Keeping Score (26 page)

“I’m not prepared to start a practice on my own right now.” Marilyn looked over her shoulder at the three small children moving forward on unsteady, chubby little legs. So cute.

“Then you’re going to end your career?”

Marilyn inhaled a deep breath in an effort to figure out what to say next. She and the other Monarchs Wives Club members had discussed this. “You sound happy about that, Em. Almost satisfied.”

Emma shrugged her shoulders. “I’ve warned you since you and Rick started getting serious that his career would destroy yours. You wouldn’t listen to me.”

Marilyn reined in her temper. “I’m trying to save my marriage and my career. I’d appreciate a little support from my best friend.”

Emma looked at her in concern. “Are you sure you have a marriage to save?”

The other Monarchs wives had told her she’d have to confront Emma. Marilyn had dreaded this moment. She feared the outcome. She stepped off the pedestrian path and turned to face the woman she’d called “friend” for fifteen years—through college, medical school, and residencies; boyfriends, breakups, makeups, and marriage. “Em, are you jealous of my marriage to Rick?”

Emma’s cheeks flushed scarlet. “Jealous? Why would I be jealous of you and Rick?” But her friend wouldn’t meet her gaze.

“There’s no reason for you to be.” Marilyn led Emma farther across the park’s lawn. “But you’ve been criticizing our relationship since the day I told you he’d proposed. Why is that?”

“He’s cheated on you.” Emma almost spat the words.

Anger clouded Marilyn’s vision. “For the hundredth time, no, he hasn’t.”

“You’re beautiful, intelligent, and successful. But that doesn’t inoculate you from lying, cheating men.”

Marilyn searched the bitter glow in Emma’s green eyes. She swallowed, but the lump in her throat was stuck. “All of these years, Em, and I never realized how much you hated me.”

“You never appreciated what you had.” Emma shoved her hands onto her hips. “You wanted to get away from your parents. You had wealth and prestige and you wanted to throw it away. I would have loved to have grown up in your family. I never would have left.”

Talking with this Emma was like meeting a stranger. “You encouraged my applying to medical schools on the East Coast. You said you admired my independence.”

“But marriage changed you.” Emma’s tone was a sneer. “You weren’t independent anymore. And you weren’t going to return to California.”

“I made it clear before I left for medical school that I wasn’t returning to San Francisco.”

Emma shrugged. “You could have changed your mind.”

“But I didn’t.” Marilyn stared at Emma’s defiant expression. “Were we ever friends or did you just want to get in good with the Devrys’ daughter?”

Emma nodded once. “We were friends before you became Rick’s wife and didn’t have time for me anymore. Didn’t I warn you he was going to break your heart?”

“You’re the one who broke my heart, Em. You’d have done better to warn me about that.”

A flicker of uncertainty moved across Emma’s round face. She shrugged her shoulders and checked her watch. “I guess this jog is over. I’m going home.”

“Good-bye.” Marilyn inclined her head, too numb to think of anything else to say.

She watched her former best friend forever turn and walk back toward Eastern Parkway.

Emma merged with the crowd at the park’s entrance. With a heavy heart, Marilyn struggled to continue her second lap. This was the hardest summer of her personal life yet. But it wasn’t due to the heat. She was hanging on to her marriage by a thread. Her husband’s integrity was being publicly debated. She’d learned that her father had cheated on her mother, and the woman she’d considered her best friend since college had been pretending for all of these years.

It was telling that, through it all, the one person who’d remained true to her was Warrick.

18

The Waves had figured out their offense. Warrick stood on the sidelines with his team. DeMarcus had called a time-out. The Monarchs had gone into the halftime with a thirteen-point lead and a silenced Marlon Burress. At that point, Warrick had hoped they’d win and return home Sunday as conference champions.

Warrick lifted his gaze to the scoreboard, 108 to 105, Monarchs. One minute and eight seconds remained to the game. Too much time. At least he wasn’t in foul trouble.

DeMarcus shouted to be heard above Lady Gaga’s “Edge of Glory” as it competed with the cheers of the Waves fans. “We can’t make any mistakes. You can’t give them the win.”

“It’s as though they are reading our minds.” Serge smoothed back his dark blond hair, which hung in a damp ponytail behind his head. “They know what we’re going to do before we do it.”

“We need to open the playbook.” Anthony tossed aside his towel.

“We can’t.” Warrick shut down that option before it gained traction.

He avoided looking at Jamal. The rookie’s tension spiked each time he was reminded the shortened playbook was for his benefit. Warrick didn’t want the young player’s confidence shaken on the court.

DeMarcus pinned him with his coal black gaze. “Rick, you need to get into Burress’s head.”

Warrick’s brows knitted. “How, Coach?”

“You know Burress’s game better than anyone else.” DeMarcus was impatient. “You know
him
better than his mother.”

Vincent clamped a hand around Warrick’s right arm. He gestured across the Waves’ arena, drawing Warrick’s attention to Burress. The Waves player stood with his team on the other side of the court. “Be Burress.”

Warrick stilled. He understood what he needed to do. He’d always depended on physical ability and mental strategy to earn victories. Now he had to take his game to another dimension. He had to tap into a skill he’d never exploited before. His teammates needed it. His coach demanded it. But could he do it?

The buzzer sounded.

He was about to find out.

Vincent inbounded the ball over the Waves’ Chad Erving. The game clock restarted. The shot clock counted down from twenty-four. Serge worked his way to the post. The Waves’ Jarrod Cheeks defended him. Jamal took the left perimeter as Walter Millbank followed him. Warrick made his way to the right perimeter. Burress covered him like body odor.

Anthony couldn’t break free of the Waves’ Phillip Hawk. He tossed the ball to Warrick. Warrick used his back to block Burress. He stepped into the open lane and claimed the pass. Gripping the ball with his fingertips, he spun to face Burress. He stared into the other man’s fevered eyes. He gave the Waves’ point guard a small smile. It was a little amused and a bit mean. Burress’s eyes widened, then narrowed.

That got your attention.

Warrick would have powered through his defender on the inside for a run at the basket. Burress knew that. His body signaled he anticipated the move. But Warrick had gotten into Burress’s head. He’d read his thoughts and knew his intentions. Warrick dribbled once, feinted right, then danced a tightrope around Burress’s weak side. He sprang from the court. His jump shot rippled the net. Monarchs 110, Waves 105. Fifty-nine seconds left to the game.

The Waves’ Erving claimed the ball. He advanced it up court at lightning pace. The Waves needed time to close the score.

The Monarchs couldn’t allow that.

Staying in character, Warrick channeled Burress’s trash-talking. “Everybody’s going to know my name tonight.”

Burress cut Warrick a look, part surprise, part anger. “I doubt it. No one remembers second best.”

Warrick laughed. He fed off the power of getting under the other man’s skin.

From the sidelines, DeMarcus urged the Monarchs to a faster pace. Warrick played through the fire in his knees and the knots in his back. The Waves center pitched the ball to Walter Millbank. Jamal missed the block but pressured his man in the paint. Unable to take the shot, Millbank bounced it to Burress. Eighteen seconds remained on the shot clock, fifty-six seconds on the game clock.

Warrick moved in hard on Burress, careful not to draw a foul. Funny how silent the Waves’ point guard became when he played offense. Burress feinted inside. Warrick anticipated the trickery. Quick as a thought, he blocked Burress on the outside. Burress stumbled but protected the possession. Fifteen seconds on the shot clock.

Burress moved up to draw a charge. Warrick inched back to avoid the foul. He saw the exact instant when Burress realized he was mirroring him. Awareness dropped into his eyes, followed by anger. Warrick gave him the smile, part humor, part meanness. Burress came at him. Warrick planted his feet. Burress’s shoulder drove into his chest. Warrick allowed himself to fall to the court.

The referee blew his whistle. “Offensive foul. Number thirty-two.” That was Burress’s third foul. Three more and the point guard would find himself on the bench. The tables were turning.

The shot clock reset. The game clock drained to forty-seven seconds.

Vincent extended a hand to help Warrick to his feet. The center didn’t say a word, but his brown eyes gleamed with laughter. Warrick inclined his head. He arched a brow at the now furious Burress, one more dig before ambling to the free throw line. Warrick bounced the ball three times for luck. The first shot dove through the net, accompanied by boos and catcalls from the Waves’ fanatics. The second shot wheeled around the rim before dropping into the basket.

The Waves’ Erving grabbed the ball. Vincent guarded him, trying to slow the pace.

And so the dance continued as the game clock wound down. Each time the Miami Waves scored, the Monarchs responded. Burress grew increasingly agitated by the mental game, sending Warrick to the free throw line twice more. He had one foul to give before he was benched.

Warrick came off the charity line. Monarchs 116, Waves 110. The shot clock turned off. The game clock restarted with eight seconds left. The Waves’ Millbank advanced the ball to Erving. The center took off up the court. The Monarchs couldn’t take the pressure off the other team. They had to play hard to the buzzer.

In his peripheral vision, Warrick monitored Vincent and Serge as they blocked their assignments from the basket. He guarded Burress in the paint, keeping his eyes on the ball. Five seconds on the game clock.

Warrick spread his arms wide. “Watch and learn.”

A muscle jumped in Burress’s jaw but he remained silent. He stepped back, preparing for a three-point shot. Warrick gave him just enough room—but not too much. Burress went high. Warrick jumped higher. He slapped the ball away. Anthony caught the rebound and flung it to Vincent. Two seconds on the game clock.

The Waves chased the Monarchs center to midcourt.

One second.

The buzzer sounded. The series was over. The Monarchs had won.

Warrick raised both fists into the air, threw his head back, and roared his joy. Jamal leaped onto him and they crashed to the ground, laughing and shouting. The Monarchs bench cleared and charged onto the court.

They’d won the series. They were the Eastern Conference Champions. They were going to the NBA finals. The quest for the ring continued.

Marilyn had screamed herself almost raw watching Warrick and the Monarchs win the Eastern Conference Championship. The title was the culmination of his dream. It also brought him that much closer to the NBA Championship ring and—hopefully—retirement.

She was dizzy with excitement. She should have watched the game with at least one other member of the Monarchs Wives Club so she could share these feelings with someone else. What were they doing now?

Marilyn reached for her cellular phone to call Peggy Coleman, but the local sportscaster’s words stayed her hand.

“We have in the studio with us tonight Jordan Hyatt, the alleged pregnant mistress of Monarchs’ forward Warrick Evans.”

Marilyn’s eyes shot back to the television to see the tall, thin anchor sitting beside the short, plump imposter. “Oh, my God. Are you kidding me?”

Jordan Hyatt’s round face was heavily made up, even for the television appearance. And sometime between her first press conference and tonight’s interview, she’d had wavy extensions added to her reddish brown hair. She looked like a different person. Who was she trying to be?

Marilyn fisted both hands in her lap and forced herself to watch the program. What did this fraud have to say?

The young man turned to his guest. “Jordan, what’s your reaction to the Monarchs winning the Eastern Conference Championship tonight?”

Marilyn’s jaw dropped. The media had sunk to a new low. It was obscene that the anchor should ask a woman pretending to be her husband’s mistress for her reaction to Warrick’s conference title. Never mind that Marilyn would never have agreed to the interview. Jordan Hyatt’s appearance on the local news program was highly inappropriate.

Jordan cocked her head flirtatiously and granted the former frat boy a shy smile. “I’m very happy for Ricky. I know this championship has been his dream for a very long time.” She touched her stomach and giggled. “And I’m happy for me and our baby as well. Our son—or daughter—will be very proud of his father.”

Marilyn blinked, then blinked again. “This
can’t
be happening. Am I actually seeing this?”

The sportscaster’s eyes dropped to Jordan’s stomach. “An NBA champion for a father. Who wouldn’t want that, right?”

Another giggle. Jordan petted her stomach. “Right.”

The anchor continued. “Jordan, there are people who think you’re not telling the truth about being Rick Evans’s mistress. What do you say to those people?”

Marilyn shouted toward the television. “She’s lying!” But, of course, the sportscaster didn’t hear her.

Jordan lowered her eyes, still stroking her stomach as though it were a poodle. “I’d say those people were very jealous people who envied my happiness with Ricky. Some people are so mean and unhappy themselves that they don’t want to see other people happy.”

Marilyn’s eyes stretched wide. “Is she unstable?”

The program’s host frowned. “But Rick Evans hasn’t acknowledged your relationship.”

Jordan giggled. Was that noise a nervous tick? “What do you expect Ricky to say, silly? He’s married. Of course he’s not going to admit to being in love with me when he’s still married.”