by Regina Hart
“What? Are you nuts?”
Andrea winced at Faith’s shriek. “I don’t want to make a mistake.” She dropped onto the sofa, still wearing her blazer and clutching her purse.
Faith sat beside her. Her brown eyes were wide with incredulity. “How could accepting your dream job be a mistake?”
Andrea stared across the room. Through the window was the fire escape where she and Troy had started the uneasy alliance that had grown into the greatest love affair of her life. “I don’t know whether I’m qualified for what they want me to write.”
Faith folded her arms and crossed her legs. “This is The New York Times, not a student newspaper. They wouldn’t hire you if they didn’t think you were qualified.”
Andrea started to feel again. Her fingers drilled into her purse while panic battered her like tsunami waves. “They want me to write human interest features.”
“They don’t want you to write sports?” Faith sounded confused.
“I’ll cover some sports, but my focus will be the personality pieces.” She pulled her fingers through her hair. “They want me to ‘get into the mind of high-profile people in the community.’ Their words.”
Faith frowned. “You mean like the stories you wrote about Barron and Gerry?”
“That’s right.”
“You’ve done it before. So what’s the problem?” Faith’s voice was as dry as dust.
Andrea bent forward. She steadied her elbows on her lap and pressed her forehead against her fists. She was swamped with emotions—edgy, restless feelings that made it difficult to think. “Suppose those stories are the only personality pieces I have? Those stories came to me.”
“No, they didn’t. You found them because you dug deeper than other people were willing to look.” Faith stood. “When that anonymous source called you with a tip about the Monarchs’ head coach, you went to the coach to check it out.”
Andrea raised her head. “So?”
Faith threw her arms up. “And when other people dismissed Barron’s drinking and careless behavior as just the same old, same old from Mr. Bling, you nagged him until he faced his fears.”
She hadn’t nagged Barron. “That’s because I’d been where he was going.”
“That’s why you’re able to write these stories.” Faith sat again. “You’re sensitive to the subject matter and willing to take the time to dig a little deeper. You went through a bad situation after that Jackie Jones article, but it’s made you an even better reporter.”
Andrea pulled her handbag off her shoulder. “I don’t know about that.”
“I do.” Faith’s tone was adamant. “I’m not a newspaper reporter. I write comic books. But I know talent when I read it. You have to believe in yourself.”
Andrea breathed deeply to steady her nerves. She caught the spicy scent of the chicken Faith was cooking for dinner. “I believe I can cover sports. I don’t know if I have a series of in-depth personality profiles in me.”
“Do you want to find out?”
Her stomach muscles knotted. “Part of me does. It would be a new challenge. And, although I like covering sports, those profiles impacted people beyond the game.” She dropped her gaze to her white-knuckled grip on her purse. “But the other part of me is scared witless.”
Faith spread her hands. “Why? You’ve already proven you can do it.”
“I’ve proven I can write two.” Andrea shrugged out of her blazer and folded it over the back of the sofa.
Faith’s brows knitted. “Is this the same insecurity you told me about from your past? The one that led you to write that story about Jackie Jones in the first place?”
Andrea stood from the sofa and hooked her hands on her navy blue pants. Troy had advised her against taking the first job offer—unless it was for a good company. Well, this offer was from a good company, so why was she hesitating?
Because she was afraid.
Her dream company wanted her to write the type of stories she hadn’t even realized she wanted to write. Stories that would make a difference in the community, comfort some and inspire others.
Your story will do that. She heard again the pride in Troy’s voice when he’d said those words.
Faith prompted her. “Are you going to let your insecurities defeat you again?”
Andrea dropped her arms. “No, I’m not.”
“Do you want the job or not?”
Andrea checked her wristwatch. It was almost six o’clock. Constance and Tiffany would be home soon, but she was certain The New York Times sports editor was still at his desk.
“Yes, I do.” She strode to the sofa and dug through her purse for the editor’s business card. She turned to the telephone on the corner table. “Please let him still be there.”
Andrea lifted the receiver and pressed the direct dial numbers for the editor’s desk. The final steps on her personal journey for redemption. She’d finally and fully forgiven herself for her past. She could do this job. She wanted the position and she deserved this opportunity. She closed her eyes and thought of Troy. The journey’s end would have been much more satisfying if he’d been there to meet her.
Andrea arrived at Madison Square Garden half an hour before game seven of the Brooklyn Monarchs versus New York Knicks series Monday evening. The sound system had boosted Lenny Kravitz’s “Come On Get It.” The JumboTron suspended from the rafters was telecasting highlights from previous games in the series.
Was the excitement pulsing through her veins coming from her? Or was she picking up the tension from the fans pouring into the arena? It was hard to tell since the outcome of the game was so important to her. With their win in the Empire Arena Saturday, the Monarchs had tied the series at three all. A win would send them to the Eastern Conference Championship. A loss would finish their Cinderella season. Andrea didn’t want the magic to end.
She stopped beside Jenna Madison’s chair and pitched her voice above Lenny Kravitz’s latest rock anthem. “Thank you for recommending me to your editor.”
Jenna shook her head. “It wasn’t me. It was your writing. I’m looking forward to working with you.”
Andrea glowed on the inside. “I’m looking forward to working with you, too.”
Jenna jerked her chin toward the court before turning back to Andrea. “Will you miss covering the games?”
Andrea watched the Monarchs going through their shooting drills and stretches on the far side of the court. DeMarcus and the other coaches were studying sheets Andrea assumed were the plays and scouting reports. Troy was probably in the visiting owners’ booth above them. She tensed her muscles so she didn’t look up.
She met Jenna’s green gaze. “A little. But I’ll enjoy just watching them. I’ll be able to cheer out loud.”
Jenna chuckled. “There is that.”
Andrea continued her search for an empty chair in the media row. She settled into a seat and booted up her laptop, strenuously avoiding even glancing at the luxury boxes above her.
Two hours later, Andrea wanted to scream, “Time-out!” The game clock counted down the remaining twenty-eight seconds of the game. The Monarchs had more turnovers than the neighborhood bakery, and the lead had changed six times in the last twenty minutes. Andrea sensed the Monarchs slowing down. This was their second series playing all seven games. They had the oldest roster in the NBA, and it was beginning to show. Andrea fought to hold on to hope.
Twenty-seven seconds. Twenty-six. Twenty-five. The shot clock shut off.
For now, the Knicks had the lead—109 to 107—as well as possession. Ronny Turiaf was almost at half-court dribbling the ball forward and gesturing his teammates into position. In a panic, Andrea realized the Knicks’ forward was slowing the pace of the game and using up the clock. Twenty-four seconds. Twenty-three. She was going to lose her mind.
Warrick defended Amar’e Stoudemire. Serge blocked Carmelo Anthony at the post. The Monarchs’ Anthony guarded Turiaf at the left perimeter. Jamal covered Renaldo Balkman on the righ
t. Vincent defended Chauncey Billups in the paint. Twenty-two seconds. Twenty-one. Andrea’s mind screamed, “Somebody do something!”
As though hearing her thoughts above the shouts of the crowd, Vincent moved up to help Warrick pressure Stoudemire. Anthony shifted right to split his defense between Turiaf and Billups.
Stoudemire took a chance and sent a rainbow toward the basket. Serge and Carmelo leaped for the ball, grabbing it together and falling back to the court in a tangle of limbs. The referee blew his whistle. Jump ball. Andrea hated that, but she’d hate a loss even more.
With the game clock frozen at fifteen seconds, the referee took his position between Serge and Carmelo. He held the ball above his head. As he blew his whistle again, he hoisted the ball up and stepped back. Serge leaped, and Andrea almost rose with him. He punched the ball toward Vincent, who snatched it out of the air and sprinted down court. The crowd rocked the Garden with their roars of “Defense! Defense!”
Vincent bounced the ball hard, advancing it to Anthony with eleven seconds on the clock. Ten. Nine. Eight. The Knicks’ Carmelo dove into the open lane for the steal. Andrea’s heart lodged in her throat as she watched him hustle up court with Anthony and Vincent giving chase. She wanted to close her eyes, but she couldn’t. Seven seconds. Six. Five.
Warrick glided into Carmelo’s path. With a move as graceful as a modern dancer, he spun around Carmelo, scooping the ball with him. Andrea blinked. How had he done that?
As Warrick flew past Anthony and Vincent, his teammates defended his back against the Knicks. Under her breath, Andrea chanted, “Hurry! Hurry! Hurry!” The game clock drained. Four. Three. Warrick pulled up at the perimeter. Two. He leaped into the air. One. And released the ball.
Three points. The Monarchs stole the win, 110 to 109, and advanced to the Eastern Conference Championship.
Andrea was drained.
Troy looked up as Andrea opened the door to her apartment Sunday afternoon. His gaze moved from her bare feet with their bright yellow toenails, up her long legs in slender blue jeans. She wore a pale yellow jersey with a black-and-white sketch of the Underdog superhero cartoon. Her long dark hair was tussled around her heart-shaped face. Her sherry eyes were wary.
“Troy?” She stood with her left hand on the doorknob.
“I’ve changed.” That wasn’t the greeting he’d practiced last night after the Monarchs had beaten the Knicks. But it seemed to work.
Andrea stepped back to let him in. “As much as I like Mrs. Garrard, I’d rather she didn’t overhear our conversation.”
She locked the door behind them, then led him through her small apartment. In the living room, he paused to greet her roommates.
Faith sat curled on the sofa. She lowered her sketchbook. Her startled eyes dodged from him to Andrea and back. “Troy, how’ve you been?”
He offered her a smile. “Fine, thanks. And you?”
Faith nodded. “Great. Great.”
Troy looked to Constance, seated on the love seat with her daughter. “Hi, Connie.”
Constance gave him a warm smile. “Hi, Troy.”
Tiffany hopped off the love seat. “D-O-G spells dog. Woof! Woof!”
Troy chuckled at the little girl’s antics. His humor faded as he considered Andrea’s and her roommates’ frozen expressions. He crossed his arms over his black cotton shirt as he struggled with a grin. “I take it she wasn’t supposed to perform that for me?”
Andrea grabbed his upper arm. “Why don’t we step out onto the fire escape?”
He hated the fire escape, but he let her lead him there anyway. “At least it’s warmer today.”
“I thought you said you’d changed.” Andrea muscled open the window, then climbed onto the fire escape.
Troy contorted his frame to fit through the tiny opening, stepping gingerly onto the red metal structure. “I have, Andy. I took your advice and met with my ex-wife.”
Andrea’s eyebrows jumped toward her hairline. “When?”
He pushed his hands into the back pockets of his blue jeans. “Friday.”
Her eyes darkened with concern. “How do you feel?”
He gave a startled laugh. Troy hadn’t expected her to ask that question. “I feel free. You were right. I carried a lot of baggage with me from that experience. And I put a lot of blame on her for things that were my fault. I’ve accepted responsibility for my own poor decisions.”
Andrea blinked a couple of times before speaking. “Troy, I’m so happy for you.”
He wanted more than that. “I’m not saying Susan and I are friends now. But I’ve forgiven her for lying to me, and I don’t resent her for the choices I made anymore.”
Andrea nodded. Her eyes shimmered with happy tears. “That’s what I’d wanted for you.”
Troy pulled his hands from his pockets and let his arms fall to his sides. “While I was talking with Susan, I realized my life may not have turned out the way I’d planned, but I’m happy. I’m where I’m supposed to be. But I don’t want to be here without you.”
Troy’s words were so similar to the thought that had echoed in her mind when she’d accepted The New York Times’s job offer Friday night. They sent a sweet ache through Andrea’s body. She closed her eyes against the draw of his ebony gaze.
A soft breeze feathered her cheek. Andrea opened her eyes as Troy lowered his hand from her face. She stepped back, startled to find him so close. He’d moved so quietly.
He caught her hand to keep her near. “You asked me to change, Andy. I didn’t think I could, but I wanted to try. And you were right. I needed to clear the past with Susan. Now I want a future with you. Give me another chance. I love you so much.”
She’d played this game before. She didn’t want to lose again. “Suppose I wanted to write that article about the Monarchs’ founding partners.” She didn’t, but she had to test him again.
Troy stayed silent for so long. Every second chipped away at her hope. His dark gaze hovered inches above her face. “I can’t think of a reporter who’d do a better job with that story.”
Andrea narrowed her eyes on his too-handsome face. She needed a harder question, a bigger lie. “I want to interview Rick Evans about the strain his NBA career has had on his marriage.”
Surprise shifted in Troy’s eyes. “I can’t force Rick to talk with you, but I promise not to get in your way.”
Her lips parted in surprise. “Really?” Could she believe him?
“Andy, your questions are sensitive and your stories are fair. You proved that when you interviewed Jackie about Gerry’s meddling and Barron about his drinking. It’s Rick and Mary’s decision if they want to talk with you.”
Andrea crossed her arms. “Suppose I told you those stories would appear in the Times, which has a much larger circulation than Sports?”
A broad grin brightened Troy’s classic good looks. “You’re working for the Times now?”
Andrea laughed. “Yes.” She enjoyed sharing the good news with him. “So what would you say if I wrote those articles for the Times?”
Troy swept her into his arms and held her tight. “I’d say they were lucky to have you.”
Andrea blinked her surprise. She pulled back to look at him. “You really have changed.”
His lips hovered inches above her own. “I was highly motivated and had a game plan to win you back.”
Andrea smiled. “I do love a man with a plan.”
She rose onto her toes and sealed his lips with a kiss.
If you enjoyed Smooth Play,
don’t miss Regina Hart’s
Fast Break
Available wherever books are sold.
Prologue
“Clock’s ticking, Guinn.”
DeMarcus Guinn, shooting guard for the National Basketball Association’s Miami Waves, looked at his head coach, then at the game clock. Thirteen seconds remained in game seven of the NBA finals. The Waves and Sacramento Kings were tied at 101. His coach had just called a time-out. DeMarcus stood on
the sidelines surrounded by his teammates. He wiped the sweat from his forehead and drained his sports drink. It didn’t help.
He looked into the stands and found his father standing in the bleachers. He saw the empty seat beside him. His mother’s seat. DeMarcus rubbed his chest above his heart.
“Guinn! You need to step it up out there.” His coach’s tone was urgent.
Why? What did it matter now?
His coach grabbed his arm. “Do you have this, Guinn?”
The buzzer sounded to end the twenty-second time-out.
DeMarcus pulled his arm free of his coach’s grasp. “I’ve got this.”
He joined his teammates on the court, walking through a wall of tension thick enough to hammer. Waves’ fans had been cheering, stomping and chanting nonstop throughout the fourth quarter. DeMarcus looked up again at the crowd and the empty seat.
“Are you with us, Marc?” Marlon Burress, his teammate for the past thirteen years, looked at him with concern.
“I’m good.” Was he?
DeMarcus saw the intensity of the four other Waves on the court. He looked at his teammates and coaches on the sideline. He saw his father in the stands. He had to find a way to play past the pain, if not for his team or his father, then for his mother’s memory.
DeMarcus took his position near midcourt. The Waves’ Walter Millbank stood ready to inbound the ball. Marlon shifted closer to the basket.
The referee tossed Walter the ball. The Kings’ Carl Landry defended him, waving his arms and leaping to distract him from the play. Marlon balanced on his toes and extended his arms for the ball. Thirteen seconds on the game clock. The referee blew his whistle to signal the play.
Ignoring the Kings’ defender, Walter hurled the ball to Marlon. With the ball an arm’s length from Marlon’s fingers, the Kings’ Samuel Dalembert leaped into the lane. Turnover. The crowd screamed its disappointment.
Eleven seconds on the game clock.
Dalembert spun and charged down court. Marlon and Walter gave chase.
Ten seconds on the game clock.