Keeping Score (6 page)

Marilyn pulled her hand over her hair. “Like what?”

“I don’t know. But if your marriage is worth it, you’ll figure something out to save it and your career.”

Marilyn swallowed the dry lump in her throat. “I’m still in love with Rick. I just don’t want to share him with millions of NBA fans. And I don’t think being married to a professional athlete should make my private life fair game.”

Emma leaned into the table, moving closer to Marilyn. “Well, no matter what happens, I’m here for you.”

“I know, Em.”

They were as different as oil and water, but somehow they’d maintained a friendship that had spanned sixteen years. Emma’s advice against marrying a professional baller had been the only time they’d seriously disagreed. Had she been right?

Emma grinned. “If you do get that divorce, you should go for the house and a big alimony.”

Marilyn’s brow furrowed. “I don’t need alimony. I have a job. And I wouldn’t ask for the house. It was his before we got married.”

“So what? You both live there now. And, if he paid you alimony, you wouldn’t have to work.” Emma returned to eating her salad with newfound gusto.

Marilyn glanced at her soup. She still wasn’t hungry. “I enjoy working. I love what I do.”

“I suppose you love Arthur, too.” Emma’s voice was dry.

Marilyn’s nose wrinkled at the mention of the grouchy hospital administrator. “I could live without his micromanaging everyone.”

Emma’s green eyes glowed with triumph. “And you would—if you fought for alimony.”

“I’m not going to ask for alimony.” Marilyn’s tone was final. “My parents had wanted me to marry a doctor. I became one instead. I’m not going to give up my career to sit at home, waiting for Rick’s check.”

“I would.” Emma shrugged again. “But it’s your choice.”

Marilyn shook her head with a mixture of amusement and disbelief. Yes, they were oil and water. Sometimes it surprised her that they were friends.

4

The last time the press had written about the Monarchs, they’d skinned the team alive. Warrick had been sleeping alone for the past month because of the press. So why was he sitting in the Miami Waves Arena’s conference room Saturday morning, waiting to start this interview with Kirk West of the
New York Horn
instead of preparing for tonight’s game?

Troy Marshall.

Warrick slid a glance at the Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing sitting beside him. Troy had insisted the team needed this interview to help with publicity. Did the marketing executive know what he was asking? Probably not, and Warrick wasn’t eager to enlighten him.

With his classic features and close-cropped hair, the media executive looked like a male model. Well over six-feet tall and physically fit, the desk jockey also looked like a professional basketball player. But Troy hadn’t played competitively since his college years at Georgetown University in Washington, DC.

Warrick returned his attention to the sports reporter across the table. Kirk held his pen with surgical precision above a blank page in his notepad. The audio device in the center of the circular, blond wood table was recording.

Kirk’s sharp blue gaze dissected him. “Rumor has it that you and your wife are separated. How is that affecting your game?”

Warrick shot a look at Troy. This interview was going to help the team with publicity? How?

He gave Kirk a stony stare. “Are you a sports reporter or a gossip columnist? The lines are blurring.”

Kirk’s cheeks darkened with an angry blush. “Fans are paying a lot of money to watch you play. They have a right to know whether you’re going to give them one hundred percent on the court or if you’re going to be distracted.”

“Is that the fans’ question or yours?” Warrick truly wanted to know.

Troy rested a hand on Warrick’s shoulder but kept his gaze on Kirk. “Questions about Rick’s personal life don’t belong in this interview. You know that, Kirk. When the Monarchs are on the court, it’s all about the game. That’s what you can tell the fans.”

Warrick’s muscles relaxed. He’d been angrier than he’d realized. Troy’s support went a long way toward defusing his temper.

Kirk looked at Troy. “The fans are already asking what happened to Rick’s game. He’s the one who carried the team to the play-offs.”

Irritation surged through Warrick. “There are thirteen Monarchs. It took every one of us to get to the conference championship. Put that in your article.”

Kirk pressed the tip of his pen against the blank page. “But if Marc Guinn hadn’t benched Barron Douglas in favor of playing
you
, the Monarchs would have lost their final game of the regular season and missed the play-offs.”

“You’re speculating.” Warrick frowned.

Kirk gestured with his pen. “It’s not speculation that, when you have a good game, the team wins, and when you don’t, they lose.”

Warrick shook his head. “You can say that about all of us—Vinny’s rebounds, Serge’s jumpers, Tony’s assists. It’s simple mathematics. When we score more points than the other team, we win.”

Kirk narrowed his eyes. “Why are you reluctant to admit that, with Barron on the bench, you’re the team’s de facto leader?”

Warrick swallowed a sigh.
When will this ordeal be over?
“Not having Barron on the court with us is a great loss for the team. No one can fill his role.”

Kirk lowered his pen. “Why won’t you accept the team’s leadership role? Are you afraid of the responsibility ?”

The reporter was baiting him. And it was working. “Why are you determined to single out one player? Is it too much work to interview all of us?”

“Rick.” Troy’s warning tone reminded Warrick not to push the media too far. Fair or not, they always had the final word.

Kirk’s thin face flushed to the roots of his blond hair. His blue eyes narrowed. “I’ve interviewed the key players of all thirty NBA teams. Your chemistry is what makes the difference for the Monarchs.”

Warrick leaned back in his seat. “We don’t have individual stars. We play as a team. That’s what we’re going to have to do to earn the title.” He couldn’t have the media singling him out continually. It was causing dissension in the team.

Kirk arched a brow. “Well, since you aren’t interested in individual accolades, I guess it doesn’t bother you that you were passed over for Defensive Player of the Year or that your name hasn’t been mentioned for Most Valuable Player. You’re probably used to being passed over for recognition in the league.”

Warrick kept his features controlled. He pushed back from the table and stood. “I have a game to prepare for.”

He didn’t look back. He didn’t say another word. Warrick crossed to the door and left the room.

He couldn’t have cared less for individual accolades. What he was after was his team’s support. Twelve years ago, the franchise had drafted him to bring home the NBA Championship trophy. With each passing season, the fans and his teammates had lost faith in him. And he’d failed to impress his head coaches.

Yes, the reporter had struck a nerve. Why would he expect the league to present him with honors and awards when the Monarchs and their fans didn’t believe in him?

Marilyn jerked awake at the telephone’s sudden shrieks. Who was calling so early on a Sunday morning? Was Warrick all right? Was it one of her patients? What time was it?

She grabbed the receiver for answers. “Hello?”

“Did you see today’s paper?” Celeste Devry’s tone was disapproving. That wasn’t unusual.

Marilyn wilted with relief, then tried to focus on her mother’s question. “I haven’t seen the day.”

“Don’t be smart, Marilyn.”

The green digits of the radio alarm clock beside the phone read three-twelve. On Sunday morning. Was her mother kidding?

Marilyn closed her eyes. “What are
you
doing up? It’s after midnight over there.”

She refused to believe her mother was already dressed with her hair perfectly arranged and cosmetics flawlessly applied. At this hour, that was too much to expect, even for Celeste Devry.

“Have you seen the article in the
New York Horn
about Rick?”

Marilyn opened her eyes and frowned toward the ceiling in the dark. “You live in San Francisco. How did you get a copy of the
New York Horn
?” Why
would she get a copy of the
New York Horn?

“We don’t get that paper. We read the article online. It was posted at three
A.M. THAT’S MIDNIGHT OUR TIME.”

“That’s three
A.M. MY TIME, MOTHER.”

“After the media reported that whole bar-hopping business with Rick last month, your father and I got one of those Google message alert services for Rick’s name.”

Her mother
had
to be kidding.

Marilyn closed her eyes again. “I’m not interested in what the media have to say about my husband.”

The article couldn’t be that bad. The Monarchs had won the game in Miami last night. Warrick was coming home this morning. Her heart leapt with anticipation—then stilled. He was returning to Brooklyn, but not to their home. She’d moved back in and he’d offered to make other living arrangements. Where would he stay?

“You should be concerned.” Celeste’s tone carried a bite. “They’re blaming
you
for Rick’s poor performance Thursday night.”

Marilyn’s eyes shot open. She sat up in her king-sized bed. “How am
I
at fault?”

“They’re saying your separation is a distraction for him.” Celeste made a tutting sound. “This is outrageous, Marilyn. The media are speculating on your marriage. This can’t be allowed to continue.”

Marilyn pinched the bridge of her nose. “We can’t stop them. The press will print whatever they want, whenever they want, regardless of whether it’s true.”

“These personal attacks aren’t hurting only you. They’re damaging the Devry name. We can’t allow these smears to our reputation to go unchallenged.” Celeste spoke with increasing anger.

“They aren’t attacking
you
, Mother. They’re aiming at
me
.”

“You’re a Devry. By targeting you, they’re attacking the whole family.”

Her mother was trying to make her feel guilty. It was working. “I’m sorry you feel that the entire family is under assault. But I’m afraid there isn’t anything we can do to prevent the media from writing these stories.”

Celeste’s sigh was dramatic in its weight. “Your father and I warned you that marrying Rick was a mistake. What
is
a ‘professional athlete’? He plays a game for a living, for pity’s sake. How can he be expected to take anything seriously?”

Marilyn bristled at the attack against her husband. “This isn’t Rick’s fault. He didn’t ask the press to badger him.”

“He should take responsibility for his own shortcomings instead of trying to blame you. He plays basketball. All he has to do is put a ball through a basket. How hard could
that
be?”

Celeste Margot Whittingly Devry had probably never touched a basketball in her entire life. What qualified her to judge Warrick or his career?

Marilyn drew in a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “Is Rick quoted as blaming me for having a bad game?”

“How am I supposed to know what he said?” Her mother’s response was indignant.

Marilyn held on to her patience. “You read the article. I doubt he said anything about me. Rick doesn’t want the media discussing his personal life any more than I do.”

“Then tell these reporters to stop.”

“They won’t listen to us.” Marilyn enunciated every word in an effort to help her mother understand. “They believe these stories sell papers. They think this is what the public wants to read.”

Celeste emitted a short, harsh breath. “Well, if
you
won’t stop them, your father and I will.”

Marilyn squeezed her eyes shut and did a rapid ten count. “What are you going to do, Mother? You and Father don’t subscribe to the
Horn.
You aren’t advertisers. Are you going to buy the paper, then shut it down?” She could envision them doing that.

“No. We’ll sue them.”

Marilyn tightened her grip on the telephone receiver. “Don’t do that.”

Celeste sniffed. “Why not? You and Rick may be afraid of the media, but I’m not.
They
should fear
me
.”

Save me from bossy, arrogant parents who believe the world should live in dread of them.

Marilyn pursed her lips. This wasn’t a conversation she needed to have. Not at three o’clock on a Sunday morning. Not before her first cup of coffee. Not. Ever.

“Mother, what do you think would happen if you sued the
Horn
?”

“They would stop printing this nonsense.”

“You’re wrong—”

“Don’t take that tone with me, Marilyn Louise Devry-Evans. I’m
still
your mother.”

Marilyn closed her eyes and strained for patience. “I apologize. But I need you to understand that a lawsuit against the newspaper for printing articles about Rick written in good faith will only make the situation worse. It will draw even more unwanted attention to us.”

Celeste made another tutting sound. “Am I supposed to just sit here on my hands like you and Rick are doing?”

“I’m certain that, if the article is as bad as you say it is—”

“You don’t believe me?”

Marilyn gritted her teeth. “I’m not saying that, Mother. But I’m certain Rick has already discussed it with the Monarchs’ media executive.”

The silence dragged on longer than Marilyn thought was necessary. She could hear lowered voices in the background. Were her parents conferring over whether to respect her wishes on how to handle the media? That was so unfair. Did she direct her mother’s promotional efforts for her philanthropic campaigns? Or tell her father how to brand his investment firm? Why did her parents think they had better insight into her marriage and Warrick’s career than she and Warrick did?

Her mother’s voice was grudging when she finally responded. “We’ll give you one more chance. If these articles continue, we’ll handle the matter our way.”