He recognized Troy through the peephole. The marketing executive stroked his goatee with a distracted air. Warrick pulled open the door and stepped aside to let the other man in.
Troy wore a tan suit. His pale pink shirt was open at the collar, displaying a short, thin gold chain. He looked like he’d just stepped from the South Beach section of an expensive men’s clothing catalog. But the expression on his friend’s face didn’t bode well for Warrick’s evening plans.
He closed the door. “What now?”
He hadn’t meant to sound so hard. The Monarchs’ executive obviously didn’t relish his role as messenger. But how much could a person handle at one time? His marriage was on the rocks, his team’s championship was in jeopardy, his starting position was in question, and what little regard his parents and in-laws had for him had been zapped by the prurient paparazzi’s photos. Screw happiness. Money couldn’t even buy peace.
Troy entered the room and offered Warrick his BlackBerry. “Sit down and press play.” The look in his eyes made the muscles in Warrick’s gut clench.
Warrick stared at the BlackBerry, his arms at his sides. What was this about? More gossip? Dammit, not more photos. “Just tell me.”
“You have to see this.” Troy extended the BlackBerry toward him.
Warrick took the device and strode toward the bed. He dropped onto the edge of the mattress. His body felt heavier than it had after the three-hour practice. He stared at the screen. It showed the home page of a New York television station’s Web site. The image in the video box was of a woman surrounded by reporters with microphones. Warrick knew what it felt like to be hemmed in by so many overanxious people wielding microphones at your face. He grew tense just watching her.
The woman appeared to be in her mid- to late thirties. The camera framed her to midtorso. Her thick reddish brown curls framed a round brown face painted with dramatic cosmetics.
Warrick glanced at Troy one last time before pressing the play symbol. The male anchor’s voice-over introduced the subject of the video clip as Jordan Hyatt. According to the anchor, Jordan’s publicist had contacted the local media to schedule a press conference. Her client claimed to have explosive information about Brooklyn Monarchs shooting
guard Warrick Evans.
Warrick frowned at Troy. “I don’t even know this woman.”
Troy returned his stare without responding. Warrick switched his attention to the video clip of the woman holding court to a small nest of reporters outside a large apartment building. Some press conference.
“Thank you all for coming.” Jordan Hyatt offered a small, excited smile. “I’m certain you’ll realize your time has been well spent once I share my news with you.” She paused for effect.
It worked. The reporters shouted questions, clamoring for her information.
She waved her hands to quiet the noise. Her heavily made-up face glowed with pleasure. “As I said earlier, my name’s Jordan Hyatt. J-O-R-D-A-N. H-Y-A-T-T. And Warrick Evans is the father of my unborn child.”
13
The BlackBerry slid from Warrick’s lax hold. He stared dumbly as the device seemed to bounce onto the hotel room’s thin dark carpet in slow motion. Troy crouched to retrieve it.
The movement snapped Warrick from his stupor. “Do you believe her?” His voice was cold, controlled, unlike the frenzied fury building inside him.
“Of course not.” Troy’s surprised response came without hesitation. “Everyone who knows you, knows you have too much integrity to cheat on your wife.”
What about the people who didn’t know him? Did they think he was a lowlife who would get one woman pregnant while married to another? Why did it bother him what strangers thought? He didn’t know why, but it did.
Just as it bothered Marilyn.
Warrick stood from the bed. His movements were stiff as he prowled the room. He moved past the cherry-wood combination chest of drawers and television, and circled in front of the matching laminate writing table and cushioned chair. His heart raced in his chest. His breathing came too fast.
He stopped before the wall-length window and glared through the sheer white curtains at downtown Miami at night. “Why did she do this? What does she hope to gain?”
“Fifteen minutes of fame.” Disgust deepened Troy’s response. “You saw her. She was eating up the attention.”
Warrick spun from the window. “At the expense of my marriage? My wife’s reputation? My reputation? How selfish could one person be?”
“Pretty damn.” Troy crossed his arms over his chest.
Warrick’s hands clenched and unclenched with the urge to punch something. He resumed his pacing. “I’ve got to call Mary.”
“You need to calm down first.”
“I know.” Warrick caught Troy’s concerned expression. “How did you find the link? Was it one of those Google Alerts?”