Keeping Score (35 page)

Warrick rose and crossed the room, trying to wrap his mind around what had just happened.

“Maybe she’s the one who convinced Jordan Hyatt to tell the truth.” Julian’s words followed him.

If that were true, Marilyn had gone to a lot of effort to restore his reputation.

Warrick stared out the window at the late afternoon. The trees in front of Julian’s home and across his street cast shadows on the sidewalks. “She challenged the press to keep their spotlight on us.” Did that mean she was ready for forever with him?

Behind him, Julian shifted on the sofa. “Yes, well, that might not have been a good idea.”

Warrick drew a hand over his scalp. “When the media first started invading our privacy, Mary wanted me to retire. She thought if I didn’t play basketball anymore, the press would leave us alone.”

“It doesn’t sound as though she wants you to retire now. It seems like she wants you to win the title next season as well.”

“Why?”

“Because she loves you and she knows it’s what you want.”

“What if I don’t win? What if I disappoint her?”

“You heard her press conference, Rick. You can’t disappoint her. The only person you could disappoint is you.”

“Maybe.” Warrick returned to the armchair. “I feel as though everyone expects me to fail—the press ... the public ... my parents.”

“You’ve already won, son.” Julian’s words were earnest. “You’ve been through the fire, but you didn’t let it consume you. Instead it made you stronger. There are a lot of people who admire you for that, including me.”

Warrick pressed back into the chair. “But what would this season—my career—mean without a ring? Nothing.”

Julian shifted on the sofa to face him. “Rick, with or without a ring, you’re going down in history as one of the greatest Monarchs ever. And ring or no ring, Mary will always love you.”

Warrick saw the conviction of those words in the other man’s eyes. He hoped Julian was right.

Marilyn entered her home, then locked her front door Friday evening. She was completely worn out from four hours of shopping with the other Monarchs wives. She hadn’t even been able to keep up with the very pregnant Peggy. Beneath her Mona Lisa smile, that woman was a live wire.

As she crossed the entryway, Marilyn frowned at the large shoe box balanced in her arms. She still wasn’t certain about that purchase. Regardless of what Peggy, Faye, and Susan said, nothing good could come of it.

The phone rang. Marilyn detoured into the family room. She dropped her bags and the shoe box beside the sofa before answering the call. “Hello?”

“Good evening, Marilyn. It’s Arthur Posey. You’ve had three days to consider the board’s offer. Have you made a decision?”

Marilyn sank into the nearby armchair. This conversation would undoubtedly take a while. “This is a life-altering decision, Arthur. Do you really think three days is enough time to consider it?”

“Either you want to return to the hospital or you don’t. Those are your choices.” He sounded at the end of his rope.

“The board must have you under a great deal of pressure.” The mental image was deeply satisfying.

“May I have your answer?”

Luckily, Marilyn and the other Monarchs Wives Club members had discussed the board’s offer and arrived at a proposal that would benefit the Monarchs and make the idea of working with Arthur again much more palatable.

Marilyn settled back in the armchair and crossed her legs. “Would the terms of my hospital privileges remain the same?”

“Yes, we would reinstate your original contract. Is that acceptable to you?” Arthur continued trying to push her into a quick decision.

Marilyn wouldn’t allow it. “I want to add another term to the contract.”

“You didn’t have any objections to the contract when you originally signed it.” It sounded as though Arthur was speaking through gritted teeth.

Marilyn grinned. “Times have changed, Arthur. You dismissed me. Now you want to reinstate me. The original contract is no longer acceptable.”

“If you choose to make changes to your contract, I’ll have to consult with the board.”

Did he think that would dissuade her? “That’s reasonable.”

Arthur expelled an impatient breath. “What is this term you want us to consider?”

“I want you to do more than consider it. I want the hospital to agree to sponsor a table every year at the Monarchs’ annual charity fund-raiser.”

“You want us to do what?” Arthur’s incredulity sounded a bit exaggerated.

“You heard me.” Marilyn was firm.

“How much is the table?” After Marilyn named the sum, he continued. “That’s exorbitant. I’ll have to get the board’s approval.”

Marilyn chuckled. “I happen to know that amount is within your budgetary approval. Those are my terms. Take it or leave it, Arthur.” It really made no difference to her one way or another.

His pause was a little lengthier this time. “Fine. I’ll send the new contract to you tomorrow morning.”

Marilyn stood. “And I’ll review it when I return from Denver.”

“You’re going out of town?” Arthur infused his words with as much drama as possible. “I need you to return your signed contract to me A-S-A-P.”

“And A-S-A-P is once I return from Denver. Don’t worry, Arthur, I won’t keep it any longer than necessary.” Marilyn returned the telephone receiver to its mount before Arthur could frame a rebuttal.

She swept up her packages, then climbed the stairs to her room. She felt happier and more confident than she’d felt in weeks—despite the dubious purchase in the large shoe box. No good could come from it.

“Hey, stud.” Marilyn had to repeat herself before she caught Warrick’s attention Saturday evening as he walked into Vom Two, the tunnel to the visiting team’s locker room.

Warrick did a double take when he saw her posed on the top of the nearby staircase.
“Mary?”

The heat in his eyes as they traveled from her thigh-high black boots, over her figure-hugging black minidress to her curled, teased, and sprayed-to-death hair almost made her forget her name. As it was, she struggled to remember the words to Olivia Newton-John and John Travolta’s
Grease
duet, “You’re the One That I Want.” It was a song she’d been singing since her teens.

Finally, the words returned to her and she began her amateur performance. Marilyn gripped the handrail for balance as she descended the steps in the four-inch heels of her boots. With each unsure step, her voice shook, carrying her farther off key. She’d been right. No good could come from the purchase of these outrageous boots. But Warrick’s reaction made it worthwhile. His expression eased from stunned to confused to amused.

Marilyn ignored the flashing lights and buzzing cameras she’d known would follow Warrick from the parking lot. Instead, she focused on her husband as she wobbled her way to him—physically and vocally.

She’d reached the chorus where she insisted he was the one she wanted. Barely an arm’s length from him, Marilyn stumbled in the high, thin heels and fell against his chest. Warrick caught her to him before he threw back his head and roared with laughter.

It took him a while to catch his breath. Warrick rested his forehead against hers and whispered her name. “Mary?”

“Yes, Rick?” Beneath her fingertips, his muscles still shook with laughter; muscles she looked forward to exploring later.

“That was the worst Olivia Newton-John impersonation I’ve ever heard.”

Marilyn grinned. “I suppose it was.”

Warrick lifted his head. “What are you doing here? You’ve never traveled to an away game before.”

“I came to wish you luck.”

Warrick smiled. “Why would I need luck? You already guaranteed Monarchs fans the championship title during your press conference Friday.”

Marilyn’s cheeks warmed. “You saw that?”

He pulled her even closer and pressed a quick kiss to her lips. “You were great.”

Marilyn cupped his cheek with her hand. “I know how important this title is for you. I want you to get it this season. But if you don’t, there’s always next season or the season after that.”

He grinned. “Let’s take it one season at a time.”

His midnight eyes darkened as he lowered his head to cover her mouth with his. Marilyn forgot the cameras. Apparently, so did Warrick. As his lips pressed against hers, Marilyn’s blood rushed through her veins. Her toes curled in her thigh-high boots. She’d been too long without his kisses. His taste, his touch, his scent transported her to their own private island. Marilyn pressed her fingertips into his muscled shoulders and tried to move closer to him.

“Get a room!”

She blinked as Warrick lifted his head. Marilyn looked around in time to see Jamal Ward toss back his head and laugh as he walked past them and the busy cameras. She stepped back—and lost her balance in her heels.

Warrick’s arms shot out. He caught her around her waist and held her tightly. “Are you all right?”

“I think so.” She grinned up at him. “Another benefit of being married to a professional athlete. His cat-like reflexes.”

His smile chased away his frown. “May I kiss you again?” His voice was low and smooth, seeping into her skin.

She raised her head. “As long as we keep our clothes on.”

He drew her closer. This kiss was soft and warm. The buzzing went crazy as the cameras caught their embrace. Too soon, they drew apart, slowly, reluctantly.

Warrick cleared his throat. “I’ll see you after the game.”

“You’ll see me before that if you look into the visiting owner’s suite. Jackie invited the Monarchs Wives Club to watch the game with her.”

He nodded toward her boots. “Are you sure you can walk in those things?”

“Of course.” She turned to leave. After three steps, she wobbled again. “I’m all right.” She waved over her shoulder, then continued more slowly.

Marilyn glanced at her watch. The game would start in four hours. She should be able to get to the booth by then.

The Monarchs hadn’t come to play. They’d come to win. The Denver Nuggets weren’t making it easy for them, though. But then neither had the Cleveland Cavaliers, the New York Knicks, or the Miami Waves.

By halftime of game five, the Monarchs had scraped and battled to an 8-point lead, 87 to 79. As they’d returned to Vom Two, the tunnel to the visiting team’s locker room, the Nuggets’ arena had rocked with approval from the Monarchs’ fans who’d come to the Pepsi Center. It had sounded like a Monarchs’ home game.

But the Nuggets had made strategic adjustments during the half, including a decision to be more aggressive than they’d been all series. Now, three minutes into the third quarter, the Nuggets were assaulting the Monarchs’ 8-point spread. Warrick and his teammates were left with a tenuous 3-point lead, 91 to 88. And Jamal picked up his third foul.

Warrick jogged back up court with the hotheaded rookie. “No more fouls.”

Jamal seemed ready to argue, but must have noticed Warrick’s no-nonsense glare. “All right. Sofa play?”

Warrick nodded. “Go.”

Jamal found his position at the left perimeter. The Nuggets’ Jordan Hamilton joined him. Warrick moved into the paint with Denver’s Kenyon Martin. The Nuggets’ Danilo Gallinari followed Serge to the post. Gary Forbes dogged Anthony’s steps to the right perimeter. Melvin Ely guarded Vincent as he advanced the ball up court. Vincent crossed over, passing the ball to Anthony. Forbes moved in. Anthony shook free, pitching the ball to Jamal.

Jamal reached for the ball, keeping Denver’s Hamilton at arm’s length. Hamilton flung forward, chopping Jamal’s forearm and making him drop the ball. The referee whistled the foul.

Jamal straightened, vibrating with fury. He stepped to his defender.

Warrick moved between them. He settled a firm hand on the rookie’s shoulder. “No fouls. Take the shots.”

Jamal’s dark eyes glowed with anger. Still, he nodded his understanding. Three more penalties and the hotheaded rookie would be supporting his teammates from the sidelines with Barron Douglas, their team captain who’d come to Denver despite being on the Injured List.

Jamal missed both free throws. Undoubtedly, that was the reason Denver wasn’t afraid to foul him. They knew his free-throw shooting percentage was pitiful.

The Monarchs battled back and forth with the Nuggets for the rest of the third quarter and into the fourth. With less than two minutes to the game, Denver stole the lead with a series of lucky three-point shots by Forbes. Panic was settling in. Warrick saw it in his teammates. He sensed it in himself. They had to regain control of the game. But Denver wouldn’t fade into the night. The Monarchs were going for the win and the championship title. Denver was fighting for survival in the form of a sixth game.

Denver’s Gallinari shot a 2-point basket. Nuggets 103, Monarchs 99. One minute and seventeen seconds left to the game. Anthony recovered the ball. The shot clock counted down from twenty-four seconds. Anthony flung the ball to Vincent, who advanced it past midcourt. Twenty-two seconds on the shot clock.

Warrick clapped his hands. “Slow it down. Slow it down.” They needed to play their game, not get swept up in the Nuggets’ speed.

The Monarchs set up the Table Play, clearing Anthony to take the shot. Anthony dribbled twice, spinning around Gallinari. Eighteen seconds on the shot clock. Gallinari leaped with Anthony, colliding with the Monarchs’ forward. Anthony came down awkwardly, landing on his knee.

Warrick stiffened. His teammates froze. He sensed their collective horror as Anthony writhed in agony on the hardwood court. From a distance, the referee’s whistle sounded. The noise freed Warrick from his spell.

He jogged forward, reaching Anthony’s side as the trainers did. “Hold still, Tony. Hold still.”

“My knee, Rick. Oh, my God, my knee.”

“They’ll take care of you, Tony. Hold still.” Warrick rose to his feet.

He watched the trainers help Anthony from the court. Warrick felt his teammate’s pain as though it were his own. Pain, frustration, disappointment.

And rage.

Warrick turned toward Gallinari. The other man was jogging toward the Nuggets’ sideline.