Keeping Score (19 page)

After throwing on some clothes, Warrick packed his travel case for the team’s two nights in Miami before helping Marilyn prepare a quick dinner of salad and spaghetti. God, he was going to miss her, even more this time than ever before.

He’d pulled on black slacks and a short-sleeved gray dress shirt for the trip. His black loafers waited near the front door. Marilyn had wrapped her curves in a skimpy bronze robe that made her honey skin glow. Warrick’s gaze stroked over her slender back, rounded hips, and well-toned legs. If people knew what the conservative Dr. Devry-Evans wore away from the hospital, they’d probably swallow their tongue depressors.

The phone rang, distracting him from his mental image of what she looked like beneath the stingy robe. Marilyn caught him staring at her.

Her chocolate eyes laughed at him. “Do you want to answer the phone?”

Warrick shrugged. “Not really. It could be a reporter.”

The twinkle left Marilyn’s eyes. His joy went with it. Marilyn finished draining the spaghetti. He gave the salad a final toss and set the bowl on the kitchen table. By the fourth ring, the answering machine picked up. Warrick crossed the hallway into the family room. He reached the phone as the caller identified himself with his words.

“Rick!” His father’s bellow startled him. The noise bounced off the walls. “Why are you bare-assed in the paper?”

His mother screamed in the background.

Warrick reached for the receiver.

Marilyn’s gentle hand restrained him. “You need to prepare for your trip.”

Warrick sought her steady gaze. It was as though she hadn’t heard—or chose to ignore—the anger in his father’s voice.

John Evans continued his tirade. “You always had to be the center of attention.”

Warrick knew that wasn’t true; still his father’s words hurt. He tugged against Marilyn’s hold. “He’s going to keep yelling until I answer the phone.”

Marilyn’s gaze compelled him. “He’ll eventually run out of tape.”

“Then he’ll call back.”

John’s tirade almost drowned Warrick’s words. “I know you’re there. Pick up the phone.”

Warrick pulled his attention from his wife and stared down at the answering machine. Marilyn released Warrick’s arm to turn down the volume on the phone until they couldn’t hear his father. Warrick stared fixedly at the machine. That plan was bound to backfire.

Marilyn’s long, cool fingers turned his face toward hers. “Dinner’s almost ready.”

“I’m not sure that was a good idea.”

Marilyn dropped her hand. “If you’d answered his call, what would you have said?”

Warrick’s shoulders tightened. “I don’t know.” He hadn’t wanted to take his father’s call, but it would have been better to get it over with.

“You wouldn’t have said a word.” Marilyn gripped his shoulder. “You would have stood there and let him tear you down without saying anything to defend yourself.”

His features tightened. Was it anger, embarrassment, or both? “You don’t know that.”

“You never defend yourself.” Her chin was tilted at an angle from which he knew he couldn’t persuade her. “That strategy may make
him
feel better, but how does it help
you
?”

It doesn’t. “There’s no point in defending yourself to him. Dad doesn’t listen. But ignoring him isn’t the answer.”

“I know.” Marilyn waved a negligent hand. “Ignoring your father will only make him angrier. Call him when you get to Miami. Right now, you need to eat. Then you have a plane to catch.”

Without waiting for a response, she pivoted on her bare feet and marched back to the kitchen. Warrick’s gaze returned to her well-rounded posterior.

He followed her to the kitchen. “What am I supposed to say to him?”

Marilyn shook her head. “I don’t know. The truth doesn’t seem to matter.”

“What do you mean?”

Marilyn faced him, settling her hands on her hips. The robe crept another inch up her thighs. “If you had defended yourself to your father, you’d probably say the same things I tried to say to my mother. We were in the privacy of our own home. The venetian blinds were closed. The photographer pressed his camera lens against our window. None of that mattered to her.”

Warrick wasn’t surprised. Celeste Devry lived to assign blame. “So how am I supposed to make amends to our parents?”

Marilyn dropped her arms. “We don’t have to make amends. We’re the victims.”

“You’re blaming the media?”

“Aren’t you?”

“Yes, but they aren’t going away.”

“I know. I also know the championship is important to you. I want you to win it all this year. Maybe then, you can retire.”

Warrick took a moment to form a response. He strode to the table and dished some of the salad into their bowls. “Retire to what? Pull my rocking chair into the sun and watch the day go by?”

She turned on the burner under the pan to reheat the spaghetti sauce. “You majored in accounting and minored in business administration. You can do a lot of things with those degrees.”

“I’m a basketball player. That’s who I am.”

Marilyn shook her head. “Playing basketball is what you do. You’re Rick Evans. You have the ability, intelligence, and drive to do whatever you choose.”

Her words frustrated him even as they healed the fresh wounds his father’s tirade had cut. “Then I choose to be a basketball player.”

“Do you intend to keep playing until you’re sixty-five?” Marilyn served the now sticky spaghetti onto the dinner plates. “I’ve done some research. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight is old for a basketball player. You’re almost thirty-five.”

Warrick stored the leftover salad in the refrigerator. “I love basketball.”

“I know.” Marilyn’s answer came from behind him.

But did she understand? “Growing up, basketball was all I had. When I couldn’t earn my mother’s attention or my father’s approval, I had basketball. It never belittled me. It never made me feel worthless. And, if I failed, tomorrow was another chance.”

“Why haven’t you ever told me this?” Marilyn’s voice was emotional.

Warrick faced her. He hadn’t meant to upset Marilyn. “I’ve never told anyone. Don’t feel sorry for me, Mary. A lot of kids have it worse.”

“But you’ve fulfilled your dream, Rick. And you’ll be in the Hall of Fame. I’m certain of it.”

That was an honor he hadn’t dared to consider. But he wasn’t ready for his career to end. Searching her eyes, Warrick saw that Marilyn was, and her silent ultimatum was harder to bear than his father’s bellowing condemnations.

Warrick considered ignoring the knock on his Miami hotel door Saturday night. After a brutal workout and practice, he was hungry, tired, and sore. Dinner and bed. That’s all he wanted. He needed to be well rested for the Monarchs critical game five tomorrow night against the Miami Waves.

He recognized Troy through the peephole. The marketing executive stroked his goatee with a distracted air. Warrick pulled open the door and stepped aside to let the other man in.

Troy wore a tan suit. His pale pink shirt was open at the collar, displaying a short, thin gold chain. He looked like he’d just stepped from the South Beach section of an expensive men’s clothing catalog. But the expression on his friend’s face didn’t bode well for Warrick’s evening plans.

He closed the door. “What now?”

He hadn’t meant to sound so hard. The Monarchs’ executive obviously didn’t relish his role as messenger. But how much could a person handle at one time? His marriage was on the rocks, his team’s championship was in jeopardy, his starting position was in question, and what little regard his parents and in-laws had for him had been zapped by the prurient paparazzi’s photos. Screw happiness. Money couldn’t even buy peace.

Troy entered the room and offered Warrick his BlackBerry. “Sit down and press play.” The look in his eyes made the muscles in Warrick’s gut clench.

Warrick stared at the BlackBerry, his arms at his sides. What was this about? More gossip? Dammit, not more photos. “Just tell me.”

“You have to see this.” Troy extended the BlackBerry toward him.

Warrick took the device and strode toward the bed. He dropped onto the edge of the mattress. His body felt heavier than it had after the three-hour practice. He stared at the screen. It showed the home page of a New York television station’s Web site. The image in the video box was of a woman surrounded by reporters with microphones. Warrick knew what it felt like to be hemmed in by so many overanxious people wielding microphones at your face. He grew tense just watching her.

The woman appeared to be in her mid- to late thirties. The camera framed her to midtorso. Her thick reddish brown curls framed a round brown face painted with dramatic cosmetics.

Warrick glanced at Troy one last time before pressing the play symbol. The male anchor’s voice-over introduced the subject of the video clip as Jordan Hyatt. According to the anchor, Jordan’s publicist had contacted the local media to schedule a press conference. Her client claimed to have explosive information about Brooklyn Monarchs shooting guard Warrick Evans.

Warrick frowned at Troy. “I don’t even know this woman.”

Troy returned his stare without responding. Warrick switched his attention to the video clip of the woman holding court to a small nest of reporters outside a large apartment building. Some press conference.

“Thank you all for coming.” Jordan Hyatt offered a small, excited smile. “I’m certain you’ll realize your time has been well spent once I share my news with you.” She paused for effect.

It worked. The reporters shouted questions, clamoring for her information.

She waved her hands to quiet the noise. Her heavily made-up face glowed with pleasure. “As I said earlier, my name’s Jordan Hyatt. J-O-R-D-A-N. H-Y-A-T-T. And Warrick Evans is the father of my unborn child.”

13

The BlackBerry slid from Warrick’s lax hold. He stared dumbly as the device seemed to bounce onto the hotel room’s thin dark carpet in slow motion. Troy crouched to retrieve it.

The movement snapped Warrick from his stupor. “Do you believe her?” His voice was cold, controlled, unlike the frenzied fury building inside him.

“Of course not.” Troy’s surprised response came without hesitation. “Everyone who knows you, knows you have too much integrity to cheat on your wife.”

What about the people who
didn’t
know him? Did they think he was a lowlife who would get one woman pregnant while married to another? Why did it bother him what strangers thought? He didn’t know why, but it did.

Just as it bothered Marilyn.

Warrick stood from the bed. His movements were stiff as he prowled the room. He moved past the cherry-wood combination chest of drawers and television, and circled in front of the matching laminate writing table and cushioned chair. His heart raced in his chest. His breathing came too fast.

He stopped before the wall-length window and glared through the sheer white curtains at downtown Miami at night. “Why did she do this? What does she hope to gain?”

“Fifteen minutes of fame.” Disgust deepened Troy’s response. “You saw her. She was eating up the attention.”

Warrick spun from the window. “At the expense of my marriage? My wife’s reputation? My reputation? How selfish could one person be?”

“Pretty damn.” Troy crossed his arms over his chest.

Warrick’s hands clenched and unclenched with the urge to punch something. He resumed his pacing. “I’ve got to call Mary.”

“You need to calm down first.”

“I know.” Warrick caught Troy’s concerned expression. “How did you find the link? Was it one of those Google Alerts?”

Troy hesitated. “Andy sent it to me.”

Warrick froze. Andrea Benson, Troy’s girlfriend and the new features writer for
The New York Times
, was in Brooklyn. He squeezed his eyes shut. “So Mary already knows.”

“Probably.” Troy answered on a sigh of resignation.

Warrick scrubbed his face with his hands. “Son of a—”

“Listen, Rick. I know you need to talk with Mary, but I need a few minutes first.”

He faced his friend. “For what?”

“To try to prepare you.” Troy dropped his arms. “This has spread all over New York. It’s probably followed us to Miami.”

Warrick crossed the room again. “Doesn’t anyone care about the play-offs? Why is my sex life so much more important?”

“Sometimes the media plays to the lowest common denominator.”

Marilyn was right. The media’s criticism of his game was one thing. It wasn’t as easy to shake off their personal attacks.

Warrick hooked his hands on his hips. “First the photos, now this. What’s next?”

“You may not want to ask that.” Troy’s tone was dry. “The media attention was bad before. It’s going to get worse.”

A pulse beat viciously in Warrick’s temple. “The media printed naked pictures of my wife in a newspaper, posted photos of us making love on a Web site, and gave a crazy woman airtime to accuse me of cheating on my wife. How could it
possibly
get worse?”

“I know you’re frustrated.”

“That’s an understatement.” Warrick dropped onto the bed. He propped his elbows on his knees and gripped his head with his hands. “I want them to leave us alone.”

“So do I.”

He lowered his arms and raised his gaze to Troy’s. “What do you suggest I do? Call a press conference?”

Troy smoothed his goatee. “It would be your word against Jordan Hyatt’s, which would keep this story alive. We need something more so we can kill it.”

“Like what?” Temper propelled Warrick from the bed. He marched back to the window. “Photos of me not having sex with her? How do you prove a negative, Troy?”

“Andy’s investigating Jordan Hyatt’s background, her personal and professional connections. She’s looking for a concrete link we could use to discredit her.”

Warrick turned to consider the other man. “What if she doesn’t find one?”

A confident smile curved Troy’s lips. “She will.”

Warrick rubbed the back of his neck. “Why would she help me? Is she doing this for the story?”

“She’s doing this for me.” Troy’s voice cooled.