Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

m 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.