by Regina Hart
“Tomorrow it is, then.” Faith sat forward. “Would you like some tea?”
Constance seemed overwhelmed. “Yes, please.” Andrea watched her roommate walk to the kitchen. She arched a brow at Constance. “I probably should have warned you that Faith can be pushy. And you’ll be on your own with her until Tuesday. I’m leaving for Cleveland to cover the first two Monarchs games tomorrow.”
Constance tucked her little girl closer to her. “Why are you two doing this?”
Andrea ran her hand over the orange and yellow afghan that covered the sofa’s fraying back. “I lived at the shelter once, too.”
Constance’s jaw dropped. She searched Andrea’s face. “You did?”
Andrea nodded. “My problem wasn’t an abusive husband. It was something else. Faith and her friend took me in when I was trying to get back on my feet.”
Constance sighed. “I just hope you don’t regret this.”
“We won’t.” Andrea settled back into the lumpy sofa. A couple of years ago, she’d been in a similar situation to Constance. It felt good to now be in a position to help the other woman. Pay it forward.
It also was becoming easier to face her past. Was she finally getting to the point where she could forgive herself for her mistakes? When would she be certain she wouldn’t ever repeat them?
7
“Barron Douglas is going drinking again tonight.” Faith’s announcement startled Andrea. Her roommate curled up onto the sofa and settled her sketchbook on her lap
She gaped at Faith from the tan love seat. “How did you know?”
Faith drew a circle in the air with her index finger as though tracing Andrea’s face. “You’re gnawing on your lower lip and staring at your cell phone. That’s what you usually do when Barron tweets that he’s going clubbing.”
Disappointed by the mundane explanation, Andrea returned her attention to her cell phone.
She’d driven Constance and Tiffany back to the shelter hours ago. But the tiny apartment still smelled of their pasta dinner with a hint of Tiffany’s French fries. It also was almost surprisingly quiet without the chatty toddler.
Andrea glanced up from her phone. “The team’s settled into their hotel in Cleveland. Barron sent a Twitter message asking for nightclub recommendations.”
Faith crossed her right leg over her left. “There’s nothing you can do about that. He’s in Cleveland. You aren’t flying out until tomorrow.”
Andrea heard the concern in Faith’s voice. She set her cell phone beside her on the love seat and met her friend’s troubled gaze. “Barron’s in trouble.”
“You’ve been saying that for months. I know you’re worried, but he doesn’t want your help. Besides, he has his teammates around him. You can ease up on the Barron Douglas Watch.”
Andrea considered her recent interviews with the Monarchs and the players’ comments. “Barron’s teammates don’t realize he’s in trouble. They think he’s being himself.”
Faith opened her sketchbook. “If his teammates don’t think his behavior is unusual, what makes you think something’s wrong?”
How could she put her instincts into words? As she gathered her thoughts, Andrea glanced around the worn living room. Her gaze bounced off the simple neutral furnishings and lingered on the vibrant accent colors.
“It’s as I explained before, I recognize Barron’s behavior because I’ve been there.” Andrea’s words came faster as she struggled with remembered emotions. “The expectations on you are so high. Fear of failure overwhelms you. Your behavior becomes riskier as you try to compensate for your insecurity and numb your panic.”
Faith looked up from her sketchbook. “But that was your experience. It’s not necessarily what Barron’s going through.”
Andrea couldn’t allow the memories to overwhelm her. “I think it is.”
Faith put down her sketchbook and circled the laminate coffee table to sit beside Andrea on the tan love seat. “Tonight, you convinced a homeless mother running from an abusive ex-husband to move in with you.”
Andrea couldn’t escape Faith’s steady gaze. “We did.”
“Isn’t that one good deed enough? You can’t save everyone, Andrea.”
“I’m not trying to save everyone. I’m trying to help Barron avoid the mistakes I’ve made. You would do the same.”
Faith took hold of her forearm. “Yes, I would. But how are you going to help Barron when he won’t listen to you?”
Andrea sighed. Troy’s distrust echoed in her ears. “He thinks I’m trying to trick him into doing an interview for Sports.”
“Let the team handle Barron.”
“He won’t listen to them, either. They’ve done interviews criticizing him. I have to find a way to earn his trust and talk to him without Troy knowing.”
“And what will you say to Troy when your article is published? ‘Oops’?” Faith’s tone was dry.
“I can’t walk away from Barron.” After her mother died, she’d been alone and afraid, a dangerous combination. Barron seemed to be in a similar situation.
“How many people do you have to help before you can forgive yourself?”
A blush burned Andrea’s skin. “That’s not what this is about.”
“That’s exactly what this is about.” Faith released Andrea’s forearm. “You made a mistake. You’ve paid for it and you’ve learned from it. Stop punishing yourself and move on.”
Andrea thought of the reporters who ignored her during the games. And Troy. He wasn’t aware of her mistakes. But he still challenged her integrity. “I want to. But it’s hard to let go of the past.”
Troy looked away from ESPN’s Saturday morning SportsCenter to answer his cell phone. He recognized the number. “Hey, Rick.”
“Mary left me.” The Monarchs point guard sounded as though he were chewing glass.
Troy scrambled to gather his thoughts. “When?”
“This morning. After she read the latest Insider.”
Troy squeezed his eyes shut and pinched the bridge of his nose. He spun on his heel and marched across the hotel room to his laptop. “What did she say?”
He hadn’t given the malicious gossiper any thought this morning. He’d been too anxious to hear what the sports pundits were saying about the Monarchs’ chances of winning their first play-off game in four years. He was pleased the anchors had used the franchise’s new marketing slogan, “We’re back,” in their coverage, but his priorities had been wrong.
“She accused me of flirting with other women.”
Troy froze with his hands above the keyboard. “What?”
“Last night—I mean, this morning—we went to some clubs looking for Barron.”
“Who’s we?”
Warrick’s sigh was impatient. “Jamal, Serge, Anthony, Vincent, and me.”
“Barron went clubbing the night before a game? Why didn’t anyone call me?”
Warrick’s voice tightened. “This isn’t about Barron now. It’s about Mary.”
Troy hit the space bar to wake his computer. “Sorry.”
“That blogger must have been there. He wrote a column about us going to the club where we found Bling. He made it seem as though we were there to get laid.”
Troy felt a surge of anger. He stared at his monitor. “Did anyone approach you?”
“Of course people approached us.” The shooting guard was rapidly losing his patience. “Men and women. Some wanted autographs or pictures. Others wanted to talk about the game. But no one who seemed as though they were going to do a piss piece about us.”
Troy kept his tone balanced. “Give me a second to call up the website.”
“Why?” There was a snap in Warrick’s tone.
“I want to read what the blogger wrote.”
“You can do that later. What are you going to do to make this right?”
The website loaded on Troy’s computer screen. He scanned the copy. The post made it seem as though the Monarchs were sex-starved adolescents gone wild at
a legal brothel. The blogger went on to make the shooting guard’s wife the target of his latest electronic assault. The post was an affront to fairness and propriety.
Doctor Marilyn Devry-Evans wasn’t resting on her husband’s NBA laurels. She had an established career as an obstetrician/gynecologist. She also happened to be a beautiful woman, although the blogger disagreed. According to him, Marilyn wasn’t worthy to be seen on the arm of a professional athlete. What made it even worse was that, at a glance, there were hundreds of comments to the site and most agreed with the blogger.
Later today, the Monarchs would face the Cleveland Cavaliers in the Quicken Loans Arena in their first game of the best-of-seven-games series. This column couldn’t have come at a worse time. But then, that was probably Gerald’s intent. The team—Warrick—didn’t need this distraction, especially not now.
Troy wanted to punch the gossip. He could only imagine how Warrick felt. “How did you find this post?”
“One of Mary’s friend’s sent her the link this morning.” Warrick sounded tense and tired. “Mary sent it to me.”
Troy clenched his teeth. Marilyn had read the column before he’d even seen it. The situation was going from bad to worse to horrific. “I’m sorry. I should have stayed on top of this.”
“What are you going to do about it?” Warrick asked the question with controlled fury.
Facing a furious husband was harder than trying to diffuse his boss’s anger. “I’ll threaten the paper with a lawsuit if they don’t stop libeling our players and our staff. I’ll also demand they take the post down.”
“That’s it?” Warrick’s tone was incredulous.
Troy frowned. What did Warrick mean? “I’ll force them to take the post off the Internet.”
“This is bullshit. What good is getting rid of the post now? Mary’s gone. I want her back. What are you going to do about that?”
What could he do? “Rick, right now Mary’s angry and embarrassed. Once this blows over, she’ll come back.” In the silence, Troy felt the waves of Warrick’s tension crashing down the phone line.
“When will this ‘blow over’?”
Troy kneaded the back of his neck where the tension tightened his muscles. “I don’t know.” Everyone was losing patience with the blog—Jaclyn, Warrick, most of all him. He had to end it.
“I want that blogger fired.” Warrick bit the words. “Then I want the publisher to apologize to my wife. Publicly.”
“Rick, I’ll do—”
“She cried.” Those two small words revealed the athlete’s torment.
Troy couldn’t feel any worse. “I’m sorry.”
Warrick’s words sped up as he transitioned from sorrow to anger. “If this guy wants to take cheap shots at me, I’m up for that. I’m the one who plays for the Monarchs. My wife isn’t Mrs. Warrick Evans. She’s Dr. Marilyn Devry-Evans. She deserves respect.”
“I’ll demand an apology for Mary.” Troy spoke gingerly. “But the next headline could read ‘Mrs. Evans Cries Foul.’ Are you willing to risk that?”
Warrick spoke through clenched teeth. “If you don’t have the stones to tell the paper to take down that crap, I’ll do it myself.”
A quick ten count reminded Troy that Warrick didn’t mean to threaten his job. He was a husband reacting to his wife being publicly embarrassed. “You can do that. It might even work. But keep in mind the previous Insider post claimed Marc was only with Jackie for her money.”
Stunned silence dropped down the line. “Are you kidding me?”
“No. Jackie and I agreed to ignore it.” After Troy exerted all of his powers of persuasion. “The Insider’s goal, obviously, is to post as much cheap and hurtful gossip as he can. We have to be careful how we respond. We don’t want to encourage him.”
Warrick grunted. “Your strategy to ignore him didn’t work. He followed his post about Jackie and Marc with this crap about my wife. You should have threatened him with a lawsuit then. If you had, Mary would still be with me.”
Guilt pulled on Troy’s shoulders. Was Warrick right? Troy hadn’t insisted the Horn take down the post about Jaclyn and DeMarcus because he’d been afraid it would seem as though the Monarchs considered the blogger important. Well, he considered the malicious gossip important now.
Troy dragged a hand over his hair. “Even if the Horn had taken down the post about Jackie and Marc, they still would have posted this one. This sort of malice draws readers. And readers bring in revenue.”
“You need to fix this, Troy.”
He’d never seen this side of Warrick before. The Monarchs shooting guard could keep his cool even in the face of verbal abuse and physical assaults on the court. Nothing seemed to faze him. But this morning, Warrick was angry and desperate. His desperation was shutting out reason. What was Troy supposed to say to reassure him? “I’ll get them to take down the post, Rick.”
“That’s not good enough. I want them to admit that they made up the story. We were there to get Barron, not to get laid. They lied.”
Troy’s tone was tentative. “Taking down the post won’t magically bring Mary back. If she doesn’t trust you, she’s going to need some time.”
“Why wouldn’t she trust me?” There was pain in the other man’s voice. “We’ve been married for two years. I’ve never cheated on her. I never would.”
“Ballers have a reputation.”
Warrick’s tone hardened. “I’m not some baller. I’m her husband.” He took a breath. “Make the call, man.”
“I will.” Troy tried to sound confident.
Warrick exhaled. “Thanks.”
Troy gripped his cell phone even after ending the call. The blog was becoming more destructive. He needed to find a way to stop them. But how?
8
“I love hearing about your job, Troy. But when are you going to call me because you’re depressed over a woman?” Troy’s sister sounded more irritated than concerned. He was three years older than her, but Michelle Marshall-Redding’s superior attitude often made him feel like the younger sibling.
“Today’s not that day.” Troy stood from the sofa and wandered his hotel room’s sitting area.
The room’s royal blue carpeting was soft beneath his bare feet. He circled the wood and glass coffee table and muted the ESPN sports program rerunning from this morning. He could hear his five-year-old nephew and three-year-old niece arguing in the background. Did Michelle see their history repeating itself with her children?
His sister gave his nephew and niece a few sharp words and the noise level decreased. She returned her attention to their conversation. “Look, I’m sorry that your friend’s wife left him, but how is that your fault?”
“I didn’t say it was.” But that’s how it felt.
“You sound as though you blame yourself.”
He started pacing again—long, angry strides. “Gerry’s the one to blame. He’s gone too far this time.”
The clinking of metal on metal jarred the telephone line. Michelle was loading her dishwasher. “How do you know it’s your boss?”
Troy pressed the silver cell phone against his ear. Jaclyn was his boss. Gerald was a snake in the grass who needed to be removed. “It’s his M.O. He’s using rumors and innuendo to turn our fans against us.”
“What does Jackie say?”
Troy was impatient with Michelle’s interrogation. He needed a solution, not an oral questionnaire. “She wants me to get rid of the blog.”
“What’s she doing to get rid of Gerry?” His sister’s questions continued.
“Gerry won’t sell his shares, and she doesn’t have a contractual reason to drop him.”
“Jackie’s a lawyer as well as the franchise owner. If she can’t get rid of her partner, what do you think you’re going to be able to do?”
Troy stopped pacing. Through his hotel window, he stared at downtown Cleveland’s tall, older buildings and narrow, hilly streets. “I don’t know. But I’ve got to do something.”
&nbs
p; “Handle the publicity for the team. That’s your job. Not babysitting the players. You’re dealing with adults, not children.”
Considering the recruiting age of many of today’s players, Michelle’s pronouncement wasn’t strictly true. “I’m trying to manage the media. But it’s damn hard when someone inside the franchise is feeding bloggers gossip about the team.”
Michelle broke the pensive silence. “Gerry’s your boss. In this economy, I wouldn’t push him, if I were you. You might find yourself out of a job.”
Troy dragged his hand over his hair. “He’s the one who needs to be out of a job.”
“That’s what I’m talking about.”
“What?” He prowled past the beige tweed sofa. Another segment of ESPN’s SportsCenter was starting.
Michelle’s laughter was incredulous. “I know you, Troy. You rush into situations without a plan. You’ve been lucky so far, but your luck’s not going to hold forever.”
He hadn’t always been lucky. But some things were worth the risk, and the Monarchs was one of them. “I know what I’m doing, Shelley.”
“And what’s that?”
“Protecting the team. It’s what they pay me to do.” Troy strode back to the window and stared down at the pedestrian traffic along Carnegie Avenue.
“What’s more important? Your job or the team?”
Troy hesitated. “The players are like brothers to me. I can’t separate the two.”
“I hope Gerry can. Otherwise, if you put your neck out to protect the team’s image, you may find yourself unemployed.”
Troy sighed, turning away from his view of spring in Cleveland. “It won’t come to that. I just need a plan.”
Saturday evening, less than an hour before the first Brooklyn Monarchs versus Cleveland Cavaliers game, Andrea made her way to the media section in the Quicken Loans Arena. Her stomach muscles knotted.
The section started about six rows up from the court to the right of the far basket. There were five rows of tables and chairs arranged for national and international print and Internet reporters. And all of them remembered the newspaper scandal she’d been involved in four years before. They weren’t as openly hostile since she’d caught the story of Gerald trying to move the Monarchs. Still, she felt the cold slap of their disdain as she forced her way past them to an empty seat in the third row. They behaved as though they didn’t hear when she asked them to excuse her. They pretended not to see as she struggled around them with her purse and laptop. But she always acted as though their scorn didn’t affect her.