“Stay sharp, man.” The center’s voice balanced the knife’s edge between anger and frustration.
The shot clock read eighteen seconds.
Serge was trapped behind the perimeter. His defender, Jarrod Cheeks, frustrated his efforts to move in to the basket. Serge dribbled twice before passing the ball to Anthony on the line.
Warrick wove his way into the paint, trying to dislodge Burress from his shadow. The shot clock drained to fifteen seconds. He struggled to hold off Burress’s blocks almost as hard as he fought not to react to his opponent’s words.
Burress continued to dog Warrick’s steps. “You gonna keep the baby?”
“It’s not mine to keep.” Warrick could have kicked himself for responding.
Anthony danced around, taking three more seconds from the clock. But he couldn’t shake the Waves’ Phillip Hawk. Warrick raised his hand to indicate he was open. Ignoring Warrick in the paint, Anthony pitched the ball to Jamal at the right perimeter.
“That’s no way to talk about your child.” Burress’s smile was amused and a little mean. He’d gotten a rise out of Warrick and wouldn’t let up until he got another.
Ten seconds remained on the shot clock. Jamal dribbled once, twice before taking the shot. Warrick followed its trajectory up and over his head. It stopped just shy of the basket’s rim before beginning its descent. Eight seconds were on the shot clock.
Warrick stepped forward and leaped to meet the ball. He tipped it into the basket, then dropped back to his feet. The ball went through the net, extending the Monarchs’ lead to eleven. Warrick didn’t pause to react. He turned and ran back up court. Seamlessly, he shifted from offense to defense. Three minutes and twenty-three seconds remained in the game.
Burress’s tireless voice followed him. “I don’t know how you could creep out on a woman who looks like your wife. I’ve seen her picture.” The Waves’ star smacked his lips.
Warrick saw red. He stopped on a dime at midcourt. He spun and twisted the front of Burress’s white jersey in his fist, then shoved the other man backward. Burress’s trademark smile of smug superiority barely registered in Warrick’s anger-soaked mind. The referee’s whistle sounded far away, coming closer as the ringing in Warrick’s ears quieted.
Otto Nunez, one of the officiating crew members, pried Warrick’s fingers from Burress’s white home jersey. “That’s your sixth personal foul, Evans. You’re out of the game.”
Burress smoothed his jersey. He inclined his head before trotting to the foul line. Roger Harris, the Monarchs shooting guard, came off the bench and jogged across Warrick’s line of sight.
What had just happened?
He swung his attention to the sideline and was slammed by DeMarcus’s disgusted glare. Warrick crossed to the bench. Burress made both of his free throws, dropping the Monarchs’ lead back to nine.
Being benched during any game was frustrating. Having to sit out the final minutes of a critical championship game was a special kind of pain. Warrick had never felt so helpless, not even when DeMarcus had benched him at the beginning of the season.
For the next three minutes, Warrick’s stomach muscles twisted as the Waves attacked the Monarchs’ lead. The Waves fed off his team’s growing fatigue and uncoordinated defense. Walter Millbank made Jamal look dazed and confused. Phillip Hawk threw Anthony off his game. Jarrod Cheeks rendered Serge ineffective, and Burress took advantage of Roger coming off the bench cold.
As the Monarchs’ lead drained, Warrick’s guilt grew. His ineffective play against Burress was doing the team more harm than good. He’d let his team down. He’d let himself down. He’d let Burress get the better of him.
Vincent was left to mop up mistakes and mend broken plays. Through the center’s efforts, DeMarcus’s play calling, and judicious use of the Monarchs’ remaining time-outs, the team came through game five with a battered and stingy two-point lead. And Warrick had come to a hard-earned realization.
Maybe Marilyn was right. If he couldn’t be a playmaker for the team, maybe it was time to think about retiring.
15
“That photo of you and Rick together on the kitchen table is
hot
.” Susan Williams bit her bottom lip and shook her right hand as though she’d burned her f in-gertips.
Marilyn blinked at Monarchs’ point guard Darius Williams’s wife, who sat across from her at the restaurant table. “Susan, I’m not thrilled to have my personal life photographed and blown up all over the gossip pages.”
“Don’t forget that shit was uploaded to the Internet, too.” Faye Ryland, point guard Jarrett Hickman’s longtime girlfriend, added helpfully.
Marilyn glared at her chicken parmesan. “No, Faye, I can’t forget.”
What did those other photographs look like? Did she even want to know? She took a bite of her lunch. It tasted like cardboard.
The Monarchs Wives Club was meeting at its usual Italian restaurant on Memorial Day, the day after the Monarchs’ game five nail-biter. Why weren’t they talking about the win? Maybe then, she could enjoy her meal.
“Well, at least you looked good.” Peggy Coleman, who was pregnant with shooting guard Roger Harris’s baby, rubbed her belly. Her peaches and cream complexion glowed as she sent Marilyn a Mona Lisa smile.
“Yeah.” Susan waved her fork with gusto. “Who would have thought you had such a great figure under those ugly, androgynous clothes? You need to show off those curves, girl.”
Marilyn frowned down at her lavender two-piece pants suit. What was wrong with her outfit? Although she was still underdressed compared to the other women’s latest fashions and expensive accessories. Had they ever worn the same outfit twice?
Peggy’s smile widened. “Mary’s clothes aren’t bad. Besides, you’ve just come from work, haven’t you?”
Marilyn took a bracing breath, drawing in the scents of marinara sauce, oregano, and cheese. “I’m not with the hospital anymore.”
Her throat almost closed over the admission of failure. Marilyn sipped her ice water with lemon. The glass was cool and wet against her palm.
Faye clutched Marilyn’s wrist. “You’re not? That’s great. Now you have more free time to help with the charity auction. We need to sell a shitload of tickets. We have to impress Jackie Jones.”
Marilyn pushed her chicken parmesan around the plate. “Of course, I’m glad to help as much as I can. But I also need to find a new job.”
Susan made a comic face. “What? Why?” She cast her gaze around the table. “Your husband is the second highest paid player on the Monarchs’ roster. Why do you need a job at all?”
Marilyn winced. Susan must have found the Internet site listing the NBA players’ salaries. Wonderful.
“I may not
need
a job, but I enjoy my career.” Marilyn sliced her chicken parmesan. Fragrant steam rose from the well-seasoned dish.
Susan chuckled as she twirled her fork around the center of her linguine and clam sauce. “As a doctor, you probably know all kinds of ways to get rid of Rick’s mistress without leaving a trace.”
Marilyn stilled. She lifted her eyes and pinned Susan with a steady gaze. Her voice was firm and even. “Rick does not have a mistress.”
Susan’s brown eyes narrowed. “That woman ...” She looked to the other two women at the table for help. “What’s her name again?”
“Jordan Hyatt.” Faye was helpful yet again.
Marilyn’s lips twisted with wry amusement. Susan was more likely to forget her own name than the identity of key people involved in a social scandal.
Peggy shifted in her seat and shook back her salon-styled blond tresses. “She called a press conference to tell everyone she’s carrying Rick’s baby. Why would she do that if it isn’t true?”
Marilyn’s muscles tightened. “I don’t know why she lied. But I do know she’s not pregnant with my husband’s baby.”
Peggy’s smile spread. “I think it’s beautiful that your faith in Rick is so steadfast.”
Marilyn regarded the other woman with bafflement. “I don’t have any reason not to trust him.”
Her mother must have said the same thing about her father once. But then he’d cheated on Celeste. Marilyn still couldn’t fathom that. She’d always considered Terrell Devry to be a trustworthy, honorable person.
Susan chewed, then swallowed a forkful of linguine. “Are you going to confront Jordan Hyatt?” Her tone was almost gleeful.
“No.” Marilyn tried another bite of her chicken parmesan. It still tasted like expensive cardboard.
Faye’s jaw dropped. “Girl, if you think she’s punking your man, you
have
to confront her. Shit, you
have
to.”
Was she really having this conversation? Marilyn blinked at the other three women at the table. They’d regressed back to elementary school and her classmates were egging her on to fight the new girl.
What little appetite Marilyn had completely disappeared. “I’m not going to speak with her. That would legitimize her claim of being part of my husband’s life. She’s not.”
Beside her, Faye rolled her brown eyes. “This isn’t about making her legitimate. It’s about representing
your
role in Rick’s life.”
Marilyn scowled. “My role isn’t in question.”
A slight smile curved Faye’s lips. Her lipstick was a dark plum, which complimented the brighter plum highlights in her hair. Very edgy. “For a doctor, you’re not real bright. You’re a professional athlete’s wife. Groupies are always challenging our role.”
Marilyn shook her head. “I don’t want my entire identity to be the wife of a basketball player.”
Faye turned in her seat to face Marilyn. “That’s stupid. You’re Rick Evans’s wife and he’s a ballplayer.”
Marilyn spread her hands. “But that’s not
who
I am.”
Susan waved her fork. “You think you’re different from us because your husband used to be the Monarchs’ captain and you’re a doctor.”
Marilyn’s temper stirred. “I’ve never said that.”
“You’ve thought it.” Faye shrugged a shoulder.
Marilyn gaped at the other woman. “No, I haven’t.”
Peggy sent her a confused look. “Do you think the only reason for the Monarchs Wives Club is to organize social events?”
“That’s all we talk about.” Marilyn searched their features. She saw patience and curiosity. But she didn’t see judgment or disdain. It was refreshing.
“Shit, that’s all we talk about with
you
.” Faye moved her neck. “We talk about other things when we travel with the team or call each other on the phone.”
Marilyn frowned. “Like what?”
Peggy shifted in her seat in the pregnant woman’s constant quest for a more comfortable position. “Like what we’re going through as the girlfriend or wife of a professional ballplayer.”
Faye sighed. “Yeah. It’s not all money, fame, and game. There’s a lot of shit we have to deal with, too.”
Susan gestured with her fork. “Family members telling us how to live our lives or asking for money. Jealous friends. The media. Basketball groupies trying to steal our men.”
“Ha! Look at her face.” Faye pointed a finger at Marilyn and laughed. “You know the score.”
Marilyn was dazed. “Only too well.”
Faye snorted. “No one understands like we do ’cause we’re going through the same shit.”
“That’s the real purpose of the Monarchs Wives Club. That’s the reason it started.” Peggy flashed a grin. “Even though some of us aren’t wives
yet,
we’re all here to help each other cope with issues that our family and friends can’t understand because they’ve never experienced them.”
Susan put down her fork. “People think money can buy happiness. It can’t.”
“Hell, no, it can’t.” Faye leaned into the table. “The basketball season is long and there are far too many lonely nights.”
Marilyn smiled as her companions burst into laughter. “You ladies really do understand.”
Peggy leaned back in her chair. “Yes, we do.”
Marilyn sobered, thinking of how embattled she’d felt for so many weeks. Between the media, her boss, her mother, and the woman she’d considered a friend, she could have used the sage advice of these veterans of the celebrity athlete wars.
She looked at the trio through fresh eyes. She’d thought she’d known who her friends were, but it had been these ladies all along. “I wish I’d realized sooner that I could have confided in you.”
Susan pushed her plate aside and folded her forearms on the table. “You know now. Tell us what’s on your mind.”
Marilyn stared at her plate of half-eaten chicken parmesan. “My best friend and I have known each other since college. But lately, I’ve begun to wonder if she has my interests at heart.”
Faye leaned back and crossed her arms. “One of
those
.”
Susan shook her head. “We’ve all been there.”
Peggy rubbed her belly. “Yes, we have. We can help you with this.”
DeMarcus planted himself in front of the Monarchs locker room door. His arms and legs were akimbo. A familiar scowl twisted his features.
“ ‘Home court advantage’ literally means you have the advantage over your opponent because you’re playing on your home court.” His speech was slow and deliberate as though he was explaining a complex concept to very young children. “Who wants to tell me what happened tonight.” He glared around the room. “Anyone?”
“We lost.
Mon Dieu.
” Serge’s French-accented words were burdened by disgust.
Warrick smiled at Serge’s appeal to God. He shrugged into his cream shirt and hooked the buttons. The Almighty was more inclined to help those who helped themselves. Unfortunately, the Monarchs were hell-bent on hurting themselves.
“Why did we lose?” DeMarcus’s voice was insistent.
Warrick sat on the stool in front his locker and put on his shoes. He recognized the coach’s tone. No one was getting out of here until they gave DeMarcus the impossible—the reason the Monarchs had lost game six of the Eastern Conference Championship.
“We lost because Rick believes his own hype.” Jamal shouted the accusation at Warrick. “They talk about how you’re the leader of the team. You’re no leader.”
“They make Rick out to be a superstar.” Anthony cast out blame. “Like he’s the second coming on the court.”