Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

“Have you spoken with him since the press conference ?”

Again her fake curls bounced around her head and shoulders. “He’s been busy.”

The anchor looked nervous. Perhaps he’d finally realized the mistake he’d made in inviting this poser onto his program. Marilyn leaned forward, anxious to see the make-believe mistress and the so-called sportscaster fall flat on their faces.

The young man looked off camera before turning back to his guest. “What proof can you offer that you’re Rick Evans’s mistress much less that you’re carrying his child?”

A sly smile stretched across Jordan’s bright red lips. She looked at her host from under her false eyelashes. “Do you want to hear about his tattoo?”

Marilyn stiffened. What did she say?

“Rick Evans doesn’t have any tattoos.” The anchor tossed another desperate glance off camera.

Jordan straightened in her seat. “Yes, he does. It’s on his right hip.”

Blood drained from Marilyn’s head. How had she known that?

The anchor frowned. “Really?”

Jordan’s voice sounded so far away. “Yes. Really.”

The host leaned closer. “Are you sure?” His voice was a mixture of shock and sensationalism.

Jordan nodded. “I’ve seen it myself.”

The sportscaster looked uncertain for several seconds more. Jordan’s confident expression never wavered.

Finally, the young man grinned into the camera. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, you heard it here first. And, of course, we’ll be watching the situation closely to keep you up to date on the developments.” He turned to Jordan. “We’d like to thank Jordan for coming into the studio tonight and graciously giving us some of her time.”

Marilyn’s muscles were heavy as she reached for the universal remote control. She turned off the television and the cable box, then slumped back into her sofa.

Jordan Hyatt knew about her husband’s tattoo. The one on his hip. The only one he had. Only Warrick, his doctor, and she knew of the tattoo.

How was it possible that Jordan Hyatt had seen it? Since Marilyn would never believe Warrick had shown it to her, someone else had to be involved. But who?

“Are you lost?” Warrick paused in front of Marlon Burress.

The Miami Waves star player was propped against the wall near the entrance to the visitors’ locker room. Marlon had lost the Eastern Conference Championship. But he still looked like a winner with his air of confidence and his double-breasted navy pinstriped

suit.

Marlon gave Warrick a half smile. “I deserved that.”

Warrick wasn’t amused. “What do you want?”

Marlon straightened from the wall. “To congratulate you. You played me hard. It was a good series.”

“Thanks.” Warrick didn’t want to like this guy.

Behind him, his teammates, coaches, and trainers filed out of the visitors’ locker room. He sensed their curiosity. In his peripheral vision, he noticed them lingering in the hallway behind him. A hand clamped onto his shoulder. Warrick looked around and met DeMarcus’s gaze.

His coach’s dark eyes pinned him. “All good?”

Warrick nodded. “Yes.”

DeMarcus extended his hand to his former teammate and longtime friend. “Good series, Marl.”

Marlon clasped DeMarcus’s hand. “Don’t embarrass me with the Nuggets.”