Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Serge was trapped behind the perimeter. His defender, Jarrod Cheeks, frustrated his efforts to move in to the basket. Serge dribbled twice before passing the ball to Anthony on the line.

Warrick wove his way into the paint, trying to dislodge Burress from his shadow. The shot clock drained to fifteen seconds. He struggled to hold off Burress’s blocks almost as hard as he fought not to react to his opponent’s words.

Burress continued to dog Warrick’s steps. “You gonna keep the baby?”

“It’s not mine to keep.” Warrick could have kicked himself for responding.

Anthony danced around, taking three more seconds from the clock. But he couldn’t shake the Waves’ Phillip Hawk. Warrick raised his hand to indicate he was open. Ignoring Warrick in the paint, Anthony pitched the ball to Jamal at the right perimeter.

“That’s no way to talk about your child.” Burress’s smile was amused and a little mean. He’d gotten a rise out of Warrick and wouldn’t let up until he got another.

Ten seconds remained on the shot clock. Jamal dribbled once, twice before taking the shot. Warrick followed its trajectory up and over his head. It stopped just shy of the basket’s rim before beginning its descent. Eight seconds were on the shot clock.

Warrick stepped forward and leaped to meet the ball. He tipped it into the basket, then dropped back to his feet. The ball went through the net, extending the Monarchs’ lead to eleven. Warrick didn’t pause to react. He turned and ran back up court. Seamlessly, he shifted from offense to defense. Three minutes and twenty-three seconds remained in the game.

Burress’s tireless voice followed him. “I don’t know how you could creep out on a woman who looks like your wife. I’ve seen her picture.” The Waves’ star smacked his lips.

Warrick saw red. He stopped on a dime at midcourt. He

spun and twisted the front of Burress’s white jersey in his fist, then shoved the other man backward. Burress’s trademark smile of smug superiority barely registered in Warrick’s anger-soaked mind. The referee’s whistle sounded far away, coming closer as the ringing in Warrick’s ears quieted.

Otto Nunez, one of the officiating crew members, pried Warrick’s fingers from Burress’s white home jersey. “That’s your sixth personal foul, Evans. You’re out of the game.”

Burress smoothed his jersey. He inclined his head before trotting to the foul line. Roger Harris, the Monarchs shooting guard, came off the bench and jogged across Warrick’s line of sight.

What had just happened?

He swung his attention to the sideline and was slammed by DeMarcus’s disgusted glare. Warrick crossed to the bench. Burress made both of his free throws, dropping the Monarchs’ lead back to nine.

Being benched during any game was frustrating. Having to sit out the final minutes of a critical championship game was a special kind of pain. Warrick had never felt so helpless, not even when DeMarcus had benched him at the beginning of the season.

For the next three minutes, Warrick’s stomach muscles twisted as the Waves attacked the Monarchs’ lead. The Waves fed off his team’s growing fatigue and uncoordinated defense. Walter Millbank made Jamal look dazed and confused. Phillip Hawk threw Anthony off his game. Jarrod Cheeks rendered Serge ineffective, and Burress took advantage of Roger coming off the bench cold.

As the Monarchs’ lead drained, Warrick’s guilt grew. His ineffective play against Burress was doing the team more harm than good. He’d let his team down. He’d let himself down. He’d let Burress get the better of him.

Vincent was left to mop up mistakes and mend broken plays. Through the center’s efforts, DeMarcus’s play calling, and judicious use of the Monarchs’ remaining time-outs, the team came through game five with a battered and stingy two-point lead. And Warrick had come to a hard-earned realization.

Maybe Marilyn was right. If he couldn’t be a playmaker for the team, maybe it was time to think about retiring.

15

“That photo of you and Rick together on the kitchen table is hot.” Susan Williams bit her bottom lip and shook her right hand as though she’d burned her f in-gertips.

Marilyn blinked at Monarchs’ point guard Darius Williams’s wife, who sat across from her at the restaurant table. “Susan, I’m not thrilled to have my personal life photographed and blown up all over the gossip pages.”

“Don’t forget that shit was uploaded to the Internet, too.” Faye Ryland, point guard Jarrett Hickman’s longtime girlfriend, added helpfully.

Marilyn glared at her chicken parmesan. “No, Faye, I can’t forget.”

What did those other photographs look like? Did she even want to know? She took a bite of her lunch. It tasted like cardboard.

The Monarchs Wives Club was meeting at its usual Italian restaurant on Memorial Day, the day after the Monarchs’ game five nail-biter. Why weren’t they talking about the win? Maybe then, she could enjoy her meal.

“Well, at least you looked good.” Peggy Coleman, who was pregnant with shooting guard Roger Harris’s baby, rubbed her belly. Her peaches and cream complexion glowed as she sent Marilyn a Mona Lisa smile.

“Yeah.” Susan waved her fork with gusto. “Who would have thought you had such a great figure under those ugly, androgynous clothes? You need to show off those curves, girl.”

Marilyn frowned down at her lavender two-piece pants suit. What was wrong with her outfit? Although she was still underdressed compared to the other women’s latest fashions and expensive accessories. Had they ever worn the same outfit twice?