Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Serge looked away.

Why was DeMarcus continuing to deflect blame from him? He hadn’t played as well as he could have, as he should have. He was willing and able to accept that responsibility. Why wouldn’t DeMarcus let him?

Jamal slammed his locker door shut. “Even with a hangover, Barron’s a better leader on the court than Rick.”

Warrick stared at the rookie. Was that true?

DeMarcus’s chuckle was dry and devoid of humor. “How quickly everyone’s forgotten. If it weren’t for Rick’s winning basket during the last game of the season, none of you would be here.”

Warrick’s shoulders dropped. No one cared about past accomplishments. Professional sports was a what-have-you-done-for-me-lately? culture.

The pressure increased as one by one Warrick’s teammates refused to meet his eyes. Jamal, Serge, Anthony, Vincent—all of them turned away from him. It hurt.

Warrick cleared his throat. “I’ll play better Sunday.”

DeMarcus glared from Warrick to the other players gathered in the locker room and back. “We’re two games away from elimination. Everyone has to play better Sunday.”

Serge adjusted his tie before securing his locker. “What is it they say? Shit rolls downhill.”

Warrick frowned at the Frenchman. “What does that mean?”

Serge looked at Warrick. “It means that when you have had a bad game, we all get blamed. When you play well, no one knows who we are. We are just the supporting cast.”

Warrick braced his legs and forced himself not to rock back on his heels at the surprise attack. “I’ve never taken credit for that win. Or any win. I know victory is a team effort.”

Jamal sneered. “And that’s what you’ve been telling all the papers. We don’t need you to defend us, man. We can defend ourselves.”

“No, we cannot.” Serge shrugged. “Not unless the media listens to us. But they are too busy listening to Rick.”

“I didn’t elect you to speak for me.” Anthony’s tone made him seem like a nine-year-old child in a thirty-year-old’s body; a thirty-year-old with a 1970s throwback natural. “I can speak for myself—”

“Enough.” DeMarcus’s command cut through the resentment in the room like a machete. “The media are not on this team. We win or lose with the people in this room. Making Rick the goat is not going to get us the ring. We all need to raise our game.” He expelled a rough breath before checking his wristwatch. “Let’s go. They’re waiting for us at the press conference. All of us.”

Warrick shrugged into his suit jacket and swallowed a sigh. Whatever the media chose to ask him about tonight’s game, their questions couldn’t be harder than his teammates’.

Marilyn had fallen asleep curled up on the sofa with the television on again. The tension torturing Warrick’s shoulders and the nape of his neck eased. She may resent his career, but she still watched his games. That had to mean something. She’d had a long Thursday of her own at the hospital. She’d have another long day tomorrow. His gaze flickered to his silver Movado wristwatch. Correction. Today. It was after one in the morning.

Warrick loosened his tie further. He crossed the family room with silent steps. Even in sleep, Marilyn wouldn’t release the universal remote. She lay with it pressed to her stomach. Warrick eased it from her to switch off the television and cable box. He laid the remote on the coffee table and stared down at Marilyn. When had he last seen her looking so relaxed and content while awake?

He rested his right hand on her shoulder and leaned closer. Her jasmine scent surrounded him. “Mary.”

Marilyn blinked several times before focusing on him. “What time is it?” Her voice was low and rusty.

Warrick continued in a whisper. “One. Let’s go up to bed.”

She sat up, setting her bare feet on the hardwood floor. Her green nightgown exposed her toned arms and long legs. She lifted her gaze to him. Her eyes were dark and sad. “I’m sorry the Monarchs lost.”

With those five words, his tension and fatigue returned with a vengeance. He was sorry she’d witnessed the debacle. “Thanks.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” She sounded tentative.

“No, thanks.” After the confrontation in the Monarchs locker room and the interrogation at the postgame press conference, there was nothing left to say. The Monarchs’ losses used to be status quo. Now they led the local nightly news.

Marilyn pushed herself to her feet. “All right.”

Had he offended her? “How was your day?”

She started toward the hallway. “Fine.”