Keeping Score (33 page)

“The board and I have decided to give you another chance.”

Marilyn gritted her teeth at the pompous statement. “Why?”

“What does the reason behind our decision matter?”

Marilyn paced to the windows in front of her family room. She tipped the curtains to peek outside. Still no reporters. She drew the curtains wide open and let the early afternoon sunlight sweep the shadows from her home.

“
If
I accept your offer—and for the record, Arthur, that’s a pretty big
if
—I want to know why you want me back.”

Arthur was silent for so long. Was he going to ignore her question?

“We recognize the value you bring to the hospital.” He sounded as though he was forcing the words through a restriction in his throat.

“My value?” Marilyn’s laughter was disbelieving. “You didn’t recognize it before you fired me?”

“We recognize it now.”

Same old Arthur. Smug, arrogant, and facetious. His tone matched the man to perfection.

“You fired me less than three weeks ago. Now you’re asking me to come back.” Marilyn turned away from the window and wiped the sweat trailing from her forehead into her eyes. “I want to know why, Arthur. The truth. I’m not rushing back to the hospital unless I understand what’s going on. And I can wait you out.”

Though not for long. Her body was cooling in her dampened clothes. She was getting chilled. And she desperately wanted a shower. But Arthur didn’t know any of that.

Marilyn heard tapping in the background, like a pen hitting a desktop. Arthur was agitated.

More silence, then a heavy sigh. “Your patients are asking for you.”

Marilyn stilled. A thrill raced through her system. “Really?”

She’d been thinking about her patients as well. How were their pregnancies progressing? Were they on schedule? Were there any complications?

“Really.” Arthur didn’t sound as pleased. “They’ve been asking for you since the Monarchs won the Eastern Conference series.”

Some of Marilyn’s pleasure dimmed. In asking for her to return, were her patients expressing their preference for her medical care or were they acting on their Monarchs fanaticism?

Marilyn pushed the question to the back of her mind. “So you’re inviting me back because my former patients are asking for me?”

“That’s right.”

“Is that the only reason?” Although she had a large number of patients, she doubted the hospital considered their preference for her enough of a concern to bring her back.

“The board wants you back. Are you going to accept their invitation or not?”

“The board, huh?” Marilyn smiled with bitter satisfaction. “I take it they didn’t support your decision to dismiss me?”

“Not exactly.”

“I suppose that answers the question of whether you’ll fire me again if the media becomes an issue.”

“What’s your answer, Marilyn?” Arthur bit the question.

It was Marilyn’s turn to be silent. She wanted to return to practicing obstetrics and gynecology. She wanted to care for her patients again. But did she want to work under Arthur?

Marilyn pulled the clip from her hair and dragged her cold fingers through the damp mass. “I don’t have one for you.”

“What?” Arthur’s response rang with disbelief. “The board is offering you your hospital privileges back.”

Marilyn settled her hands on her hips. “You and I didn’t get along well the first time. Why are you pressuring me to return?”

Arthur’s tone stiffened. “I would think you’d be more appreciative of the board’s interest.”

Her confusion cleared as disappointment settled in. “The board members aren’t happy with you, are they, Arthur? How many of them are Monarchs’ season ticket holders?”

“I hate to disappoint you, Marilyn, but none of them have Monarchs tickets.”

Marilyn blinked. “Then why are they pressuring you to convince me to return?”

“Any number of reasons.” Arthur responded impatiently. “Your patients want you to return. Several of them have been quite vocal.” He hesitated. “One of them is the neighbor of one of the board members. And several doctors, led by Dr. Mane, presented the board with their support for your reinstatement.”

“Em?” Marilyn’s eyebrows shot toward her hairline.
Why would Emma champion her?

Marilyn paced back to the corner table. “This is a big decision, Arthur. I’m not going to rush into it.”

“Then what am I supposed to tell the board?”

“Tell them the truth. I’m considering their offer. I’ll call you once I’ve made my decision.” Marilyn recradled the receiver.

The board wanted her back. They valued her for what she brought to the hospital. To them, she wasn’t the Devrys’ daughter or Mrs. Warrick Evans. She was Dr. Marilyn Devry-Evans. There was a rush of relief, but it was subdued by other concerns. What about Arthur’s resentment toward her? And what was behind Emma’s support?

The phone rang again as she turned away from the table. Was Arthur calling her back so quickly? She wouldn’t allow him to harass her into an answer just so he could look good to the board.

Marilyn smothered an impatient sigh. “Hello.”

A hesitant voice responded. “Is this Doctor Marilyn Devry-Evans?”

Marilyn didn’t recognize the voice. “Who is this?”

“My name is Betty Waller. Faye Ryland gave me your phone number.”

Really?
“Why would she do that?”

“Because I explained to her that I had information that would help you with your problem.”

Marilyn stiffened. She didn’t even know this woman. How could they have anything in common? “What are you talking about? What problem?”

“My daughter, Jordan Hyatt. She’s willing to admit she’s been lying.”

23

Warrick joined his teammates in Julian Guinn’s living room. The curtains were open. Corner lamps boosted the waning light from the early evening sun. Through the window, Warrick glimpsed the other turn of the century brownstones in his coach’s neighborhood.

The men stood around the room exchanging curious looks. Julian stepped forward to stand with DeMarcus on his left, and Jaclyn and Althea to his right.

“All right.” Julian rubbed his hands together. “Marc asked me to devise a teaching lesson that would help Jamal with the Monarchs’ playbook.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m a dummy.” Jamal’s eyes were defensive as he looked at his teammates.

Julian raised his hands. “No one said you were. People learn differently.” He lowered his arms. “One person can remember all the plays after reading them once. Someone else might need to read the playbook a couple of times. Jamal, I think you’re a visual learner.”

Jamal frowned. “What’s that mean?”

Julian clasped his hands behind his back. “You need something to visually associate with a play to help you remember it.”

Anthony crossed his arms over his chest. “Isn’t that what practice is for? So that he could see what the plays look like?”

Julian shook his head. “Think of practice as a midterm you take in school to see how well you’ve studied. The games are your final exams. Jamal needs to study in a different way to prepare for those tests.”

“But that doesn’t mean that I’m stupid.” Jamal’s expression was aggressive.

“Exactly.” Julian gave him a firm nod.

“Then why do I have to do all this?” Jamal raised his chin to a stubborn angle. Still Warrick heard the insecurity in his voice. “We’re up two games to one over the Nuggets and tomorrow night we play our second game at home. Why do I have to do this if we’re winning?”

Warrick pictured winning game four Wednesday night in the Empire Arena. That would bring them within one game of ending the series and capturing the championship title. Game five was Saturday night in Denver. It would be great for the team and the fans to earn the title at home. But it didn’t really matter where they lifted the trophy.

DeMarcus dragged his hand over his close-cropped hair. “You need to learn the plays, Jamal.”

“Yeah, man.” Anthony shifted to face the younger player. “We can’t keep covering for you. If you give a man a fish, he eats for a day. If you teach a man to fish, he eats for a lifetime.”

“Thanks, Saint Anthony. Now I know what Jesus would do.” Vincent’s words were dust dry.

Anthony’s olive green eyes glared at the Monarchs’ center. “Jesus didn’t say that.”

Serge rubbed his forehead. “Could we get through one practice without the two of you sniping at each other? I know a three-year-old girl who is better behaved than the two of you.”

“Sorry, Serge.” Vincent’s words didn’t hold much sincerity. “Look, Jamal. You’re always complaining that we have to take the series to seven games. We wouldn’t have to do that if you’d learn the playbook.”

Jamal turned his mulish expression on Vincent. “Everything I’ve got, I leave on the court. It’s been good enough to get us this far.”

“The finals aren’t about being good enough, Jamal.” Warrick slipped his hands into the front pockets of his black Dockers. “The finals are about being the best. What are you prepared to do for it? How far are you willing to lift your game?”

The room grew still as Warrick waited for the rookie’s response. This answer would determine the rest of their season. They’d need the support of all thirteen players to take home the championship. Without that, the Monarchs would end their season as the also-ran. No one remembered second place.

Slowly, Jamal’s muscles relaxed. His stubborn expression eased. “I’m willing to try this—if it will lift my game.” He gave Warrick a sharp look. “But my game’s already really high.”

Warrick recognized the younger man’s cockiness as cover for the insecurity underneath. “I know.”

“Good.” Julian spoke on a relieved sigh. “Let’s get started.”

Warrick looked to Julian. “What do you need us to do?”

Julian switched his attention to individual players during his explanation. “When you boil them down, each play is tailored to a specific player and designed to maximize his skill at his position. For example, there’s a plan designed to get Serge open in the post. Another to get Warrick open in the paint.”

Watching Julian, Warrick imagined the high school teacher he must have been. A great one.

“So, how does this work? Am I supposed to stare at Serge and keep repeating his play number like a parrot?” Jamal sounded dubious.

“No, we need a visual representation of the play associated with that player.” Julian gestured toward the other side of the room. “Serge, take a seat on the sofa. Tony, go ahead and sit on the coffee table. It’s sturdier than it looks. Rick, take the recliner, and Vinny, stand beside the television.”

Jamal’s expression remained doubtful as the other players took their positions. “What’s this supposed to do?”

Julian gestured toward Warrick. “Instead of thinking of Rick’s play as Backdoor, remember it as the Recliner Play.” He turned to Serge. “Serge is no longer the Post Screen play. He’s the Sofa Play.”

Jamal hooked his hands onto his hips. “And what’s Tony? The Table Play?”

Julian nodded. “And Vinny is the TV Play.”

Jamal’s brows knitted as he stared across the room at Warrick, seated in the armchair. “Rick. Recliner.” He stressed the R sound in both words. A grin spread across his warm brown features. “This is dumb, but it might work.”

DeMarcus patted his father’s left shoulder. “I don’t care how dumb it seems as long as it works.”

“Let’s run through a couple of plays.” Julian displayed a green and blue stress ball. “You guys stay where you are. Jamal’s going to walk to his position as it relates to where you’re seated.”

“Wait a minute.” Jaclyn gestured toward Julian’s right hand. “Is that a Miami Waves stress ball?”

Julian’s cheeks darkened. “Come on, Jackie. I can’t just toss it out. Marc played for the Waves for fourteen years.”

“He’s the Brooklyn Monarchs’ head coach now.” Jaclyn looked to her assistant. “Althea, please arrange to have some Monarchs stress balls ordered. Julian needs a new toy.”

“You know how Jackie feels about the Waves, Julian.” Althea shook her head with a grin. “I’ll take care of it first thing in the morning, Jackie.”

Serge shifted on the sofa. “Julian, how much longer will this take? Whatever is cooking in the kitchen is making me hungry.”

Warrick silently agreed with the Monarchs’ forward. He drew in another deep breath. His mouth almost watered from the scents of curry, chicken, and vegetables sneaking into the living room.

What was Marilyn having for dinner? Was she eating alone? Warrick shook off the questions and refocused his attention on Julian’s lesson.

DeMarcus inclined his head toward Jamal. “The sooner we get started, the sooner we can eat.”

Vincent called across the room. “Hey, Coach, did you cook?”

“Yes, I did.”

Anthony smiled. “Oh, this should be good. I can’t wait.”

Althea chuckled. “Jackie, you’re a lucky woman.”

Jaclyn glowed. “I know.”

Julian gave Althea a mock scowl. “And what am I? A consolation prize?”

Althea sent him a suggestive smile. “No, Julian. You are definitely not.”

The other players laughed as they teased the couples. Warrick looked away. Jaclyn and DeMarcus were good together. Anyone could see that. And so were Althea and Julian. He was happy for both couples. But looking at them reminded him of all he could lose.

“All right. All right. Let’s settle down.” Julian sounded like the high school teacher he used to be. Once the room quieted, he tossed the stress ball to Jamal. “Walk us through the Recliner Play.”

“Why didn’t you tell me you’d spoken to the board about Arthur firing me?” Marilyn found Emma in the hospital’s break room cradling a mug of coffee.

Emma looked up at the sound of her voice. “I wasn’t the only one who spoke with the board.”

Marilyn gazed around the room. At six o’clock Tuesday evening, the overbright gray and orange room was fairly crowded with hospital staff either eating dinner, filling up with caffeine, or both. After almost a month without the bitter brew, Marilyn wasn’t keen on the hospital’s coffee.

“I know.” Marilyn settled into the hard plastic orange chair opposite the other woman. She breathed in the scent of antiseptic, burnt coffee, and someone’s fried fish dinner. “But Arthur said you organized the other doctors to speak on my behalf. Thank you.”