Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Warrick slid a glance at the Monarchs’ vice president of media and marketing sitting beside him. Troy had insisted the team needed this interview to help with publicity. Did the marketing executive know what he was asking? Probably not, and Warrick wasn’t eager to enlighten him.

With his classic features and close-cropped hair, the media executive looked like a male model. Well over six-feet tall and physically fit, the desk jockey also looked like a professional basketball player. But Troy hadn’t played competitively since his college years at Georgetown University in Washington, DC.

Warrick returned his attention to the sports reporter across the table. Kirk held his pen with surgical precision above a blank page in his notepad. The audio device in the center of the circular, blond wood table was recording.

Kirk’s sharp blue gaze dissected him. “Rumor has it that you and your wife are separated. How is that affecting your game?”

Warrick shot a look at Troy. This interview was going to help the team with publicity? How?

He gave Kirk a stony stare. “Are you a sports reporter or a gossip columnist? The lines are blurring.”

Kirk’s cheeks darkened with an angry blush. “Fans are paying a lot of money to watch you play. They have a right to know whether you’re going to give them one hundred percent on the court or if you’re going to be distracted.”

“Is that the fans’ question or yours?” Warrick truly wanted to know.

Troy rested a hand on Warrick’s shoulder but kept his gaze on Kirk. “Questions about Rick’s personal life don’t belong in this interview. You know that, Kirk. When the Monarchs are on the court, it’s all about the game. That’s what you can tell the fans.”

Warrick’s muscles relaxed. He’d been angrier than he’d realized. Troy’s support went a long way toward defusing his temper.

Kirk looked at Troy. “The fans are already asking what happened to Rick’s game. He’s the one who carried the team to the play-offs.”

Irritation surged through Warrick. “There are thirteen Monarchs. It took every one of us to get to the conference championship. Put that in your article.”

Kirk pressed the tip of his pen against the blank page. “But if Marc Guinn hadn’t benched Barron Douglas in favor of playing you, the Monarchs would have lost their final game of the regular season and missed the play-offs.”

“You’re speculating.” Warrick frowned.

Kirk gestured with his pen. “It’s not speculation that, when you have a good game, the team wins, and when you don’t, they lose.”

Warrick shook his head. “You can say that about all of us—Vinny’s rebounds, Serge’s jumpers, Tony’s assists. It’s simple mathematics. When we score more points than the other team, we win.”

Kirk narrowed his eyes. “Why are you reluctant to admit that, with Barron on the bench, you’re the team’s de facto leader?”

Warrick swallowed a sigh. When will this ordeal be over? “Not having Barron on the court with us is a great loss for the team. No one can fill his role.”

Kirk lowered his pen. “Why won’t you accept the team’s leadership role? Are you afraid of the responsibility ?”

The reporter was baiting him. And it was working. “Why are you determined to single out one player? Is it too much work to interview all of us?”

“Rick.” Troy’s warning tone reminded Warrick not to push the media too far. Fair or not, they always had the final word.

Kirk’s thin face flushed to the roots of his blond hair. His blue eyes narrowed. “I’ve interviewed the key players of all thirty NBA teams. Your chemistry is what makes the difference for the Monarchs.”

Warrick leaned back in his seat. “We don’t have individual stars. We play as a team. That’s what we’re going to have to do to earn the title.” He couldn’t have the media singling him out continually. It was causing dissension in the team.

Kirk arched a brow. “Well, since you aren’t interested in individual accolades, I guess it doesn’t bother you that you were passed over for Defensive Player of the Year or that your name hasn’t been mentioned for Most Valuable Player. You’re probably used to being passed over for recognition in the league.”

Warrick kept his features controlled. He pushed back from the table and stood. “I have a game to prepare for.”

He didn’t look back. He didn’t say another word. Warrick crossed to the door and left the room.

He couldn’t have cared less for individual accolades. What he was after was his team’s support. Twelve years ago, the franchise had drafted him to bring home the NBA Championship trophy. With each passing season, the fans and his teammates had lost faith in him. And he’d failed to impress his head coaches.

Yes, the reporter had struck a nerve. Why would he expect the league to present him with honors and awards when the Monarchs and their fans didn’t believe in him?

Marilyn jerked awake at the telephone’s sudden shrieks. Who was calling so early on a Sunday morning? Was Warrick all right? Was it one of her patients? What time was it?

She grabbed the receiver for answers. “Hello?”