“You wouldn’t have said a word.” Marilyn gripped his shoulder. “You would have stood there and let him tear you down without saying anything to defend yourself.”
His features tightened. Was it anger, embarrassment, or both? “You don’t know that.”
“You never defend yourself.” Her chin was tilted at an angle from which he knew he couldn’t persuade her. “That strategy may make him feel better, but how does it help you?”
It doesn’t. “There’s no point in defending yourself to him. Dad doesn’t listen. But ignoring him isn’t the answer.”
“I know.” Marilyn waved a negligent hand. “Ignoring your father will only make him angrier. Call him when you get to Miami. Right now, you need to eat. Then you have a plane to catch.”
Without waiting for a response, she pivoted on her bare feet and marched back to the kitchen. Warrick’s gaze returned to her well-rounded posterior.
He followed her to the kitchen. “What am I supposed to say to him?”
Marilyn shook her head. “I don’t know. The truth doesn’t seem to matter.”
“What do you mean?”
Marilyn faced him, settling her hands on her hips. The robe crept another inch up her thighs. “If you had defended yourself to your father, you’d probably say the same things I tried to say to my mother. We were in the privacy of our own home. The venetian blinds were closed. The photographer pressed his camera lens against our window. None of that mattered to her.”
Warrick wasn’t surprised. Celeste Devry lived to assign blame. “So how am I supposed to make amends to our parents?”
Marilyn dropped her arms. “We don’t have to make amends. We’re the victims.”
“You’re blaming the media?”
“Aren’t you?”
“Yes, but they aren’t going away.”
“I know. I also know the championship is important to you. I want you to win it all this year. Maybe then, you can retire.”
Warrick took a moment to form a response. He strode to the table and dished some of the salad into their bowls. “Retire to what? Pull my rocking chair into the sun and watch the day go by?”
She turned on the burner under the pan to reheat the spaghetti sauce. “You majored in accounting and minored in business administration. You can do a lot of things with those degrees.”
“I’m a basketball player. That’s who I am.”
Marilyn shook her head. “Playing basketball is what you do. You’re Rick Evans. You have the ability, intelligence, and drive to do whatever you choose.”
Her words frustrated him even as they healed the fresh wounds his father’s tirade had cut. “Then I choose to be a basketball player.”
“Do you intend to keep playing until you’re sixty-five?” Marilyn served the now sticky spaghetti onto the dinner plates. “I’ve done some research. Thirty-seven, thirty-eight is old for a basketball player. You’re almost thirty-five.”
Warrick stored the leftover salad in the refrigerator. “I love basketball.”
“I know.” Marilyn’s answer came from behind him.
But did she understand? “Growing up, basketball was all I had. When I couldn’t earn my mother’s attention or my father’s approval, I had basketball. It never belittled me. It never made me feel worthless. And, if I failed, tomorrow was another chance.”
“Why haven’t you ever told me this?” Marilyn’s voice was emotional.
Warrick faced her. He hadn’t meant to upset Marilyn. “I’ve never told anyone. Don’t feel sorry for me, Mary. A lot of kids have it worse.”
“But you’ve fulfilled your dream, Rick. And you’ll be in the Hall of Fame. I’m certain of it.”
That was an honor he hadn’t dared to consider. But he wasn’t ready for his career to end. Searching her eyes, Warrick saw that Marilyn was, and her silent ultimatum was harder to bear than his father’s bellowing condemnations.
Warrick considered ignoring the knock on his Miami hotel door Saturday night. After a brutal workout and practice, he was hungry, tired, and sore. Dinner and bed. That’s all he wanted. He needed to be well rested for the Monarchs critical game five tomorrow night against the Miami Waves.