie, Andrea is a reporter with the New York Sports.”
Andrea offered the smiling blonde her hand. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”
Constance blinked her wide, grass green eyes. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Serge stepped back from the desk. “I’ll leave you ladies to your work.” He gave Constance a warm smile, the kind Andrea had seen on the Turner Classic Movies channel. “Let me know if there’s anything I can do to help you get settled here.”
Constance lowered her gaze. “Thank you.”
Andrea waited for Serge to leave before turning back to the slender blonde. “Have we met before?”
A vague discomfort clouded Constance’s expression. She set aside the newspaper she’d folded open to the Apartments for Rent section. “We met at the Morning Glory Chapel. You helped sort the clothes donated to the shelter.”
Andrea still couldn’t make the connection. “Are you a volunteer, too?”
“I’m one of the homeless.” Her warm Midwestern accent tensed.
The image of a pale, stressed woman bundled in layers of thin clothing and holding firmly to a toddler superimposed itself over the more relaxed woman in a too-large, lavender sweater. Andrea also remembered her bruises. “You have a little girl.”
Constance’s smile returned. “Tiffany.”
Andrea nodded. “How long have you worked for the Monarchs?”
Constance’s eyes sparkled. “Jackie told me about the job opening last week. I started Monday, four days ago. Now I just need to find a place to live.”
Andrea’s gaze dipped to the newspaper on Constance’s desk. Finding an affordable apartment was harder than it sounded. Although Andrea guessed Constance made more than she did—par t-time seasonal workers probably made more than she did—which would make it easier to find decent accommodations for her and her little girl. “Good luck.”
“Thank you. Are you here to see Mr. Marshall?”
She’d never heard Troy referred to so formally. His previous administrative assistant had used his first name in a proprietary tone. “Is he available?”
“He’s working through lunch.” Constance lifted her telephone receiver and pressed four keys. “Andrea Benson of the New York Sports is here.” She thanked Troy, then ended the call. “He’ll be right out.”
Seconds later, Troy appeared in his office threshold. Andrea’s pulse jumped.
4
Excitement swept through Troy at the sight of Andrea waiting for him. It was always this way when he saw her. Like the anticipation of a new NBA season or the euphoria of a winning game.
“Come in.” He stood aside so she could enter his office.
Andrea tossed a smile to Constance before approaching him. Troy felt a sharp slap of envy. Her expression was so different from the guarded looks she gave him. On occasion he’d surprised a laugh from her. But the moments never lasted.
She walked past him. Troy inhaled her powder-soft scent and the morning’s tensions eased. Her long, efficient strides carried her to the three black-cushioned guest chairs in front of his mahogany desk. She chose one, then surveyed his office—the framed community commendations, advertisements and news articles covering the cream walls—as though she hadn’t been here a score of times before. Did his office tell her anything about him? What would her desk at the newsroom reveal about her? Andrea was as much a mystery today as when they’d first met three years ago. That fact bothered him more than it should.
Troy circled his desk and settled into his seat. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you again so soon much less see you.”
“Neither did I. I’m sorry to interrupt your lunch.” Andrea avoided his eyes. She seemed uncertain. Why?
“Don’t worry about it. Have you eaten?” Troy pulled the lid from his plastic soup container. The savory scent of beef and vegetables floated into the room.
Andrea tucked her brown purse beside her. “I’ll eat later.”
He pulled a plastic-wrapped sandwich close to him. “Do you like PB and J?”
She dragged her suspicious, sherry-brown gaze from the thick peanut butter and jelly sandwich on wheat bread to his face. “Are you offering me food to make amends for your comments this morning?”
A corner of Troy’s mouth kicked up as he struggled with a smile. “I don’t need to apologize for what I said. But I’m sorry for the way I said it. My temper got the best of me.”
“Your accusations were untrue and unfair.”
Troy unwrapped his sandwich. He slid it just a little closer to Andrea. “So was your article.”
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.” Her voice cooled.
He released his smile. “You sound as though you’re chewing nails. Wouldn’t you rather have PB and J?” He took half of the sandwich and slid the other half, still on its wrapper, toward her.
“No, thank you. I’ll eat later.” Andrea’s stomach growled, betraying just how much she wanted that sandwich. Her right hand flew to her flat abdomen, pressing against it.
Troy watched a blush sweep under the honey tones of her skin. He’d never seen her composure slip. She was usually so controlled. The unsuspected vulnerability triggered buried needs inside him. The need to protect, to provide, and to possess.
Troy cleared his throat. “It’s PB and J. Who doesn’t like PB and J?” The words were rougher than he’d intended.
Andrea hesitated before leaning forward to accept his offering. Her voice was warmer. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” It was like having the most popular girl in high school agree to be his date for the prom. He crossed to the mini-refrigerator in a corner of his office. “Milk or soda?”
“Milk, please.”
She sounded surprised. Had she come to continue their argument? Instead, he was giving her a meal. Could half a PB and J sandwich and a pint of milk count as a first date? Perhaps in another life, one in which her newspaper didn’t come between them.
Troy carried the milk and some extra napkins to her and accepted her thanks in exchange. He picked up his half of the sandwich. “Are you here to continue our discussion?”
“Gerry’s up to his old tricks.” Andrea tipped back her head to drink the milk.
Troy’s attention shifted from Andrea’s long, graceful neck to her face. “What do you mean?”
Andrea lowered the sandwich to the napkin on her knee. “He offered to use his connections to get me a better paying job provided I agreed to write negative stories about the Monarchs.”
Troy clenched his jaw. “What did you say?”
Andrea looked offended. “I said no, of course. Would I be here other wise?”
“Thank you.”
“It doesn’t end there. Gerry said he’ll find someone else to write the articles.”
Troy stood, turning away from what was left of h
is lunch. He massaged the back of his neck as he paced to his black mini-fridge and back. “Just like last time when he tried to use you to plant a fake story about Marc.”
“And when I refused to help him, he went to another paper.”
Thinking about it, Troy ground his teeth. If Gerald had succeeded, the Monarchs would have lost respect for DeMarcus and his leadership. The team would have had a hard time finishing the season much less making it to the play-offs.
He sank back into his chair and stared at his half-eaten sandwich and cooling soup. “I have to find a way to stop him.”
“Let Jackie handle Gerry. You have to get in front of this like we did last time.”
Warning whispers stirred the hairs on the back of Troy’s neck. “Are you using Gerry’s threat to convince me to let you write another damaging story on the team?”
A flicker of anger moved across her heart-shaped features before her impressive control steadied her emotions. “It doesn’t benefit me to attack the Monarchs.”
Troy cocked a brow. “Do you expect me to believe your newspaper’s sales didn’t go up when you wrote about Gerry’s attempts to move the team out of Brooklyn?”
Andrea ignored him. “Many of the players are going to the play-offs for the first time. There’s a story here about how they’re handling the pressure.”
Troy drummed his fingertips on his desk. “Do you want to paint a picture of the players crumbling under postseason stress?”
“Only if it’s true. Their first trip to the postseason in four years is a subject that will interest my readers, who, by the way, are also your fans.”
“And I’d like them to stay that way. I’m not sure your article will help us.”
“Why are you treating me like the enemy? You know I never take a position with my articles. Readers will decide whether the Monarchs are handling the postseason well. I only report what the players tell me.”
Troy stopped drumming his fingers. “How can I be sure of that?”
Andrea narrowed her eyes. She’d worked too hard rebuilding her career to allow anyone to question her integrity. She especially resented that attitude coming from Troy, who’d probably never known failure in his life.