Keeping Score (36 page)

“Let it go.” Vincent grabbed his arm. “It was an accident.”

He glanced at Vincent, then looked around for the visiting owner’s suite. Warrick could barely make out Marilyn as she stood with the other Monarchs Wives Club members and Jaclyn. She raised her hand and his tension eased. Warrick followed Vincent to their sideline.

“What are we going to do now? They took out Tony. What are we going to do?” Jamal’s voice was shrill with panic.

“Calm down.” DeMarcus shot the order like a bullet. “Roger.”

Roger Harris, whose pregnant girlfriend was in the visiting owner’s suite with Warrick’s wife, shrugged off his jacket before coming forward.

Jamal gaped. “Roger hasn’t played since the first half, Coach. It’s going to take him a minute to warm up.”

“He has thirty seconds.” DeMarcus was grim. “Rick, take Tony’s free throws. Make them. We’re down by four. There’s seventy-one seconds on the clock. Manage the game.”

Warrick hooked his hands on his hips. “We’re playing tight.”

DeMarcus frowned. “What do you suggest?”

Warrick looked across the court at the Nuggets. They were a younger team. But where Denver had speed and endurance, Brooklyn had heart.

He challenged his teammates with a grin. “Let’s have some fun.”

Vincent nodded. “We’ve got your back, Rick.”

Jamal’s eyes lit up. “Take us home, Superstar.”

The referee whistled the game back in. Warrick took to the free throw line and made both baskets. Nuggets 103, Monarchs 101. One minute and eleven seconds.

The Nuggets’ Ely took possession of the ball. The shot clock reset. Ely jogged down court. Vincent guarded him close. He bent his knees and spread his arms wide. Ely advanced midcourt. He kicked the ball to Martin. Warrick stepped into the open lane and plucked the ball midair. He blew by Martin and Ely. In his peripheral vision, he tagged Jamal on his right and sent the rookie a no-look pass. Jamal stuffed the basket to tie the game at 103 with one minute on the game clock.

The Monarchs never looked back.

They kept just ahead of the Nuggets, 111 to 109. The game clock drew down to twelve seconds and the final possession of the game. The Nuggets’ Ely sprinted up court. The shot clock turned off. The Monarchs set up the triangle defense, luring him deeper into the paint—keeping the Nuggets away from the perimeter and a three-point shot that would win them the game.

Ely pitched the ball to Gallinari, who spun toward the net for the fade away. Serge sprang into the air and rejected the shot. Nuggets fans wailed their dismay.

Jamal picked up possession.

Nine seconds.

“Table!” Warrick shouted.

Jamal hesitated before heaving the ball to a wide-open Roger, who’d replaced Anthony. Roger flew down court. The Nuggets’ Forbes closed in from behind.

Seven seconds on the clock.

The Monarchs hustled across the hardwood. Forbes stretched forward and slapped the ball from Roger. Monarchs fans screamed.

Denver’s Gallinari claimed the ball on a bounce. He pivoted on one leg and sent it back to Martin. Warrick ignored his swelling knees. He slid into the lane. His right arm shot out, stealing the ball inches from the Nuggets’ Martin.

Four seconds on the clock.

Warrick steadied himself. He dribbled once and stepped up to the perimeter line.

Two seconds on the clock. The arena silenced. The air stilled. His vision narrowed to the net.

Warrick held his breath, leaped into the air, and sent a rainbow to the basket. The buzzer sounded as the ball reached its highest arc. Its echo held on as the ball descended and slipped inside the rim. Three points. Nothing but net.

Monarchs 114, Nuggets 109.

Warrick released his breath and sank to his knees.

The Monarchs’ bench cleared, sweeping DeMarcus along and raising him to their shoulders. Serge and Jamal raised Warrick from the court and settled him onto their shoulders. Warrick threw back his head and laughed. Confetti fell from the rafters. Balloons lifted to the ceiling. The sound system blared Lady Gaga’s “Glory.”

Warrick raised his gaze to the visiting owner’s suite. Inside, Jaclyn, Julian, Althea, and the Monarchs Wives Club were dancing and jumping around. Marilyn blew kisses through the glass.

The Monarchs were National Basketball Association Champions. Warrick raised his fists and roared in victory.

“Why do they keep playing that video?” Marilyn wiggled closer to Warrick as they lay together in the hotel bed. She buried her face in his bare chest to avoid watching the third replay of her Olivia Newton-John impersonation on the news. Her body warmed again as she inhaled his scent, sex and sandalwood.

Warrick’s chest shook with laughter. The hair on his skin tickled her nose. “Are you kidding me? I want a copy of this tape. It’s great!”

“I sound horrible!”

“I know!”

“Thanks a lot.” Marilyn swatted him. Her hand probably stung more than his shoulder.

Still chuckling, Warrick tucked her closer to him. “Seriously, what possessed you to do that? You must have known the cameras would eat it up.”

Marilyn drew back to meet his gaze. “I didn’t care that the media was watching or that I can’t carry a tune to save my life. I had a point to make.”

His smile faded. With a gentle touch he brushed her curls away from her face. “What was your point?”

Marilyn swallowed to ease the dryness in her throat. This was so important. “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for all of my life. If being with you—being Dr. Marilyn Devry-
Evans
—means living in the media’s spotlight, then so be it.” She would never again be foolish enough to let him go.

Warrick wrapped her in his arms, burying his face in the curve of her neck. “I think I can learn to love
Grease
.”

Marilyn laughed in his embrace. “No, you can’t. Be real.”

Warrick pulled away. “I love you, Mary.”

Marilyn closed her eyes briefly to count her blessings, then met his gaze. “I love you, too. You were right when you said our marriage is between us. I never should have listened to my parents, Em, or anyone else.”

Warrick stroked a hand across her left arm. “But you didn’t. You believed in me despite all the media scandals, even though I’m sure they were telling you to leave.”

Marilyn shook her head. “It was the tattoo that almost did us in. I still can’t believe the trouble those photos caused.”

Warrick broke the brief silence. “Jordan Hyatt’s statement didn’t explain why she made up that story about an affair between us.”

“Her mother told me.”

“What?” Warrick pulled back again.

“We met for drinks.” Marilyn nodded, studying Warrick’s stunned expression. “Apparently, Jordan has had a crush on you since you played at Rutgers. She had a couple of classes with you. Those photos of you on the Internet must have sent her over the edge.”

Warrick frowned. “That’s disturbing.”

Marilyn gave him a quick kiss. “I’ll protect you.”

“Is that why you did the press conference? To protect me?”

Marilyn was shaking her head before his last question. “I did the press conference to put the media on notice that they weren’t going to break us apart, and also to prove that I can handle them.... I can handle anything as long as we’re together.”

Warrick traced a finger across her cheek. “I’m glad, because I can’t imagine my life without you.”

Marilyn cupped the side of his face and loved him with her eyes. “You never needed the NBA Championship ring. From the day we first met, you’ve always been my champion.”

Warrick closed what little distance separated them. He lowered his mouth to hers and Marilyn tasted victory.

If you enjoyed
Keeping Score,
don’t miss Regina Hart’s

Smooth Play

Available wherever books are sold

1

Troy Marshall needed a plan. But when the Brooklyn Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing had read the Twitter message that the professional basketball team’s captain was drinking heavily at this trendy Brooklyn nightclub, he hadn’t stopped to think. He’d simply reacted.

He navigated the hot, smoky space past the sweaty, gyrating bodies in the darkened downtown club. The bass of a popular urban song pounded in his chest, echoing his heartbeat.

Memories of his own club-hopping years came back to him. Another lifetime, another world. Who had he been and what had he been hoping to prove? Trying to hold on to an image and a lifestyle he’d lost.

Troy mounted the stairs to the club’s VIP floor. Two mountains masquerading as men secured the perimeter of the team captain’s private section. Their stony stares dared him to approach them. Before Troy could introduce himself, Barron Douglas’s voice defused the standoff.

“He’s OK.” The Monarchs’ captain shouted his grudging approval above the driving beat of the club music. His voice was slurred.

Troy’s irritation rose. Shit. There were a lot of places he’d rather be at two o’clock on a weekday morning. Like home. In bed. Preferably with a warm and willing female. He’d leave that thought alone for now. He watched impatiently as Kilimanjaro on his left unhooked the purple velvet rope barrier to allow him into Barron’s inner circle. He nodded to the large security guard as he walked through.

One of the women stood, separating herself from the pack. She moved toward him with practiced sensuality. Her stilettos’ thin heels spotted her an extra five inches. The silver satin of her stingy dress wrapped her generous curves and shimmered against her brown skin. Even in the club’s dim lights, Troy could see the avarice in her dark eyes.

“Who are you?” The groupie stood too close. She raised her voice above the club’s entertainment.

“A friend of Bling’s.” Troy looked toward the NBA player. Hopefully using Barron’s nickname would reassure him that Troy was there as a friend, not a representative of the franchise’s front office.

“Are you a basketball player?”

The woman looked him over. Troy could hear the cash register in her head tallying the cost of his cream silk jersey, black pants, and Italian loafers. Did she think every tall, physically fit, and financially comfortable African American male played basketball?

“No.” Troy started to move around her.

She shifted to block him, taking hold of his arm. “What do you do?”

Troy glanced from her to Barron and back. “I look after the players.” As an NBA media and marketing executive, that wasn’t part of his job. Then why was he here?

Her brown brow creased in confusion. “Like a baby-sitter or something?”

“Or something.”

The groupie’s greedy gaze considered him again. “You get paid a lot to do that?”

“Not enough.”

“Do you want to babysit me?” She licked her lips as though her offer needed clarification.

In the past, it hadn’t mattered whether a woman was interested in him or his wallet. But it mattered now. Troy removed her small hand from his arm. “No. Thank you.”

Ignoring the groupie’s disappointed pout, he continued toward Barron. He stopped beside the table. Barron scratched his scalp, bared between his thick cornrows. From the sheen in Barron’s dark brown eyes, Troy feared alcohol wasn’t the only contributor to the player’s unnatural high. “Bling, let’s talk.”

Barron stared through Troy. His gaze wasn’t quite focused. His movements were deliberate as he lifted a heavy crystal glass and took a healthy swallow of its brown contents. He put the drink down with a thud. “Talk.”

Was the Monarchs’ captain deliberately trying to antagonize him? It didn’t matter. It had been a long day and Troy was short on patience. But he wasn’t going away. “In private.”

Barron’s sigh was more tired than annoyed. He placed his hand on the shoulder of the big man beside him. “Move.”

Barron stood with slow, unsteady movements. Troy tensed with worry. Getting drunk was bad enough, considering Barron was a professional athlete whose season hadn’t ended. If drugs were involved, he wouldn’t cover for the team captain any longer.

He followed the six-foot-five player past the velvet rope barrier and the human mountains guarding it. They came to the railed landing overlooking the dance floor. Shifting lights irritated him. What effect were they having on Barron in his intoxicated state?

Troy pitched his voice above the dance music. It seemed even louder up here. “What are you doing, Bling?”

The point guard’s smile was too bright. “Partying!”

Troy wanted to shake him. “It’s after two in the morning. Practice starts in nine hours. You need to bring your A game to the play-offs.”

Barron’s smile vanished. His glazed gaze hardened. “What do
I
have to do with whether the team does well in the play-offs?” Frustration tightened the other man’s stance and strained his voice.

How could Troy reach the basketball player? “You’re the team’s captain. You represent the Monarchs to the public on and off the court.”

Barron curled his lip. “That didn’t stop the Mighty Guinn from benching me last night.”

Troy should have expected that response. DeMarcus Guinn was the Monarchs’ rookie head coach. The media had been stunned when DeMarcus led the perennially losing team to a postseason berth. But DeMarcus had done it with Barron riding the bench at the end of the last regular season game, the game that determined whether the team got into the play-offs.

Was there anything he could say to ease the other man’s anger? His temper was probably worse because of his pride. Troy drew from his experience playing for a successful college basketball team. “This is the first time in four seasons the team’s gotten to the play-offs. And it’s the first time in your career you’ve made it to the postseason. Isn’t that incentive enough for you to give one hundred and ten percent?”

Troy stepped back as Barron swept his arms in an emotional gesture.

“I gave one hundred and ten percent all season.” Barron’s expression twisted with pain and disappointment. “The Mighty Guinn still benched me in the final sixteen minutes of the game.”

DeMarcus had been right to bench Barron. If he hadn’t, the players would be preparing to watch the postseason games from their sofas. But Troy kept those thoughts to himself. He’d read somewhere you’re supposed to humor drunks. “That’s between you and Marc. My concern is that it’s two in the morning. The team doesn’t need headlines about your early-morning clubbing when the first play-off game is Saturday.”