Keeping Score (32 page)

A suggestive laugh. “It’s the only one he needs.”

“What does it look like?” The silence was sudden but not unexpected.

“It’s hard to describe.” Jordan seemed flustered.

“Give it a try.” LaMarr cajoled.

“I can’t.” An edge of desperation entered her speech.

The Wives had anticipated this reaction. Marilyn pressed the other woman. “Don’t you know what it looks like?”

“Of course I know what it looks like,” Jordan snapped.

“Then go ahead and tell us.” There was a smile in LaMarr’s voice. Always the genial host.

“How many questions does she get to ask?” Jordan’s voice was sulky. “I don’t want to give away
all
of Ricky’s secrets.”

LaMarr chuckled. “You already told us that he has a tattoo. You might as well tell us what it looks like.”

The silence lasted a little longer this time. Marilyn wished she could see the other woman. She closed her eyes and waited for the answer.

“It’s a bird.”

Marilyn blinked her eyes open. She walked across the room and dropped onto the sofa. Jordan was right. But the tattoo had appeared small and shadowed in the picture. How had she known it was a bird? If she couldn’t force the other woman to admit publicly that she didn’t have specifics about Warrick’s tattoo, how could she convince the public that Jordan Hyatt was a liar?

“What type?” Her voice was tight.

“What type what?” Jordan’s confusion seemed feigned.

Marilyn held on to her patience. “What type of bird does he have as his tattoo?”

“A peacock.” Jordan’s confidence was returning. But this time she’d guessed wrong.

Marilyn exhaled. Only someone who’d never seen the tattoo up close and personal would mistake a phoenix for a peacock.

“Why did he get that particular image?” She rose from the sofa and wandered back to the armchair and end table beside it.

“Because he’s a basketball player.” LaMarr’s laughing response startled Marilyn. “All NBA players are peacocks.”

She wasn’t amused. “Why did he get it, Jordan?”

“How many questions are you going to ask me?” Jordan’s reply verged on a shriek. “She can’t ask that many questions.”

There was a shrug in LaMarr’s voice. “This is a call-in radio program.”

Jordan’s sigh was angry. “I don’t know why he has a peacock tattooed on his hip. He never told me.”

Satisfaction washed over Marilyn. It took away the tension tightening her forehead and eased the weight bearing down on her shoulders. “He wouldn’t have to tell you. The reason for the tattoo he chose is written into its design. You would know that if he’d actually shown you his tattoo. You’d also know that it isn’t a peacock. But you’ve never even met him, have you? The truth is you only know about his tattoo from a photo posted to the Internet.”

LaMarr’s voice bounced with laughter. “Mary from Brooklyn.” He spoke her identity pensively. “Would you be Mary Devry-Evans, Rick Evans’s wife?”

Pride lent strength to Marilyn’s response. “Yes, I am.”

Jordan’s gasp of surprise cut across the phone line. “You’re Rick’s wife? Are you going to sue me?”

Marilyn ignored her. For now. “Thank you for your show, LaMarr. I hope you’ll be able to attend my press conference Friday.”

“Are you going to sue me?”

Marilyn didn’t respond to Jordan’s question. She recradled the receiver and sank onto the armchair. She remembered the first time she’d seen Warrick’s tattoo. He’d told her he’d gotten it shortly after they’d met. She’d stroked her fingers over the words, “Strength from adversity.”

Marilyn stared at her wedding photos on the fireplace mantel. She would get back to those happier times. She wanted forever with Warrick even more today than on her wedding day.
Please don’t let it be too late.

She lifted the receiver again and dialed Jaclyn Jones’s direct business number. “Hi, Jackie. It’s Mary Devry-Evans. Is everything ready for Friday?”

Warrick drained his sports drink, hoping to cool his body and his temper. What good were these practices if Jamal couldn’t remember the plays?

“Jamal.” Oscar Clemente’s voice was a low growl behind Warrick. The assistant coach stood before the bleachers and singled out the young shooting guard. “Are you playing Denver tomorrow?”

“Course, O. Are you?” Jamal laughed at his own joke. He lowered himself to the bottom bleacher away from his teammates.

Oscar grunted. “I’d do better than you.”

Warrick set down his empty sports bottle and turned to face the action.

Jamal’s laughter stopped. His brows met at the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean?”

“Are you learning the playbook?”

The rookie paled under the older man’s glare. “I’m trying really hard, O.”

“Try harder.”

As though seeking help Jamal’s eyes darted to his teammates sprawled on the bleachers. Warrick swiped the sweat from his brow and remained silent. So did the other Monarchs seated around him. DeMarcus stood with Oscar. His expression was implacable. Jamal would have to get out of this one on his own.

“We’re up two to one, aren’t we?” The rookie’s swagger was slipping.

“No thanks to you.” Anthony’s Christian charity continued to fray as the postseason worn on.

Warrick’s patience was unraveling as well. He drew in air heavy with sweat and wood polish.

“Nice one, Saint Anthony.” Vincent turned to Jamal. “Shape up, rookie. We need you to remember at least the shortened playbook. If you don’t, the rest of us have to pick up your slack to get those wins.”

Jamal popped up from his seat. “I’m not asking you to.”

Warrick rubbed his hand over his damp head. Jamal could hear them, but he wasn’t listening. They needed more drastic measures if they were ever going to get through to him.

“That’s true, Jamal.” Serge inclined his head. “You haven’t asked. Instead you’re leaving us without a choice.”

“Jamal.” DeMarcus’s tone demanded attention. “Carry your weight or I’m benching you.”

The threat caught Warrick’s attention. That was drastic.

It caught the rookie’s attention as well. Jamal’s jaw dropped. “You’d take away my spot?”

DeMarcus nodded. “You leave me without a choice.”

Warrick heard Serge’s words in DeMarcus’s message. But he also recognized Jamal as the team’s best hope of winning the series and the NBA Championship title. The bench players might know the playbook better. But even they’d agree they didn’t have Jamal’s speed, footwork, or shooting skills.

Jamal stabbed a finger toward DeMarcus. “I helped you get here. I helped you all get here. And now you’re going to bench me three games into the finals? That’s bullshit. You promised to help me.”

Warrick raised his head. “We’ve worked with you after practice. We’ve gone through the playbook with you. What more can we do?”

Jamal turned to DeMarcus. “Come on, Coach. This is the finals. You can’t bench me.”

DeMarcus narrowed his gaze. “What are you willing to do to keep your spot?”

“Anything. I want the ring.” The rookie responded without hesitation.

In his answer, Warrick heard himself ten years ago. He’d been willing to do anything for the title and the ring. Now that he was older, he’d tempered his answer. He was willing to do
almost
anything. He wasn’t willing to lose Marilyn. But was he willing to risk the title for his marriage?

DeMarcus arched a brow. “Anything?”

“Yes.” Desperation tightened Jamal’s voice.

“Be at my house by five o’clock tonight.” DeMarcus’s gaze swept the bleachers. “That goes for all of the starters. My house at five.”

“What for?” Anthony asked the question.

“You’ll see when you get there.” DeMarcus returned his attention to Jamal. “Rick may have saved your ass. Again.” The coach blew his whistle. “Practice’s over.”

Less than an hour later, after soaking in an ice tub to ease the pain in his back and legs, Warrick had showered and dressed in black Dockers and a white short-sleeved shirt.

He crossed the practice court to speak with DeMarcus and Oscar at the bleachers. “Don’t you guys have offices?”

Oscar grunted. “Don’t want him there. He never leaves.”

“That’s because you’re so warm and welcoming.” DeMarcus’s rebuttal was dry.

Warrick grinned with relief. The two coaches were getting along well. At the beginning of the season, they’d been so embattled Warrick had thought one of them would leave. But working together, the duo had engineered a Cinderella run that had raised the worst-placed Monarchs to the top of the Eastern Conference and into the finals. He hated the thought of Oscar leaving after this miracle season.

He let his gym bag drop to the court. “What did you mean when you told Jamal I’d saved his ass again?”

DeMarcus lowered the stack of papers in his hands. “You’d suggested I ask my father for ideas to help Jamal better understand the playbook. I think he’s come up with a plan.”

Warrick’s brows jumped. “What is it?”

“You’ll see.” DeMarcus grinned. His pride in his parent was visible.

Oscar frowned at DeMarcus. “Why didn’t you think of that?”

Warrick answered for his coach. “Sometimes we’re too close to a situation. It takes someone on the outside to see it more clearly.”

“Maybe.” Oscar gave in but only grudgingly. The older man’s intense gray gaze studied Warrick’s as though reading his mind. “You still quieting the noise?”

Warrick shrugged, uncomfortable with the question. The truth was that every day the noise seemed to grow louder. “I’m doing my best. There’s a lot at stake.”

Oscar grunted again, shifting on the bleacher toward him. “It’s the finals, not surgery.”

Warrick’s gaze swept the nets circling the ceiling, the black wire carts of supplies—basketballs, yoga bands, and jump ropes. Of course, Oscar was right. There was no comparison. Basketball wasn’t life and death. But every time Warrick stopped to think about how close he was to the NBA finals title, he was transported back to the twelve-year-old boy who’d been unable to live up to his father’s expectations and unworthy of his mother’s attention. Warrick had something to prove, at least to himself.

He shook off the past. “I may not have another shot at the title.”

Oscar looked from Warrick to DeMarcus and back. “You tanking the finals?”

“No, but I may retire after this season.”

DeMarcus rose from his seat on the bleacher. His movements were slow and stiff. “You, too?”

Warrick shrugged. “I’ve been thinking about it.”

“Don’t.” Oscar’s advice was much like the man, brusque and to the point.

“Wait until the finals are over to decide.” DeMarcus sat again.

Warrick jerked his chin toward his coach. “You left the game when you were a couple of years older than I am now. You were on top. How did you know it was time to retire?”

DeMarcus drew a hand over his hair. “I had a great career. No regrets. But after my mother died, my priorities changed. The game wasn’t fun anymore.”

Warrick lifted his gym bag and settled the strap onto his shoulder. “The game isn’t fun for me anymore, either.” Coaching was looking better and better.

“What was it you just said?” Oscar’s frown cleared. “Sometimes you’re too close to the situation. It takes someone on the outside to see it clearly.”

“There’s a lot at stake.” Warrick turned to leave. It wasn’t only that the game wasn’t fun anymore. Like DeMarcus, his priorities had changed.

The reporters were no longer camped on the sidewalk in front of her house. Marilyn celebrated by entering her home through the front door. It was a beautiful June day, despite the personal clouds following her. She’d had a hard run through Prospect Park and was dripping with sweat. As she crossed the entranceway and mounted the stairs, the sudden ringing of the telephone brought her to a stop. She changed directions.

Marilyn answered the phone in the family room, careful not to drip sweat on the armchair. “Hello?”

“Marilyn. It’s Arthur Posey.”

Her mind went through twists and leaps trying to determine why she was hearing the hospital administrator’s voice again. She glanced at the clock above the sandstone fireplace. It was almost noon on Tuesday.

“What can I do for you, Arthur?” The conversation had barely begun and already she was anxious to end it.

“Actually, Marilyn, the question isn’t what you can do for
me
. It’s what
I
can do for
you
.”

The hospital administrator’s voice still made her gums itch. “What would that be?”

“Reinstate you at Kings County Medical Samaritan Hospital.”

Marilyn froze at Arthur’s words. He was calling to give her her job back? “Why?”

“The board met and reconsidered the decision to revoke your hospital privileges.”

Marilyn pictured Arthur in his office, seated in his maroon leather executive chair behind his oversized mahogany desk. Was he alone or was a member of the hospital’s board in his office holding a gun to his head? Marilyn couldn’t believe he was making this call willingly.

“You mean the board disagreed with your decision? They didn’t fire me, Arthur. You did.” The word
fired
still stung. It would for a very long time. The unjust reason behind the dismissal made it worse.