Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Marilyn’s lips stretched into a broad grin. Sandy and Danny smiled at her from the cover of the Grease compact disc.

“I thought Rick didn’t like musicals.”

Marilyn’s smile broadened. “But he knows I do. And Grease is my favorite.”

“That’s such a guy thing to do.” Emma straightened away from Marilyn. “A couple of songs won’t make everything better.”

“Speak for yourself.” Marilyn used her scissors to slit open the compact disc wrapper. “You’re welcome to stay and enjoy the songs with me, if you’d like.”

“No, thanks.” Emma turned to leave. “I agree with Rick. People don’t just spontaneously break into song.”

Marilyn loaded the compact disc into her laptop. She sighed as “Summer Love” played softly on the computer’s drive. If only she and Warrick could overcome their relationship obstacles with a few songs and a couple of dance moves the way Sandy and Danny had in Grease.

6

Warrick came slowly awake Tuesday from his midday nap to the sound of the ringing telephone. What time was it? Three-thirty in the afternoon. The alarm would have gone off in another thirty minutes, giving him just enough time to get to the arena and warm up before game three of the Eastern Conference Championship.

The phone rang again. Thinking wistfully of another thirty minutes of sleep, Warrick hit the alarm’s off button and shed the bedsheets. He strode down the hallway to use the master bedroom’s telephone extension. He should have been napping in that room. The answering machine picked up the call before he could.

He cleared his throat. “Hello.”

“Rick?”

“Hi, Dad.” Was he wrong to wish he hadn’t answered the phone?

“Were you sleeping? You should be getting ready for the game.” John Evans’s voice was sharp, his tone disciplinary.

After this morning’s workout, his body had needed the two-hour rest before tonight’s game. But try explaining that to his father. The older man had cheated him of thirty minutes and criticized the other ninety.

Warrick sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. “I am getting ready. What can I do for you, Dad?”

“Napping before the game didn’t help you Thursday night. You looked as though you were sleepwalking. Everyone said your head wasn’t in the game. Marlon Burress made a fool of you.”

After thirty-four years, Warrick had given up hoping for positive feedback from his father. Nothing he did was ever good enough. “Thursday was a tough loss, but we won Saturday.”

“Which only goes to show that you’re inconsistent.” His father pounced on a new line of attack. “Your team needs to be able to depend on you. But from game to game, they don’t know which one of you will show up, the sleepwalker or the playmaker.”

Warrick’s patience was wearing thin. “The series is tied.”

“That’s why you’ll never be a champion.” John was accusing. “You’re satisfied with the series being tied at one apiece. You had an opportunity to be ahead two to nothing but you blew it.”

Warrick stood. He didn’t need this. “I have to get ready for tonight’s game.”

John grunted. “You’ve always chosen to run from the truth rather than admit when you’re wrong.”

Warrick gritted his teeth to keep from defending himself. It never did any good. “As much as I enjoy our talks, Dad, I have work to do.” He checked the clock on the nightstand. The green liquid crystal display numbers read three thirty-eight. He needed to get to the Empire Arena by five o’clock—three hours prior to the game—for his pregame ritual warm-up and preparation.

“What did Mary say about your game?”

Warrick gripped the receiver. Nothing. She hadn’t asked about the loss or the win. What did she think about the first two games? Did she even care anymore? They used to talk about his games and her deliveries. When had that stopped?

He pulled his attention back to the phone conversation and his father. “She wasn’t as critical as you.”

“Everyone is talking about your separation. Why did I have to read about it in the paper?”

Because failure wasn’t a subject one broached with John Evans. Warrick swallowed hard, part regret, all frustration. “I’m sorry.”

He’d hoped the response would end the conversation. That strategy had worked in the past.