Keeping Score

“Bus’s leaving soon.” DeMarcus gripped Warrick’s shoulder again before turning to leave. He nodded toward the other Monarchs. “Let’s go.”

Warrick started to follow them, but Marlon caught his arm. “I’m sorry about the trash-talking, man. Just trying to win by any means necessary.” Marlon offered his right hand. “But I crossed the line a couple of times. For that, I’m sorry.”

Warrick hesitated. It was the sincerity in Marlon’s dark eyes that made the difference. Warrick clasped his opponent’s right hand. “Don’t do it again.”

Marlon nodded as he released Warrick’s hand. “I think I learned my lesson.”

Warrick hoped so. He enjoyed the Monarchs divisional rivalry with the Miami Waves. But he could live without Marlon’s mind games. He stepped around Marlon on his way to the parking lot.

Marlon walked with him. “Listen, good luck against the Nuggets. You’re representing the Eastern Conference. Bring back the win.”

Warrick met his gaze. “We’ll do our best.”

They continued to the parking lot in a surprisingly comfortable silence. Security lights kept the night shadows at bay. The smell of the nearby Atlantic Ocean reminded him of the marina.

As they neared the bus, Marlon slapped his back. “I hear your wife’s a doctor.”

Warrick regarded his opponent with suspicion. He may have forgiven Marlon but that didn’t make them friends.

Marlon was oblivious to Warrick’s silence. “You’re lucky. She’ll be able to take care of all of your aches and pains when you retire.” Marlon laughed at his own joke, then turned with a wave. “Good luck. Go get your ring.”

Warrick watched Marlon walk to his car.

Retire.

Even when the Monarchs were at the bottom of the league, Warrick had never considered asking to be traded or retiring from the game. Now with his team battling to the top, the word retirement appeared with increasing frequency.

Sunday morning, Warrick let himself in through his back door. He was still groggy from the flight. “Mary?”

Warrick turned to secure the lock before crossing the kitchen in search of his wife. Was she waiting for him in the bedroom? Heat filled his body at the image.

He started down the hallway toward the staircase, carrying his travel bag with him. “Mary?”

“I’m in the family room.” Marilyn sounded strained.

Warrick found her sitting on the sofa staring at a darkened television screen. He settled his bag beside his feet. “What’s wrong?”

Marilyn stood, turning to face him. Her hair was tousled. Her silver Monarchs T-shirt and navy shorts looked slept in. “How does Jordan Hyatt know you have a tattoo on your right hip?”

Warrick’s muscles went lax. His right hand touched his hip. He’d gotten the tattoo shortly after he’d met Marilyn. It was a private matter. It wasn’t body paint. It wasn’t a fashion statement. It was a personal message, one he’d only confided to Marilyn. No one else. And only a select few had ever seen it.

“What makes you think she knows about it?” He struggled with a sense of betrayal. Who could have told this lying stranger about his tattoo?

“Last night, she appeared on a local news show that aired right after the game. She told the interviewer she’d seen it.” Marilyn gestured toward his hip.

Warrick winced. How many millions of people watched that show and now knew about his tattoo? “Did she describe it?”

Marilyn wrapped her arms around her waist. “No, but she knew where it was. How is that possible?”

“I have no idea.” His eyes narrowed. “Don’t you believe me?”

“Before last night, I thought the only people who knew you had a tattoo were me, your doctor, and the team trainers.” Her voice sounded brittle enough to break. “Then, Jordan Hyatt popped up on the news telling everyone not only does she know you have a tattoo, but she’s seen it.”

Warrick paced the gleaming hardwood floor on the edge of the family room. “I’ve never taken my clothes off for that woman. Before her press conference, I’d never even seen her.”

“Then how does she know about your tattoo?”

Warrick stopped midstride. “I can’t explain something I don’t understand myself.”