Keeping Score (3 page)

“I know. Thursday’s the first game of your series against the Miami Waves. You e-mailed your schedule to me.”

At least she was reading his e-mails even if she didn’t always return his calls. “You can move back in while I’m gone. I’m sure Emma wouldn’t mind putting you up for another three nights.”

Marilyn frowned. “Em’s not rushing me to leave—”

“I’m sure she’s not.”

Marilyn must have heard the sarcasm in his tone. “You’ve never liked her.”

“I’m not her favorite person, either. So will you move back while I’m gone?”

Marilyn hesitated. “You don’t mind?”

“Of course not. This is your home.”

“Where will you stay?”

Warrick kept his expression neutral. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll find a place to stay.” Their home had a perfectly comfortable guest room.

Marilyn’s smile of gratitude was worth the risk he was taking. “Thank you, Rick.”

“You can thank me later.” Once their marriage was back to normal.

All’s fair in love and war. He was in love with Marilyn and would fight anyone and everyone who tried to come between them. His trick to get her back into the house was worth the risk. Hopefully, in the end, she would agree.

2

Warrick jogged across the Monarchs’ practice court Monday morning. He and his teammates were running a series of plays, preparing for the Eastern Conference Championship against their rivals, the Miami Waves. He found his position in time to catch the pass from his practice squad teammate, Roger Harris. Roger usually warmed the Monarchs’ bench until the second quarter. Why had his head coach, DeMarcus Guinn, assigned Warrick to the team with the bench players for this morning’s practice? Shouldn’t he be on the squad with the starters? What had he done wrong?

Warrick pressed the doubts to the back of his mind. He dribbled once, then drove hard toward the corner of the court, matching the ball’s bounce to his steps.

Jamal Ward cursed as Warrick powered past him. The rookie turned to hustle after Warrick. But, caught off guard, Jamal was too late to defend him. Warrick steadied himself at the corner of the court, leaped, and sent a teardrop shot toward the basket. The ball kissed the backboard before diving through the hoop.

Warrick pivoted to jog back down the court. He caught up with Jamal. “Marlon Burress is going to do the same thing to you that I just did. Didn’t you study the Waves’ game film?”

“Obviously not; otherwise he would have known that.” DeMarcus’s voice dripped with disgust. His coal black eyes snapped with impatience. He blew the whistle to stop the practice, then turned to Jamal. “That two-point play should never have happened.”

Warrick agreed. The rookie hadn’t read the scouting reports and he wasn’t giving his full effort during practice. Yet Warrick was in a white jersey with the bench players while Jamal was with the starters wearing black.

Don’t let it matter. Just focus on whatever the team needs to get the win.

DeMarcus continued to glower at Jamal. Two years after retiring from the NBA, the rookie head coach’s lean, six-foot-seven-inch frame was still in playing shape. “I want you to cover Burress. He can’t match your speed. But if you can’t anticipate his movements, your speed won’t matter.”

Jamal, a nineteen-year-old rookie with an attitude, curled his lip. The starting shooting guard’s six-foot-four-inch wiry body seemed covered in ink. “Man, that old guy can’t get past me.”

DeMarcus jerked his head toward Warrick. “Rick is older than Burress, and he’s already gotten past you three times this morning.”

Warrick searched his coach’s expression. Did DeMarcus think he was too old to start? At thirty-four, his age was the reason he had to prove himself with every game, every practice. But DeMarcus, a former NBA three-time Most Valuable Player, had stayed in the league until he was older than Warrick was now.

Jamal cocked a hip. “I’ll turn it on for the game.”

Snickers and groans echoed around the practice court. Hadn’t Jamal learned anything this season? If the rookie guard didn’t change his attitude, it was going to be a long seven-game series.

“Turn it on now.” DeMarcus’s words were sharp with impatience. “I played with Burress on the Waves for almost ten seasons. He’s going to take every advantage you have over him and turn it against you. And he’ll take every advantage
he
has over
you
and bury you with it.”

Jamal held up his arms. “I got this, Coach.”

DeMarcus raised his right hand for the ball.

Serge Gateau, the Monarchs’ six-foot-ten starting forward, lobbed it to him. The Frenchman from Lourdes wore his dark blond hair pulled straight back in a shoulder-length ponytail. His lean square features were clean-shaven, his blue eyes sharp.

DeMarcus pressed his clipboard against Jamal’s chest. “Take a seat and watch how it’s done. I’ll guard Rick while he plays Burress.”

Jamal took the clipboard. “Why can’t I be Burress?”

Vincent Jardine, the team’s center, chuckled. “You can’t even play Jamal.”

Jamal glowered at the other man. “Shut up.”

DeMarcus spoke over his shoulder. “Rick does a better Burress than Burress. Sit down.”

Warrick watched Jamal trudge off the court. His sneakers squeaked against the gleaming hardwood floor as he crossed the practice facility to stand sulking on the sideline. Would they ever get through to the rookie? Almost a year ago, Jamal had left Michigan State University after his freshman year. One and done. Now, at the age of nineteen, he had a seven-figure contract with the Monarchs. He had the skills, the payday, and the job. When would he get the maturity?

DeMarcus blew his whistle, a wordless command for the team’s full attention. He heaved the ball at Warrick. “Show me what you’ve got.”

Warrick caught the basketball at chest level. Hadn’t he been doing that all season? What more was his coach looking for? Warrick dribbled the ball while he considered his next move. He was Marlon Burress playing against his longtime teammate and fellow future hall-of-famer. What would Burress do? Warrick got into character, giving DeMarcus a small, taunting smile. His coach’s eyes widened, then narrowed. Warrick feinted right, then spun left, switching the ball to his left hand.

DeMarcus moved to Warrick’s left. He gestured toward point guard Darius Williams, a bench player wearing the starters’ black jersey. “Box him in.”

Darius crowded Warrick on his right, blocking his access to the paint. The bench players swarmed the perimeter in a ring of white jerseys. The starters clad in black covered them. With Warrick double teamed, one of the white jerseys was left undefended. Warrick exchanged a look with Roger Harris, his open teammate. A split second of silent communication.

Get ready.

Warrick heaved the ball into the open lane. Roger snatched it from the air and slammed it into the basket. Two points.

Adrenaline rushed through Warrick. He clenched a fist. From the sideline, Jamal cheered. Warrick turned to jog back up the court. The sound of DeMarcus’s whistle brought him up short.

DeMarcus stood with his hands on his hips and a reluctant smile easing his expression. “I didn’t see that coming.”

Warrick faced his coach. “You thought Burress would take it in.”

DeMarcus chuckled. “He usually does.”

Warrick wiped sweat from his brow. “That’s why he would’ve passed.”

Jamal ran onto the court and stopped beside DeMarcus. “In your face! In your face!”

DeMarcus gave the younger man a look that humbled him. Jamal joined the other starters.

Oscar Clemente, the Monarchs’ first assistant head coach, drew nearer. His intense dark eyes gleamed. “You beat him with your mind.”

Warrick nodded. “Burress plays smart as well as hard. If he’s up against someone who knows his moves, he’ll do something unexpected.”

Oscar smoothed back the few gray hairs circling his rounded pink pate. His expression was smug. “You read your opponents the same way Marc does.”

That was the second time Oscar had made a comment comparing him to DeMarcus. What was the old guy up to?

DeMarcus took his clipboard from Jamal. “Rick, I’m putting you on Burress. You know his moves and what he’s thinking. Jamal, you take Millbank.”

Jamal sighed. “Whatever. I just hope we can finish one series without having to go all seven games. I’m tired.”

Warrick cleared the sweat from his forehead. “I don’t care how many games we have to play as long as we get the ring in the end.”

Oscar glanced at DeMarcus. “Spoken like a champion.”

DeMarcus jerked his chin toward Warrick. “Rick, get a black jersey. Darius, put on the white one.”

Warrick breathed easier. He was still on the starting roster. He hustled to the benches to grab a fresh black jersey. He’d won the fight to save his starting position. Now if he could win the battle to save his marriage, he’d have everything he’d ever wanted.

Marilyn took a deep breath, squared her shoulders, and exhaled. The meeting room of the Linden Boulevard Women’s Health Clinic was scented with peach potpourri. She checked her posture and concentrated on not fidgeting. Her gaze bounced off the Georgia O’Keeffe paintings mounted to the pale peach walls before landing on the two women seated across from her. They looked fresh from the salon. Their tailored power skirt suits dripped with accessories.

She crossed her legs under the round blond wood table. She’d taken an early lunch break this Monday morning to meet with the clinic partners before returning to the hospital. “I’m excited about the prospect of joining your practice.”

Janet Crowley gave her a gracious smile. Her cap of glossy black hair framed her thin dark features. “We’re excited about our plans for the future of the clinic. Health care lectures, free screenings for women with low income. We’re looking for corporate sponsors to partner with us to grow these programs.”

Dionne Sproles, the more animated of the two, spread her arms. Her large gray eyes shone with enthusiasm. “Women are the backbone of our families. We’re the nurses, chauffeurs, accountants, tutors. We take care of everyone else. Who takes care of us? We do. Well, it’s time we got some help and the knowledge to make ourselves better, healthier. The LB Clinic is going to lead the way with that effort.”

Marilyn’s pulse leaped with excitement. “Those are the kind of programs in which I’d like to get involved. Women’s health care is more than annual checkups. It’s prevention and education. I’d like to help you develop those programs and get them started.”

She sipped her coffee. The hot, bitter brew made her eyes tear and her tongue itch. Luckily, the clinic had other things than its java to recommend it. Chief among them was the ability to set her own hours and better supervise her patients’ care.

Dionne tapped the manila folder beside her coffee mug. “What we’ve learned about you so far is really impressive. You have a strong résumé and great experience.”

Janet leaned back in her seat. “And, of course, your credit report and background are excellent.”

Marilyn relaxed by degrees. “I was fortunate to get into Stanford for my undergrad and the University of Pennsylvania Medical School. They’re both very strong programs.”

The two other women exchanged smiles. Janet lifted her coffee. Her dark brown eyes gleamed over the rim of her mug. “We meant your family. The Devrys of northern California have an impeccable reputation. They’re old, established money.”

Dionne nodded, her auburn hair waving around her face and shoulders. “Your family is really well respected. They’re well regarded for their philanthropy and have a lot of connections all over the country.”

Marilyn stiffened. The two partners were tripping over themselves in praise of her lineage. Her fingers tightened around her china coffee cup. “I’m proud of my family’s personal and financial contributions to social causes. It’s a commitment that’s spanned generations and one I’ll continue. But I’m not here as my family’s representative. I’m representing only myself.”

Had she made herself clear? She wouldn’t go to her family for financial assistance or business introductions. If the clinic partners agreed for her to buy into the clinic, they’d get Marilyn Devry-Evans only. She wasn’t a package deal.

Janet’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. “We can’t run away from our names, though.”

Marilyn returned her cup and saucer to the table. She didn’t want to risk breaking them. “No, we can’t. But I don’t intend to trade on it, either.”

Janet tilted her head to the right. Her curtain of ebony hair swung with it. “Do you feel that way with both of your names?”

Marilyn’s shoulder muscles tightened. “Yes, I do. My family and my husband have achieved a lot. Now I want to make my own mark as an obstetrician/gynecologist and women’s health professional.”

The partners exchanged looks again. Janet crossed her legs. “Frankly, Marilyn, as impressed as we are with the Devrys’ stature and reputation, we’re less impressed with the Evans side of your family.”

Marilyn’s skin heated. “Have you been checking on my family?”

Janet shook her head. “Only what we’ve heard in the media.”

“And what we’ve found on the Internet.” Dionne smoothed her auburn hair in an odd, over-caffeinated manner.

Marilyn folded her hands on her lap. “Unfortunately, not everything you hear in the media or read on the Internet is true.”

Janet checked her manicure. “Your husband makes a living playing a child’s game.”

Marilyn’s face tightened. “My husband is a professional athlete. He works hard and is paid well. But what does that have to do with me?”

Janet swept a hand toward her. “You’re his wife. What he does reflects on you. Frankly, I’m afraid we don’t approve of his lifestyle. We don’t believe it suits our image.”

Marilyn’s eyes narrowed. “What is it about his lifestyle that concerns you?”

Dionne shrugged. “We’ve heard about celebrities’ really loose social lives.”

Oh, this should be good.

Marilyn’s gaze swung between Janet and Dionne. “With how many professional athletes have you socialized ?”