by Regina Hart
Barron arched a brow. “Why? Are you going to talk to us again?”
His temper was starting to fray. What made him think he could reason with the point guard? “This isn’t a joke. It’s the play-offs. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Barron leaned across the bar toward him. His voice was low and throbbing with anger. “Only if I’m going to play.”
“Marc won’t let you play if you don’t practice. You know that.”
“I guess I’ll just keep drinking then.” Barron pulled the bottle toward him.
Troy fisted his hands in his pockets. “Meanwhile, you’ll give Gerry plenty of material to hurt the team.”
Barron scowled his disbelief. “The team he owns? Why would he do that?”
“Co-owns. He doesn’t want us to contend in the play-offs.”
Barron barked a laugh. “You think I’ll stay home if you tell me Gerry’s going to use me to hurt the team? Nice try. You told us not to talk to reporters outside of the media sessions.”
Troy let his anger show. “You won’t have to talk to reporters. Your teammates will see that while they’re taking care of their bodies and showing up for the team, you’re coming to practice with a hangover. Think they’ll want you around?”
Barron glowered at him. “Screw them and screw you.”
“You already have.” Troy turned to leave.
Nothing had changed with Barron tonight. He may never get through to him. All right. If he couldn’t stop Barron, could he stop Gerry?
5
“I think I’ve found our new roommate.” Andrea spoke over her shoulder to Faith Wilcox as she loaded the dishwasher. She and her roommate had finished dinner and were tidying the cozy confines of their kitchen.
“Who?” Faith scrubbed the pots and pans by hand. The rhythm of her movements was in time with the pop song she hummed under her breath.
“Connie Street. She’s the Monarchs’ new administrative assistant.” Andrea added detergent to the dishwasher’s well. “And she has a three-year-old daughter.”
“I don’t remember you mentioning her. How long have you known each other?” Faith rinsed the pots and pans, placing them on the drain board.
Andrea drew a deep breath as she straightened from the dishwasher. The savory scents of their chicken stew dinner lingered in the air. “We met her at the Morning Glory homeless shelter a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember a tall blonde with a toddler daughter?”
“No.” Faith dried her brown hands on the white and blue dish towel hanging from the refrigerator’s door handle. “She’s a stranger.”
“I was, too. When I answered your ad for a roommate, I didn’t know you or Keisha. Still, you let me move in with you.”
Faith’s dark brown gaze was speculative. “Our first roommate got married and left just like Keisha. I see a pattern here.”
“And I came from the shelter just like Connie and her daughter.” Andrea remembered who and where she’d been when they’d first met.
“A little girl could cramp our love lives.” Faith led them from the kitchen.
Andrea chuckled. “When was the last time either of us brought a man home?”
Faith tossed Andrea a smile. “Your dry spell has been longer.”
“Thanks for reminding me. I might have forgotten.” Andrea grabbed the television remote control and collapsed onto the faded tan armchair across from the small, aging television. It had been a long and mentally exhausting day. “Let’s invite Connie and her daughter for dinner tomorrow so we can get to know them.”
Faith curled up on the fat brown sofa on Andrea’s right. “Is she going to be another one of your good deeds?”
Andrea avoided Faith’s gaze. “She needs a home. We need a roommate. Why do you think it’s more complicated than that?”
Faith let out an exasperated sigh. “You’ve been doing penance for your mistake for as long as I’ve known you. When is it going to be enough?”
“I haven’t been keeping track.” The truth was she didn’t know. It may never be enough.
Faith’s expression clouded with concern. “Are you doing this because you want to or because you think you have to? Do you even know?”
“She seems nice and, if she moves in, everyone gets what they need. She gets a home for her and her daughter. We get someone to help with expenses. I don’t think that’s a bad thing.”
Her friend studied her a moment longer. “All right. Invite them to dinner. We’ll see how it goes.”
Andrea’s shoulders relaxed. “Thank you.”
“Is that the reason you’ve been moping around all evening like someone stole your superpowers?”
Andrea scowled. “It’s worse. Troy pulled my access to the team.”
“What? Why?” Faith sounded ready to pummel Troy.
“He says he’s trying to protect the team from bad press.”
Faith’s brows knitted. “Then why is he blocking you from the team? New York would have forgotten about the Monarchs if it wasn’t for you.”
Andrea’s gaze slid to the remote in her hands. She looked at the buttons without really seeing them. She’d rebuilt her confidence with the Monarchs. She could thank Jaclyn Jones for that. “Troy thinks he’s doing the right thing. I don’t agree, but how do I change his mind?”
“By working for another paper.” Faith uncurled her legs, planting her feet on the floor. “Troy thinks he can get away with treating you unfairly because you write for Sports. He wouldn’t treat the Times or the Daily News this way.”
Andrea wasn’t as certain. “He said he will.”
Faith snorted. “No, he won’t. Face it, Andrea. You need to work for a newspaper with more clout.”
Faith was a good friend and the closest thing to family she had since her mother died. But Faith’s expectations for Andrea’s career advancement were sometimes more stressful than encouraging. “I enjoy working for Sports. The pay is horrible. Resources are slim to none. And technology is decades behind industry standards. But Will is a good boss. He gave me an opportunity when no one else would.”
“And you’re afraid they’ll reject you again when you start looking for a new job.”
Andrea lifted her worried gaze to Faith. “It’s too soon to expect they’ve forgotten my past.”
Faith crossed her arms. “You’re the one who won’t let go of the past. It’s been four years. How long are you going to punish yourself for your mistakes?”
“We’ve had this conversation before. You don’t understand what it was like.”
“No, I don’t. But I do know that you’re the only thing holding you back. You’re a great writer. Even I can see that and I don’t like sports.”
Andrea stared at the floor. Instead of the red and orange Oriental-style rug, she saw broken dreams and unfulfilled goals. “I want to write for a major paper again. I want a wider audience.”
“A bigger paycheck wouldn’t hurt, either.”
“But just because I want it doesn’t mean I’ll get it.” Or that I deserve it.
“The role of Eternal Penitent doesn’t suit you.” Faith leaned toward Andrea. “Get off your backside, pack up your fears, and go for it.”
“I would—if I had somewhere to go. The industry has a long memory.” Andrea pointed the remote control at the television screen and pressed the on button, signaling the end of the discussion.
The cable news came to life on the screen. Andrea set the remote on the coffee table. She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her warm-up jacket and checked her Twitter account. She bit her lower lip when she read Barron’s latest message.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked up at Faith’s question. “Barron Douglas is going clubbing again tonight.”
Faith shrugged. “So?”
“That’s two nights in a row, and practice is eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“I guess that’s a bad thing.”
Andrea lowered her cell phone. “His team has made it to the
postseason. Barron should be focused on the play-offs, not the clubs. His behavior is out of control—just like mine was.”
“If you’re worried about him, talk to Troy.”
Andrea returned her gaze to her phone. “I tried. He won’t listen to me.”
“And you said he won’t let you talk to the players, either.”
Andrea’s hand tightened around her cellular. “I have to at least try to help Barron.” She shrugged. “I can always apologize to Troy later.”
The next morning, Andrea got out of her Escort as Barron pulled his liquid silver BMW sports car into a parking space about five rows ahead of hers. The Monarchs’ captain was cutting his schedule pretty close. Friday’s practice would start in a few minutes. Then the team would leave for Cleveland and its best-of-seven series against the Cavaliers.
“Barron.” She shouted his name to detain him as she jogged across the Empire Arena’s parking lot.
Barron stopped, lowering his wraparound black sunglasses to scan the lot. In seconds, his gaze landed on Andrea. His features twisted into an irritated scowl before he turned and continued toward the arena. Too late. His momentary hesitation bought Andrea enough time to catch up with the NBA star as he was halfway across the lot.
“Barron.” She was slightly out of breath. Little had she known her morning jogs would help her chase down professional athletes. “May I speak with you?”
“No.” He didn’t slow down.
Andrea tried to match his long strides. She angled her head to search his features about eight inches above her. Strain lines bracketed his tense lips. His jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth.
“You have a hangover.” She made it a statement.
A light breeze carried the scents of nearby cut grass, spring blossoms, and the marina. It ruffled her hair. She brushed the loose strands away from her face.
Barron dragged a hand over his thick cornrows. He didn’t look at her. “Find someone else to screw with for your paper.”
Andrea winced but still managed to keep pace with the point guard. He’d probably move faster if he weren’t afraid his head would shatter.
The front entrance was in sight. “I’m not screwing with you. I’m trying to help you.”
Barron came to an abrupt halt. He moved in, crowding Andrea. “Are you kidding me? How is that piece of crap you wrote about me supposed to help me?”
Andrea stood her ground. “You’re staying out late clubbing every single night. You’re getting to practice late and not giving a hundred percent when you’re there. Your behavior is a cry for help.”
His expression darkened. “This ain’t no soap opera. I’m not some teenage girl losing her mind.”
“No, you’re not.” Andrea held his gaze behind his sunglasses. “You’re an NBA player under a lot of pressure.”
Barron rocked back as though she’d slapped him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Andrea stepped forward. “This is the first time you’ve been on a play-off team—”
“So?”
Andrea ignored Barron’s interruption, concentrating instead on his labored breathing and the familiar stench of fear. She’d worn it herself four years ago. Behind his sunglasses, she thought she saw his eyes flick left, then right. “You’re the starting point guard and the team captain. You’re supposed to lead the team. Instead, you sat on the bench watching them win the game that decided if they’d get to the play-offs.”
Anger curled Barron’s lips. “Mind your damn business.” He spun on his heel and marched toward the arena.
Andrea rushed to keep up with him. “Your teammates and coaches think you’re being selfish and irresponsible. But that’s not it at all.”
“I said mind your business.” Barron sounded desperate. Afraid.
Andrea took heart from the player’s agitation. It meant he was almost ready to listen. She remembered that feeling. “I know what you’re running from. Talk to me. I can help you.”
Barron stopped again. He spun to face her. “I’m not running away from anything.” He growled the denial.
“OK. We’ll use the term avoidance.”
Barron snatched the wraparound sunglasses from his face with his right hand and rubbed his bloodshot eyes with his left. “What do you want from me?”
“Nothing. I want to help you.”
His pained dark gaze searched hers. Andrea saw the hope warring with suspicion in his eyes. “How?”
“Talk to me. Tell me what you’re thinking, how you’re feeling, what’s on your mind.”
“You’re going to help me by interviewing me for your newspaper?”
Andrea shook her head. “This isn’t about Sports. I just want to help you.”
“Help me do what?”
“Face whatever’s bothering you. That’s the first step toward your recovery, being able to admit you have a problem.”
Barron shoved his sunglasses back onto his face. “Yeah. Sure. And if you happen to get your story while you’re helping me, it’s all good. Right? Wrong. I don’t trust you.”
“I know what’s bothering you, but you have to admit it to yourself.”
Barron barked a laugh, shaking his head. “Oh, you’re good. You pretend something’s wrong with me. Then you try to sucker me into telling you exactly what it is so you can slap your byline on the story.”
Andrea moved closer to him, taking hold of Barron’s forearm to prevent him from moving away from her. “I’m not trying to trick you. I promise.”
Barron looked from her hand on his forearm to her face. “You expect me to believe you’re doing this for my sake?”
“No.” Andrea held onto his gaze, willing him to believe her. “I’m doing this for my sake.”
Uncertainty flashed across Barron’s dark face before his features hardened. “Nobody does anything for anyone for free.” He shook off her hand and marched into the arena. This time, Andrea let him go. What could she do to get through to him? He wasn’t ready to talk about the reason for his erratic behavior.
Andrea checked her wristwatch. Barron may not want her help, at least not yet. But there was another Monarchs employee who might.
Minutes later, Andrea stood in front of Constance Street’s desk. “Are you free for dinner tonight?”
Constance stopped typing. Her green eyes filled with suspicion. “Why?”
Andrea spied the New York Daily News’s Apartments for Rent section neatly folded in a corner. “My friend, Faith, and I are looking for a roommate to help with the rent. Our last roommate just got married and moved out.”
Suspicion became uncertainty. “I have a three-year-old daughter. I can’t see two young, single women welcoming a toddler who isn’t theirs into their apartment.”
Andrea quirked a brow. “You make us sound like swingers. We’re actually pretty boring. But it’s just a dinner invitation to get to know each other. No commitments.”
Constance stared at her keyboard. “I don’t know.”
Andrea stepped closer to her desk, needing to persuade this single mother of modest means to accept her help. “It’s just dinner. Faith is a great cook. I’ll pick you and Tiffany up at the shelter after work.”
Constance picked at the cuff of her long-sleeved white blouse. It was pretty and professional but too large for the slender woman. She probably was looking forward to buying some new clothes—after all of her bills were paid. “I don’t know if we should become friends.”
Andrea laughed her surprise. “Why not?”
Constance’s eyes were wide and worried. She knotted her fingers together. “You’re a reporter. I work for the Monarchs. I can’t give you insider information. I’d lose my job.”
Andrea sobered. “I know. That’s why I wouldn’t ask that of you. If we all agree to give this a try, we’ll just be roommates. And, hopefully, friends.”
“My husband beat me.” Constance’s admission rushed out at Andrea. Her cheeks were red with shame. Her gaze remained glued to her knotted fingers.
“I know.”
Constance’s eyes darted up to her. “You know?”
“Your makeup didn’t conceal everything. I’m glad the bruises have faded.” At least the ones that were visible.
Constance brushed away tears with her fingertips. “When he hit Tiff, I had to leave. She’s just a baby.”
“I understand.” Sometimes it was easier to find courage for someone you love than it was to be brave for yourself. Andrea clenched her hands inside the front pockets of her pants. She imagined using her fists against the man who would beat his wife and child.
Constance’s voice shook. Her eyes filled with panic. “What if he finds out where I work or where I live? I don’t want to involve anyone else in my problems.”
Andrea reached into her purse. She pulled a business card from her wallet and handed it to Constance. “One step at a time. Come for dinner. Don’t expect anything fancy. But we’d really like for you and Tiff to join us.”
She smiled encouragingly while Constance’s frightened gaze skipped from her business card to her face, then back. The struggle between her timidity and temptation was palpable.
Constance reached for the card. “I’ll think about it. I promise.”
“Fair enough.” Andrea turned to leave.
Constance’s voice halted her. “Didn’t you want to see Mr. Marshall? He should be back soon.”
Andrea shook her head. “I came to speak with you.”
Suspicion returned to Constance’s eyes. “You came all this way to invite me to dinner?”
Andrea hesitated. “And to check on a player.”
“Mr. Marshall doesn’t want the media talking to the players or the coaches.”
“This wasn’t for a story.” She sensed Constance’s curiosity, but she wasn’t ready to satisfy her. “If we become roommates, I wouldn’t ask you to jeopardize your job to help advance mine.”
Andrea made it out of the office. She pushed through the double glass doors that led to the elevators and pressed the down button. The black laminate walls gleamed in the fluorescent light. The silver metal elevator doors captured her reflection.