Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

Anthony cleared his throat. “I haven’t been living the Word as I should have. Thank you for helping me to see that.”

Vincent grinned. “Well, hell, Saint Anthony. I’d be glad to point out your hypocrisy every time you show it, if that would help you.”

Anthony glared at the center. “I’m not a hypocrite.”

Vincent frowned in mock confusion. “Then what do you call it?”

Some things would never change.

Warrick jumped in just as Anthony opened his mouth to respond. “This conversation isn’t helping.” He addressed Anthony. “Tony, we’re all human. Let’s put the rest behind us. We’ve got a championship to win.”

“Hold on.” Jamal looked around. “I’ve got something to say. Rick called me out, too.”

Warrick nodded, bracing himself for the rookie’s response. “Go ahead.”

Jamal hesitated. His gaze was hurt and uncertain. “You said I couldn’t read.”

“I never said you couldn’t read.” Warrick stopped him before Jamal could take a breath. “I asked if you had trouble learning the plays.”

Jamal ducked his head. “I do.”

Warrick sighed. “You said you couldn’t remember them. Why didn’t you ask for help?”

Jamal looked up. “Will you help me?”

“Of course.” Vincent stepped forward and wrapped his arm around the younger man’s shoulders. “We’ve got your back.”

Vincent released Jamal. He turned to Warrick as their teammates returned to their prepractice warm-ups. “Why didn’t you call me out the other night?”

Warrick shrugged. “Why haven’t you attacked me this postseason?”

Vincent returned his shrug. He scooped up the discarded rope and tossed Warrick a grin before crossing the court.

Warrick shook his head at Vincent’s lack of response. His teammates were back and as close as they’d ever been. It was a relief. But was it enough to carry them through the critical game seven of the Eastern Conference Championship?

Almost three hours later, Warrick walked out of the training room. DeMarcus and Troy waited for him near the practice court entrance.

Warrick stopped a pace away from them. “What’s up?”

“We need to talk.” DeMarcus’s voice was somber.

What is it now?

Troy gestured toward the bleachers. “Let’s sit for a minute.”

The court smelled of wood polish and sweat. The dozen practice nets that circled the court had been lifted and the basketballs piled into the black wire carts near the door.

Warrick changed direction, joining the other two men near the stands. “What’s wrong?” His voice was sharp with worry.

Practice had ended almost an hour ago, but he’d stayed to have a trainer work out the tightness in his legs and lower back. Now the tension was returning.

Troy scowled at DeMarcus before meeting Warrick’s eyes. “Nothing’s wrong. We didn’t mean to give you that impression.”

“Then why do we need to talk?” He dropped his silver and black Monarchs gym bag to the floor beside his feet, but he didn’t sit. He was anxious to get home and spend as much time with Marilyn as possible before leaving for Miami.

With the series tied at three apiece, the Monarchs had one of two choices—win and advance to the NBA finals or lose and spend the rest of the summer wondering what they could have done differently.

Or, in Warrick’s case, spend the summer repairing his strained marriage.