Keeping Score (37 page)

Barron swayed on his feet again. “It’s only Wednesday. Well, Thursday. And what do I care about headlines ?”

At least the point guard wasn’t so drunk he’d forgotten what day it was. “Believe me, you’ll care when your name is smeared in the press. So humor me. Let me take you home.”

Barron jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “I came with Ten-speed.”

Was he referring to the heavyset guy who’d sat beside him in the VIP lounge? “Ten-speed can find his own way home. You’re coming with me. Now.”

Barron frowned. Would the point guard continue to argue? Troy didn’t have time for this.

Barron rested a heavy hand on Troy’s shoulder. “Yeah. I guess I’m ready to leave. Thanks, man. How’d you know where I was?”

Troy stared at Barron. “You sent a Twitter message about where you were and what you were doing. Don’t you keep track of who’s following you?”

Barron shrugged. “I have thousands of followers, man. How am I supposed to keep track of all of them?”

“Try. Andy Benson is following you.”

Barron gave him a sloppy grin. “Oh, yeah? That
Sports
reporter? She’s hot.”

Why did the other man’s observation rankle him? “She’s a reporter. You need to know who’s reading your messages. Do you want the press to report that you’re getting plastered at a nightclub during the play-offs?”

Barron scowled. “They’ve turned against me, too.”

“Stop giving them reasons to criticize you.” He gestured toward the player. “Do you have everything you need?”

Barron slapped both pants pockets. “Yeah, I’ve got my wallet.”

Troy followed Barron to the steps as a young male server approached. The large, circular tray the young man balanced was burdened with alcohol.

Barron stopped. “Yo, my man. If that tray is for Barron Douglas’s private group, take it back. I’m leaving and taking my credit cards with me.”

The server switched directions to carry the tray back downstairs.

Barron looked at Troy over his shoulder. “I don’t mind their company, but their freeloading gets on my nerves.”

Troy frowned. “Then why do you hang out with them?”

Barron started down the stairs. “They want a good time. I want a good time. And they don’t hassle me about basketball.”

Troy caught the verbal jab. It didn’t matter if Barron was annoyed with him. It mattered how he performed during the games. That’s why he was pulling the team captain out of the club.

He followed the athlete across the club to the exit. Barron lost his balance several times, stumbling into the club’s other patrons. Interesting that he subjected only women to his clumsiness. Troy braced himself, unhappy at the prospect of being dragged into a fight because of Barron’s childish antics. He saw a headline in his mind: M
ONARCHS’
C
APTAIN,
M
EDIA
E
XEC IN
D
RUNKEN
B
RAWL.
Luckily, once the men recognized the klutz tripping into their dates was Barron “Bling” Douglas, they were more understanding.

Despite Barron’s attempts to antagonize the club-goers, his celebrity got them out of the establishment unscathed. Outside, the cool mid-April breeze seemed even colder after the heat generated by the crush of sweaty bodies in the club. Troy handed the valet the ticket to retrieve his Lexus.

He watched Barron take deep breaths of the early-morning air. “Your friends in the club don’t have your back.”

“And who does? My
teammates
?” Barron sneered the word.

Troy didn’t react. “Yes.”

“Those punks don’t have my back. They let Coach bench me in the last sixteen minutes of the game.” Barron didn’t sound as drunk now. Was it the fresh air or his anger?

“You’re stuck on those sixteen minutes. Where were you the other thirty-two?”

Barron’s face twisted with temper. “I was leaving everything I had on the court. I was busting my ass to make the plays no one else would.”

“They couldn’t. You wouldn’t give up the ball.” Troy held up his palm. “What happens on the court is between you and Marc. My concern is the media coverage. The team can’t afford negative publicity, not when we’re trying to rebuild our fan base and increase revenue.”

Anger still sparked in Barron’s eyes. “What do I care about that?”

Troy gave the belligerent baller a hard stare. “The negative coverage affects your money, too. Do you want an advertising contract? What company wants to have their product pushed by a drunk?”

The silence between them was tense. It continued when the valet pulled up to the curb with Troy’s silver Lexus. He gave the young man a generous tip before getting behind the wheel. His irritation spiked when Barron sprawled unmoving in the passenger seat. “Buckle your seat belt.”

The point guard complied, his movement jerky. “Why’d you come for me tonight, man?”

“You mean this morning?” Troy checked his rearview and side mirrors before merging into traffic. “It’s my job to make sure the team gets only positive media. It would really help me out if you’d stop screwing around.” He let Barron hear his frustration and disappointment.

“So you left your bed—and probably a honey—at two in the morning to make sure the team gets positive press?”

“I wasn’t with a woman.”

Barron chuckled. “Guys like you are
always
with a honey.”

Troy ignored him. “I was working late at home.”

Barron’s voice was distant. “You think you’re going to get some kind of recognition for your hard work? I’ll give you some advice, man. Wake up. You think the front office cares that you care?”

Troy pulled up to a red light. He turned to Barron. “
I’m
in the front office.”

“At the end of the day, your desk won’t protect you. The front office isn’t loyal.”

“If I weren’t loyal, I wouldn’t be here.”

Barron grunted. “You aren’t here for me. You said yourself this is about the franchise.”

“And you’re part of the franchise.”

“Am I?”

Of course he was. He was the Monarchs’ starting point guard, their captain. He and the team were inseparable. To protect one, you had to protect the other. And that’s exactly what Troy was going to do.

Troy strode into the
New York Sports
newspaper’s weathered and worn reception area. The middle-aged woman behind the desk was simultaneously transferring phone calls, typing at a computer, and signing for packages. She stopped typing, transferred the call, and thanked the delivery woman before turning to Troy.

“May I help you?” The question was brisk and delivered with a hint of an Asian accent.

“Troy Marshall to see Andrea Benson.”

Her dark eyes studied him as though trying to decide if he was trouble. “Do you have an appointment?”

Maybe he should have called before driving to the newspaper’s office. But after reading Andrea’s article in that Thursday morning’s edition of the
Sports,
he hadn’t stopped to think about it.

He tried to win the receptionist over with a smile. “No.”

Her cheeks flushed. She lowered her eyelashes and picked up the phone. “I’ll see if Andrea’s available.” She pressed a few buttons. “Andrea, Troy Marshall is here to see you.” After a moment’s silence, she slid her eyes back to him. “I’ll let him know.” She replaced the receiver and nodded toward a row of chairs. “She’s on her way. Please have a seat.”

Troy stepped toward the cracked and battered vinyl chairs. He chose one in direct line of sight of the newsroom. Before long, Andrea Benson walked through the doorway. Troy stood as she came closer. Her long, lithe body moved with a sexy confidence that defied her conservative black slacks, white blouse, and gray blazer. Her honey brown skin glowed. Her straight dark hair swung hypnotically behind her narrow shoulders as she advanced on him across the aging linoleum.

She stopped and offered her hand. The expression in her wide sherry eyes was more curious than welcoming.

“This is a surprise.” Her melodic voice reminded him of satin sheets and summer nights. But with her distant manner, he’d never confuse fantasy with reality.

At five-foot-nine, she was almost a foot shorter than his six-foot-four inches. But her energy and assertiveness made her seem even taller.

Her hand was warm and delicate in his. Troy gave her the smile that had won over her receptionist. “Do you like surprises?”

Andrea ignored his question and drew her hand from his. “What can I do for you?”

He glanced behind her at the newsroom before meeting her gaze again. “Could we talk privately?”

She arched a winged brow. “A private conversation? What was wrong with the phone?”

Andrea was his challenge. He needed something more than a smile to charm her, but he still hadn’t figured out what that was. “I wanted to talk with you in person.”

Her perceptive eyes searched his. “All right.” She led him to the newsroom.

Troy had never been to the
New York Sports
offices. He’d suspected the organization struggled financially. The worn gray carpeting, peeling paint, and battered furnishings confirmed his suspicions.

He was struck by the stench of newsprint and burned coffee, battered by the cacophony of ringing telephones and shouted conversations. The scene brought back memories of his days as a sports reporter. Part of him missed the adrenaline rush of chasing a story. But, on the whole, he’d rather be back on the court.

Andrea turned a corner, leading him around the newsroom’s perimeter and into what appeared to be a combination conference and storage room. She turned on the light.

Troy looked around at the room’s stained walls and scarred furniture. “Maybe you should turn the lights back off.”

Her eyes sparkled with humor, but her manner remained cool. “What’s on your mind, Troy?”

She shut the door, closing them into the musty space. Troy quashed the urge to step closer and inhale her soft scent instead. He’d better get this over with before he became even more distracted.

He rested a hip against the conference table and slipped his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. “Let’s talk about the article you wrote on Barron.”

She remained near the door. “What about it?”

“You weren’t fair to him, were you?” Troy tossed the words as a friendly question. But he was here to demand a retraction.

Andrea’s eyes widened. “What makes you say that?”

“You accused him of being on drugs without giving him a chance to respond.”

Andrea’s smooth brow wrinkled. “I never mentioned drugs.”

Troy shrugged. He hoped his smile would mask the frustration roiling in his gut. “The accusation was implied.”

“Only if the idea of Barron using drugs is already on your mind.” She tilted her head, causing her thick brown hair to sway behind her. “Is it?”

The muscles in Troy’s shoulders bunched even as he strained to keep his tone light. “Come on, Andy. You know as well as I do that your article put that idea in readers’ minds.”

“I quoted people who know Barron. They’re concerned about his increasingly irresponsible behavior. And don’t call me Andy, Slick. You know I don’t like it.”

“Why didn’t you interview Barron?”

She shrugged. “He refused to speak with me.”

“Can you blame him? He knew your article could ruin his reputation. What gives you the right to do that?” He hadn’t meant to ask that question.

Color dusted Andrea’s high cheekbones. “I speak for the sports fans who want to see a competitive play-off series. I represent the ticket holders who want their money’s worth. That gives me the right.”

Troy met the challenge in her electric eyes. “Your media credentials allow you into the press section with the other reporters for free. We all know reporters will write any sensational piece—fact or fiction—to get a headline.”

Andrea’s full red lips tightened. “You know the truth matters to me. That’s why I came to you first when Gerry was planting lies about Marc’s supposed drug addiction.”

Her hard gaze forced Troy to face the facts. He remembered when Jaclyn Jones’s franchise partner, Gerald Bimm, had tried to smear DeMarcus Guinn in the media. Gerald would have succeeded if Andrea hadn’t warned him and Jaclyn of Gerald’s plan. By her actions, Andrea had proven the truth did matter to her. Then what was behind her damaging story about Barron?

Troy leaned more heavily on the conference table and crossed his ankles. “We can’t have negative stories about the team, Andy. They’re a distraction. Instead of focusing on beating the Cleveland Cavaliers when the series starts Saturday, the players are wondering whether their captain has a drug problem. How does that help anyone?”

“If Barron’s on drugs, you can’t sweep that under the rug.” Her voice was urgent.

“He’s passed his drug tests. He’s clean.”

“Then what’s causing his destructive behavior?”

He wished he knew. “That’s Barron. That’s just the way he is.”

“But why?”

Troy dropped his arms to his sides and tried another persuasive smile. “Frankly, Andy, I’m not here to be interviewed. I want you to stop writing negative stories about the Monarchs.”

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Copyright © 2012 by Patricia Sargeant-Matthews

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ISBN: 978-0-7582-7934-7