Smooth Play

by Regina Hart

  Ten seconds on the game clock. The Cavaliers charged back down the court. Past half-court, Gibson sent the ball forward to Parker. Warrick stepped into the open lane and grabbed the ball in the air. He spun on a dime and sprinted back up court. Cavaliers’ fans screamed their dismay.

  Eight seconds. Seven seconds. Gibson was gaining on him. Six seconds. Five seconds. Warrick leaped for the rim and stuffed the basket. Monarchs 105, Cavaliers 103.

  Andrea blinked at the score. The Monarchs had won. They’d beaten the odds. After losing the first three games in the best-of-seven-games series, they’d swept the Cavaliers to advance in the play-offs. She didn’t think she’d ever stop smiling.

  Monday morning, Troy got to the office early. He was determined to get the promotional campaign he and Jaclyn had approved back on track. Steam poured from his ears when he realized just how much damage Gerald had done to the schedule and the ads he’d had designed. Troy loosened his tie and freed the top button of his shirt.

  The knock on his open door put a break on his rising temper. He looked up from his desk and found Constance smiling in his doorway.

  She crossed his threshold. “Welcome back, Mr. Marshall.”

  Troy put down the pen he was using to update the advertising schedule and stood. “I thought we’d agreed on Troy.” He gestured toward the three black guest chairs in front of his desk.

  “Troy.” Constance settled into one of the cushioned seats. “Faith, Tiffany, and I watched the game Saturday night. It was so exciting.”

  Troy sat again. “The Monarchs defied the odds when they won the Cavs series.”

  Constance’s gaze dropped to his desk. Her glow faded. “You’re updating the Monarchs’ new image campaign.”

  “We’ve missed several deadlines.”

  Constance gave him an earnest look. “I’m really sorry about that, Mr.—Troy. I didn’t think you’d like the changes Mr. Bimm made to the design, so I brought the files to Ms. Jones. She agreed that the redesigns weren’t any good.”

  Troy picked up the customer order form for one of the ad changes Gerald had made. “You’re right. We can’t announce ‘The Monarchs Return’ with a quarter-page, black-and-white ad. That’s not the tone we’re looking for.”

  Constance relaxed. “I thought it would be better to run the ads late. They say you only get one chance to make a good first impression.”

  What happened to the timid woman he’d hired? Constance had changed a lot in the three weeks since he’d met her. The woman sitting before him was much more relaxed and, more important, confident.

  “You made the right call, Connie. Thank you.”

  Constance’s cheeks bloomed with color. “Thank you, Mr.—Troy.” She gestured toward the folder on his desk. “Would you like me to call the publications to reschedule the ads?”

  Troy collected the ad forms. “Not yet.” He was still pissed over Gerald’s sabotage, but Constance was correct. He only had one chance to launch this campaign. It had to be right. “I’m going to review the ad dates again. Once I’m done, I’d like you to contact the publications.”

  “Of course. Did you want me to put together a list of giveaways for—”

  Another knock on his door interrupted them. Warrick Evans gave him a mock scowl. “Vacation time’s over, slacker. Get to work.”

  Constance’s surprised laughter made Troy’s lips twitch. He stood as he laughingly admonished. “Don’t encourage him.”

  “I don’t need encouragement.” Warrick strode into Troy’s office with his hand outstretched. “Welcome home, man. Good to see you.”

  Troy noted the point guard was wearing a black T-shirt with his baggy black shorts. Warrick was back on the starting lineup. What did that mean for Barron?

  “Thanks, Rick.” Troy shook the guard’s hand and slapped him on the back. “It’s good to be home. Congratulations again on Saturday night’s win.”

  Warrick stepped back. “So, what’s the word on Gerry?”

  Constance stood. “I’d better get to work.”

  Warrick turned to her. “I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

  Troy spoke at the same time. “There’s no need to leave. You can hear this, too. The NBA has barred Gerry from team offices and all NBA arenas, pending an investigation into the blackmail allegations.”

  Warrick frowned. “But Andrea’s story said Gerry’s conversation with Otto had been recorded.”

  Troy slid his hands into the front pockets of his pants. “The commissioner still wants to talk to Gerry and Otto personally.”

  Warrick shrugged. “There’s no way Gerry can explain that recording. This is probably a formality.”

  Constance nodded. “And hopefully, it won’t take too long.”

  Troy looked at Warrick. “In the meantime, I hope it’s not a distraction to the team.”

  Warrick shook his head. “Stop worrying, man. We’ve got this.”

  Constance took a step backward. “Everything will work out. I’ll leave you gentlemen to talk alone now and get some work done.”

  As Constance left the office, Troy gestured toward the visitors’ chairs. “Do you have a few minutes?”

  Warrick took a seat. “Sure. Practice doesn’t start for another couple of hours. I was just coming to see you before hitting the weight room.”

  “Thanks.” Troy gave him a searching look. “How’s the team feeling about playing the Knicks?”

  Warrick rested his right ankle on his left knee. “We’re excited to start the series tonight. We know it’s not going to be easy. But, hey, the Cavs series wasn’t a walk in the park, either.”

  Troy nodded toward Warrick’s black T-shirt. “I’m glad you’re starting. What’s going on with Barron?”

  “Do you mean, is he still drinking?” Warrick nodded. “I think so. We took a risk with him. Some of us weren’t sure we should have let it go so long. But in the end, Bling made the decision for us. He wouldn’t change, so we had to.”

  Troy knew it must have been a difficult decision for DeMarcus to change the starting lineup and for Warrick to take over Barron’s spot. “I don’t know what it will take to get Barron to clean up his act.”

  “Let’s hope it’s nothing drastic.”

  “Have you talked with Mary?”

  A cloud settled over Warrick’s expression at the mention of his wife. A moment passed before he answered. “Not since game one of the Cavs series.”

  Troy’s eyebrows lifted. “That’s more than two weeks ago.”

  Warrick straightened in his seat and put both feet on the floor. “I know. She won’t return my calls. She left me a note instead.”

  “What did it say?” Was he prying? It seemed that Warrick wanted to talk.

  “She needs time.”

  “How much time?”

  “I don’t know. She didn’t say.”

  That couldn’t be good. “I’m sorry, Rick.”

  Warrick stood. His movements were much slower than when he’d entered the room. “I’d better get to the weight room.”

  Troy rose with him. His friend was hurting. He didn’t know what to say or do to help him. He circled his desk to lay his hand on Warrick’s shoulder. “Good luck. With everything.”

  “I’ll need it.”

  Troy watched the other man leave his office. His curved shoulders and dragging steps indicated the pain Warrick carried, and not just in his body. Troy hoped he never experienced that kind of hurt. He didn’t know if he’d survive it.

  “I saw you through the window.” Jenna stopped beside Andrea’s table in the little sandwich shop. They were a couple of blocks from Madison Square Garden, home of the New York Knicks. Game one of the Monarchs versus Knicks series was almost an hour away—and counting.

  Jenna angled her chin toward the window beside Andrea. It was the front of the eatery, which was made of glass. The Times sports reporter rested her palm on the back of the empty chair on the other side of Andrea’s table. “Mind if I join you?”

  Andrea trie
d to cover her surprise. She swallowed a mouthful of her roasted turkey wheat wrap. “Of course not.”

  “Thanks.” Jenna removed her laptop case from her shoulder and settled it beside her seat out of customer traffic. She placed her tray of chicken salad and bottled water on the table before folding her model-thin body into the dark wood chair. “I haven’t seen you since that miraculous Monarchs win in Cleveland Saturday. Good job on getting the scoop about Gerald Bimm and the blackmail rumor. You’re the original intrepid reporter.”

  Andrea listened hard but didn’t hear any of the meanness that had tainted the tone of reporters when they’d spoken to her in the past. “Thank you.”

  Jenna looked puzzled. “That was a big deal. You were the first with the story that an owner could be banned from the NBA for life. Why aren’t you excited?”

  Andrea sipped the cup of coffee she’d ordered with her turkey wrap. Old fears and uncertainties tried to take hold of her. “I got another job rejection today. Sports is closing in less than two months and I’m running out of places to apply.”

  Jenna lowered her forkful of salad. “Where are you sending your resumes?”

  “I sent one to the Horn.” Andrea watched her companion chew and swallow a mouthful of salad. Was that bowl of lettuce with pieces of chicken actually filling?

  “They can’t afford you.”

  Andrea rushed to swallow her coffee before she choked on it. “I work for Sports. I’m sure the starting salary of every other paper in the city is almost twice what I’m making now.”

  Jenna held Andrea’s gaze. “And you’re worth more than that. You’re aiming too low.”

  Andrea ignored the wrap in her hands and stared at the veteran reporter. “You think those other papers rejected me because they thought they couldn’t afford me?” That was absurd.

  Jenna swallowed her ice water. “You sent them your resume with clippings of your exclusive interview with Jackie Jones, your expose on the Insider’s identity, and your breaking news that Gerry Bimm may be banned from the NBA, right?”

  “I didn’t include the article about Gerry. It hadn’t run at the time.”

  Jenna waved her fork. “It doesn’t matter. The other two clips are strong. Those editors took one look at your work and knew they couldn’t afford you. And, even if they did hire you, a bigger paper would come along and steal you away in a matter of months.”

  Andrea laughed as she picked up her coffee. “I love your fantasy world. It’s very pretty there.”

  Jenna didn’t even crack a smile. “I’m serious.” She stabbed some more lettuce and the last cube of chicken. “You think the papers aren’t giving you the time of day because of that Jackie Jones incident four years ago, don’t you?”

  Andrea stiffened. Her turkey wrap turned to cardboard in her mouth. She washed it down with coffee. “What other reason could it be?”

  “I just gave you the other reason. And I’m right.”

  Andrea frowned at her. “You think the newspapers don’t think they can afford me. So what am I supposed to do about that?”

  “Aim higher.” Jenna pushed her salad plate away from her.

  The plate still had several lettuce leaves and slices of cucumber and green peppers. Jenna would probably be able to finish them off if she had some nice blue cheese dressing. She considered the other woman’s delicate frame. The dressing probably would be too many calories.

  Andrea lifted her coffee cup. “Do you think I should send my resume to the Times?”

  “Yes.” Jenna drained her water.

  Andrea finished her coffee. She’d fantasized about working for The New York Times one day. She’d packed that dream away three years ago. “I’m not sure.”

  Jenna sighed as though she cared. “The industry isn’t holding your past against you anymore. You’re the one who can’t move on.”

  “After I lost my job because of the Jackie Jones article, it took me more than a year to get another one. Every paper slammed the door in my face.”

  “Jackie’s grandfather asked them to. That won’t happen again.” Jenna leaned toward her. “Be bold, Andrea. Take a chance on yourself.”

  Andrea gave Jenna a hesitant nod. “All right. What could it hurt?” She watched Jenna’s intense frown ease into an encouraging smile.

  She couldn’t believe how nervous she was at the thought of sending a resume to The New York Times. Before this conversation with Jenna, Andrea thought she’d forgiven herself for her past missteps. Now she realized she had lingering doubts and uncertainties. What would it take for her to find the courage to truly start over?

  19

  “My name is Barron ‘Bling’ Douglas and I’m an alcoholic.”

  Andrea blinked at Barron seated beside her in the New York Sports’s cluttered, stained, and musty conference room Tuesday morning. “Barron, I’m—”

  “That’s what you want me to say, isn’t it?” Barron glared at her.

  Andrea sank farther into her chair, weighted by disappointment. When Barron had shown up at the newspaper, she thought he was ready to accept her help. “Only if you believe it’s true.”

  “And then you’d print it in your paper, right?”

  She refused to give up hope. Just as she still hoped the Monarchs could win even one of their games against the Knicks despite their convincing loss the night before. “Only if you told me I could.”

  “Why should I tell you anything?” His words slapped at her.

  Andrea slapped back. “Because I’ve been where you are now. And, if you don’t get yourself together, you’re going to end up where I was. I can assure you, it’s not a pretty fall. It’s an even uglier landing.”

  His surprised expression diffused her temper. “You’re an alcoholic?”

  “I’m a recovering alcoholic.” It didn’t shame her to admit that as it had in the past. “I lost everything—my job, my home, my reputation—before I convinced myself to stop drinking. You’ve lost your starting spot. How much more are you going to give up before you take control of your life?”

  Barron ran his palm over his thick, black braids. They were longer now than they had been at the beginning of the season. He looked away from her to stare across the room, but Andrea didn’t think he saw the dented and dusty boxes piled against the opposite wall. His eyes were focused on a spot farther away.

  “Why are you here, Barron?”

  He didn’t answer right away, but Andrea knew he’d heard her. She could tell by the stillness in his posture and the awareness in his eyes.

  Barron leaned his elbows on the conference table and dropped his forehead into his palms. “I think I need help.”

  “Why?” Andrea clenched her fists. She wouldn’t push him. No matter how much she wanted to. She would not push him.

  Barron raised his head. He folded his hands together on the table. “I’ve wanted an NBA championship ring since I was eleven years old. Now I’m in the play-offs after thirteen seasons. I’m finally in the play-offs. And I’m blowing it.”

  He glanced at her as if to see whether she was listening to him. In silence, he looked away.

  “Why do you think you’re blowing it?” She knew the answer. Did he?

  Again, he didn’t answer right away. Barron arched his back as though easing the tension building there. “Because I’m scared.”

  Andrea’s own muscles began to relax. She exhaled in quiet relief. “Of what?”

  “That I’m not good enough. That I don’t belong.”

  “So you’re sabotaging yourself by not practicing and not working out. And you’re getting drunk every day.”

  Barron hunched his shoulders. “I drink because it makes me feel better.”

  “Do you want to get drunk or do you want a ring?”

  Barron met her gaze. “I want a ring.”

  “What are you willing to do for it?”

  He propped his elbows on the table and dropped his head into his hands again. “I don’t know.”

  So close. Andre
a leaned forward. “Does the next drink matter more to you than playing in the NBA? Than earning a championship ring?”

  Barron hesitated. “No. I need to stop drinking. I know I’m ruining my career. But I don’t think I can stop.”

  She wouldn’t tell him that if she could do it, he could, too. She wouldn’t minimize his fears that way. But she had to help him face them. “It isn’t easy, but you don’t have to do this on your own. The NBA will find a program to help you.”

  Seconds ticked by, growing into minutes. Andrea watched Barron stare down the table. Finally, he nodded. He settled deeper into his seat and let his head fall back. “I’ll try.”

  Andrea swallowed a sigh of relief. “Only one percent of college basketball players make it to the NBA. You’ve beaten the odds before, Barron.”

  A slow smile vanquished the tension across his face. “Yeah, I did.” He turned to her. “What about your article?”

  Andrea stood. She was almost giddy with success. “I wasn’t after a story. I wanted to help you. I didn’t want you to go through what I went through.”

  Barron rose and offered his hand. “Thank you.”

  With the warmth in his voice and the sincerity in his eyes, Andrea felt as though she’d won the Pulitzer Prize for Best Human Being. Or at least gotten a better paying job.

  She took his hand. “You’re welcome.”

  He let her hand drop. “I’d be willing to give you that interview.”

  Andrea caught her breath. “Are you sure?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe it will help other people who are in the same boat I’m in.”

  She sat again. “It will.”

  Troy stood after hearing Jaclyn’s knock on his door Tuesday afternoon. His boss’s somber expression made the muscles on the back of Troy’s neck tighten. “The Monarchs had a bad loss against the Knicks last night, but we have six more games.”

  Jaclyn crossed his office and sat in one of the seats in front of Troy’s desk. “This isn’t about the series. Not exactly.”