Smooth Play

by Regina Hart

  “What?” Constance’s fair brows flew toward her blond hairline.

  Serge held Troy’s gaze. “This has to do with the interview you gave ESPN, doesn’t it?”

  Troy nodded, then tried a wry smile. “It seemed like a good idea at the time.”

  Serge shook his head. “That took—” He cut himself off and glanced down at Tiffany. The little girl gave him a curious look. Serge returned his attention to Troy. “Courage. That took a lot of courage.”

  Constance’s gaze swept from Serge to Troy. “What happened?”

  Troy made himself meet Constance’s puzzled green gaze. “I accused Gerry of being the Insider.”

  Constance gaped. “That blogger? What makes you think that?”

  Serge answered her. “Gerry may be part owner, but he doesn’t want the team to be a success.”

  Andrea continued the explanation. “He’s contacted the media about printing negative stories about the team before. And he doesn’t care whether the stories are true.”

  Constance’s jaw dropped. “But that’s crazy.”

  Tiffany giggled. “My mommy said ‘That’s crazy.’”

  “No one said Gerry was sane.” Troy smiled at the little girl’s levity.

  Constance’s gaze swung to Troy. “But if the team isn’t successful, he loses money.”

  Troy shrugged. “He doesn’t care. Destroying the franchise is more important to him.”

  Constance scowled. “It must be nice to have so much money that you don’t care whether you lose some of it.”

  “No kidding.” Andrea’s tone was dry.

  He saw amusement rather than resentment in her eyes.

  What was behind her question in the kitchen? She’d repeatedly asked why he didn’t believe she was the Monarchs Insider. Why was that so important to her? He knew she had too much integrity to attack someone anonymously. But his answer had upset her. What was she looking for? She said she wanted his trust. Could he trust her?

  Troy refocused on the conversation. “I wanted you to hear the news from me rather than the media.”

  Faith shifted in her armchair. “I’m so sorry about your job. What will you do now?”

  Troy shrugged, more to ease the pressure in his chest than to pretend a casual attitude. He’d loved his job. He loved being a part of a team, even if he wasn’t on the court anymore. “I’m going to prove Gerry’s involvement with the blog.”

  “Are you sure you should do that?” Constance looked around the room as though searching for someone to support her. “I mean, trying to identify the Insider’s already gotten you into trouble.”

  Troy chuckled without humor. “So what more do I have to lose?”

  “And I’m going to help him.” Andrea’s eyes sparkled. “At the very least, maybe I can talk him out of appearing on TV again.”

  Troy smiled. “I appreciate that.”

  “The team will help, too.” Serge rested his forearms on his lap. “After all, you took the risk trying to help us.”

  Constance wrung her hands. “I’ll do whatever I can. Maybe I’ll see something or hear something that will give us a clue.”

  Tiffany put her small palm over her mother’s nervous hands. The little girl looked worried as she leaned closer to capture Constance’s attention. Her smile shook a little. “My mommy said that’s crazy.”

  Troy swallowed the lump in his throat. He hadn’t expected their offers to help him. He was used to dealing with problems on his own.

  He watched Constance smooth her daughter’s hair. “Thank you both. But please don’t do anything that will jeopardize your job.”

  Constance lifted Tiffany onto her lap. “I’ll be careful. Do you know who my new boss will be?”

  Troy hesitated. The words didn’t come easily. “Gerry’s going to fill in until they hire someone else.”

  Serge snorted. “Gerry? We’re doomed.”

  Troy agreed. It seemed the Monarchs co-owner was right where he’d wanted to be. Had Gerald been lucky or had this been part of his plan?

  11

  “They fired you?”

  Troy winced. He held the telephone receiver away from his head. Still, his sister’s shriek reverberated against his eardrum. “Careful, sis. I think all the dogs in the neighborhood heard you.”

  “Don’t take that irritated tone with me. I told you to let Jackie handle this.”

  Judging by Michelle’s autocratic tone, she’d forgotten—again—that she was the younger sibling. Troy slumped back into the black leather armchair in his living room but kept a safe distance between his ear and his cordless phone. “Shelley, no one likes to hear ‘I told you so.’”

  She harrumphed into the phone. “You need to hear it. What are you going to do now?”

  “Look for another job.” No way was Troy going to tell his bossy younger sibling he was going to continue looking for the Monarchs Insider. She wouldn’t understand.

  Troy’s television was on mute. ESPN’s SportsCenter was replaying clips from his interview. Again. They also announced that he’d been fired after his “outburst.” Great. He looked away from the TV and focused on his sister’s words.

  “Why don’t you come home to D.C.? The Wizards are here. And the Redskins, the Nationals, the Capitals—”

  “We have a lot of sports teams here, too, Shel.” Troy stared out the picture window of his twentieth-floor condominium. He absently noted the nighttime view. The lights from other buildings in the background. The streetlights glowing on the billboards.

  “You have family here.” Michelle tried a cajoling tone.

  Return home to lick his wounds? He couldn’t do that. Besides, he had unfinished business in New York.

  He wasn’t looking forward to telling his parents he’d been fired, either. He’d collected three straight failures: basketball, his marriage, and now his job. It didn’t matter that none of these failures was his fault. His parents would still count them against him.

  “I’m going to look for another job here first.” Troy sensed the wheels of Michelle’s mind turning. He was uneasy with her silence. His sister always knew when he wasn’t telling her everything. What was she piecing together now?

  “Does this need to stay in New York have anything to do with that reporter you’re supposed to be sleeping with?”

  Shock and disappointment swamped him. “Are you reading the Insider?”

  “I wanted to know more about the blog that’s making you crazy. So? Are you sleeping with her?”

  Troy closed his eyes. Why was he having this conversation? “First, that’s none of your business. Second, don’t believe everything you read in anonymous, gossip blogs.”

  “That means no.” His sister’s sigh was heavy. “She must be pretty ticked off at you about that blog then. Have you apologized?”

  “Yes, and she—” Troy’s security phone rang. Saved by the bell. He stood. “And she accepted my apology. Shel, I’ve got to go. Someone’s at my door.”

  She sighed again. “Call me back. We aren’t done with this.”

  “Sure.” He’d say anything to get his sister off the line.

  Troy replaced the phone receiver and glanced at the clock on the cable box beneath his television. It was after nine o’clock in the evening. He’d only recently returned from Andrea’s apartment. His security phone rang again.

  Troy strode to his hallway and picked up the phone. “Marshall.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Marshall. Barron Douglas is at the security desk for you, sir.” Beneath the guard’s smooth delivery, Troy heard a hint of disapproval.

  He rubbed the back of his neck. Was Barron drunk again? “I’ll be right down.”

  He grabbed his keys and rode the elevator to the marble and mirrored lobby. Waiting with the young guard beside the security desk, Barron gave Troy the wide, blurry grin of the happy drunk.

  The NBA player flung his arms wide, causing the wiry security officer to lurch back. “Troy, I’m here to cheer you up, buddy. Sorry to hear abou
t your job.”

  Troy winced. Serge must have called Barron. Who else had he told? Luckily, the lobby was empty except for him, Barron, and the hapless guard. He wasn’t eager to share his unemployment status with his neighbors.

  He grabbed one of Barron’s outstretched arms, then glanced at the guard. “Thanks, Ted.”

  Ted nodded stoically, but Troy saw the relief in his eyes. “You’re welcome, Mr. Marshall.”

  Troy guided Barron back to his condo. Once inside, he poured a glass of cold water for the Monarchs captain.

  Barron curled his lip as he took the glass. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

  “Drink it.” Troy turned away. “I’ll make coffee.”

  “Don’t you have anything else to drink?”

  “Not for you.” Troy spoke with his back to the player as he filled the coffee carafe with water from his sink’s filtered faucet. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Barron? You’re already drunk and it’s only nine o’clock. When did you start drinking today?”

  “What are you, a priest? I don’t have any confessions for you. I’m trying to cheer you up and you’re bringing me down.” Barron sounded like a petulant child.

  Troy squelched the urge to pop the other man in the mouth. Instead he concentrated on measuring coffee into the filter. “You played like shit last night. Are you planning on repeating that Thursday night? Do you want the Monarchs to be swept out of the play-offs because of you?”

  “You’re blaming me for Monday’s loss?” Gone was the sulky child. Barron sounded angry and defensive.

  Troy wasn’t impressed. He turned on the coffeemaker and poured the water into the machine. “I’m blaming you for not being ready for the game. You looked like a man playing with a hangover, probably because you were.”

  “At least I didn’t go on TV to call my boss a liar. Yesterday wasn’t a good day for either of us, cuz.”

  Troy turned away from his kitchen counter. The player was right. “No, it wasn’t.”

  The security phone rang again. Troy crossed to the entrance way to answer it. “Marshall.”

  “Good evening, Mr. Marshall. There are several other Monarchs players here to see you, sir.” The usually unflappable Ted sounded starstruck.

  What were they doing here? Serge must have told the whole team. He gritted his teeth. “Thanks, Ted. I’ll be right down.”

  “You’re welcome, Mr. Marshall.”

  Troy recradled the security phone and collected his keys. “A couple of the other guys are here. I’m going down to meet them. Drink the water.”

  “You’re not my mother.” Barron brought the glass to his lips.

  Troy locked his condo and took the elevator back downstairs. At the lobby, Serge, Warrick, Anthony, Vincent, and Jamal stood around the security desk looking as grim as the Monarchs fans who’d attended the first two play-off games.

  Troy caught Serge’s eyes. “You told them?”

  The Frenchman looked defiant. “Yes.”

  Anthony stepped forward. “You should have told us. ‘Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends.’”

  Vincent tapped Anthony’s shoulder. “Hey, St. Anthony. Troy’s not asking us to lay down our lives, man. He just needs a friend.”

  “Come upstairs.” Troy interrupted before the scowl on Anthony’s face turned into a heated exchange in the posh lobby of the upscale building.

  He nodded toward Ted before leading the Monarchs upstairs. When he let them into his condo, Troy found Barron searching his kitchen.

  The point guard glared at him. “Where do you keep the liquor?”

  Serge entered Troy’s home, followed by his teammates. “It looks as if you’ve had enough.”

  Barron turned his glare on the Frenchman. “Who asked you, man?”

  Troy went to the coffeemaker. “I’ll pour you some coffee. Does anyone else want some?”

  Warrick accepted Troy’s offer, but Serge, Anthony, and Vincent requested ice water. Jamal wanted orange juice. After filling everyone’s request, Troy moved the players into his living room.

  Warrick lowered himself beside Troy on the sofa. “I’m sorry about what I said yesterday. I know it’s not your fault Mary left. I was angry and being stupid.”

  Troy nodded. “You had a right to be upset. Have you heard from her?”

  Warrick stared into the mug of coffee. “No. I’ve left messages, but she hasn’t returned any of them.”

  The other man was hurting. “Give her time, Rick. She knows you’d never cheat on her.”

  Warrick searched Troy’s gaze. “I keep telling myself the same thing every night before I go to bed—alone.”

  Serge joined them on the sofa. He glanced at Warrick’s coffee mug. “All that cream? And sugar, too?” He feigned a shiver of revulsion. “Is there any coffee in there?”

  Troy smiled. Warrick took a long drink of the coffee, then smacked his lips. Serge shook his head.

  Jamal examined Troy’s home entertainment system. “What does Gerry know about handling the media?”

  “Not a damn thing.” Vincent sat in one of the armchairs near the picture window, drinking his water.

  Troy tensed. Gerald could break the fragile foundation of the Monarchs’ rebuilding season in one day. “Just don’t give the media any reason to attack you. Whatever happens in the locker room stays in the locker room.”

  Warrick jerked his head toward Barron, who sat across the room. He pitched his voice low. “In other words, keep Bling away from the press.”

  Serge sent Barron a dubious look. “Who’s going to take him home?”

  Troy watched the Monarchs team captain sway slightly in the chair. “He might as well stay here. If he goes home, he’ll just keep drinking.”

  Keeping the players below the media’s radar should prevent further distractions. Unless Gerald had other plans.

  Andrea could hear a pin drop in the Empire Arena Thursday night. She was baffled by the debacle on the court as the Monarchs struggled against the Cleveland Cavaliers in game three of the series. Their performance wasn’t much better than it had been during the first two games. What had become of the Monarchs who’d defied the odds to attain a play-off berth?

  Barron’s cautious movements made Andrea think the player had yet another hangover. Jamal, Anthony, Serge, and Vincent tried to cover for him, but their movements were tentative as well. The younger Cavaliers were forcing the aging Monarchs to play faster than they were accustomed. By halftime, the Cavaliers led the Monarchs 58 to 36.

  “Andy, you look like you’re about to cry.” Jenna Madison, from The New York Times, leaned back in her chair.

  Jenna had pitched her voice to be heard above the song, “I’ve Got the Magic in Me” by B.o.B. and featuring Rivers Cuomo. The Empire Arena was playing the single to entertain their fans during the break.

  “There’s no cheering in the press box. There’s no crying, either,” the New York Daily News’s Frederick Pritchard threw out the modified adage in a distracted voice.

  As soon as halftime started, Frederick had settled into his default pose of squinting through his rimless glasses at his computer monitor. Frederick didn’t have much time for human interaction. However, his mind housed an encyclopedia’s breath of knowledge—names, stats, and quotes—on all the NBA teams.

  “We’re not in a press box.” Andrea turned back to the table and her laptop. She’d typed a few more observations about the game’s second quarter into her news draft, including the Monarchs’ criminally low points percentage and their missing-in-action defense.

  This was the team’s first of two consecutive home appearances in their best-of-seven-games series against the Cavaliers. Would the Cinderella team be able to win at least one? Or would they be swept out of the play-offs on their home court?

  On Andrea’s other side, the New York Post reporter, Sean Wolf, nudged her with a bony elbow. “Hey, Benson. What are you going to do now that the Monarchs fired your confidential s
ource?”

  Andrea turned a cold look on the Post’s tall, thin reporter. She raised her voice so their colleagues around them could hear. “Do you get your information from the Insider blog, Sean? Or maybe you are the Insider.”

  Startled amusement from the journalists around them brought a blush to the young man’s cheeks. Sean’s hazel eyes hardened. He scraped his lank brown hair back from his forehead “If anyone has insider information, it would be you, Benson.”

  Jenna tut-tutted at the arrogant sports reporter. “Now, Sean. Don’t dish it if you can’t take it.”

  Andrea blinked at Jenna’s defense of her. For three years, the other reporters had treated her like a leper. Her article on Gerald’s attempts to move the Monarchs out of Brooklyn must have cured her. Her colleagues were speaking to her again. Was this a sign that the higher profile news outlets were willing to take her back?

  Andrea turned to Jenna. “Who do you think the Insider is?”

  Sean offered his thoughts. “That’s obvious. It’s one of the bench players who wants more game time.”

  Jenna chuckled. “Spoken like a true armchair athlete, Sean. Still bitter you weren’t picked for varsity?”

  Sean glared at the glamorous journalist. “Do you still wish you’d been born a man?”

  Jenna’s smile stretched into a cold grin. “No. Do you?”

  Andrea covered her laughter with a cough. She leaned forward to better see Jenna seated on the other side of Frederick. “Do you have another theory?”

  Jenna shrugged. “I always disagree with Sean. I believe the blogger’s a woman.”

  Andrea was surprised. “So do I.”

  Jenna scanned the seats on the other side of the court. It included a section reserved for Monarchs players’ families. Many teams offered seating in the special section only to the relatives of their five starters. But the Monarchs offered the seats to all players’ families. It was usually filled with wives, children, and girlfriends.

  Jenna continued. “It could be an ex-girlfriend or ex-wife.”

  Andrea followed the other woman’s gaze. “That would be hard to narrow down. Some of the players change girlfriends several times during the season.”