Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3)

“She couldn’t have just guessed you had a tattoo on your hip.” Marilyn bit her bottom lip.

Warrick gave his wife a considering look. “Have you told anyone about it?”

Marilyn gaped at him. “Of course not. I respect your privacy too much to tell anyone your secrets.”

“Not even Emma?” He wouldn’t put it past Marilyn’s so-called friend to gossip about them.

“No one. I wouldn’t tell anyone.” She frowned. “Have you?”

“No.”

“Maybe one of the team trainers or your doctor.”

“They’ve all signed confidentiality agreements for the franchise.” Warrick’s tone was definite.

“Then how could Jordan Hyatt find out about it?”

Warrick faced his wife, knowing more than a room separated them. That knowledge was heartbreaking. “What are you accusing me of, Mary?”

Marilyn gaped at him. “I’m not accusing you of anything.”

Warrick resumed his pacing. “Yes, you are. Some delusional fan—or more likely a pathological liar—has made a false accusation about me and you’ve chosen to believe her.”

Four years ago, he thought he’d found someone who would always believe in him, unlike his parents, whom he could never seem to please. Today, that had changed because of a stranger’s words.

Marilyn dropped her arms. “Someone is trying to come between us.”

“Who?” He rubbed the small of his back through his dark gray polo shirt. The muscles there were tightening on him.

“That’s what we have to figure out.” Marilyn pulled her fingers through her hair. Her voice was packed with frustration.

Warrick gathered his courage to ask the question they’d both been dancing around. “Do you think I’ve cheated on you?”

Marilyn’s gaze wavered. “I don’t want to believe that.”

A large fist slowly crushed his heart. “There’s nothing more to say, then.”

Warrick reached for his bag. The twinge in his back was nothing compared to the pain in his chest. He left the family room and walked past the stairs back to the kitchen.

Marilyn’s voice came from behind him. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving. There’s nothing keeping me here anymore.”

Bare feet rushed across the hardwood floor. A hand tugged on his arm. Warrick turned to look down at his wife. He was looking at a stranger.

Marilyn’s eyes were panicked. “You can’t leave. We have to figure this out.”

“I can’t stay here, Mary. Not when you don’t trust me.” The pain in his chest throbbed like a burn. He couldn’t stand here, talking with her much longer.

“I do trust you.”

“Those are just words. Your eyes and your voice say something else.” Warrick tugged against her hold. “Just because I can’t answer your question doesn’t mean that I’m lying.”

“Rick, wait.”

He didn’t. He unlocked the kitchen door, then closed it gently behind him. He’d believed in them and their marriage, and tuned out everyone else. But Marilyn had let other people’s accusations poison their relationship. She’d listened to the fans who’d thought she wasn’t pretty enough to be a baller’s wife, the media who accused him and his teammates of a night of debauchery in Cleveland, and now a stranger who’d claimed to be his lover.

Warrick’s grip tightened on his steering wheel as he drove his BMW as far away from their Prospect Heights home as possible.