Keeping Score (Brooklyn Monarchs 3) - Page 90
DeMarcus addressed his assistant coach. “Does Jack know about your retirement plans?”
Oscar sighed. “No.”
DeMarcus smoothed a hand over his hair. “She’ll probably try to talk you out of it.”
Oscar looked away. “Probably.”
Warrick considered the assistant coach. Oscar’s words were confident but his body language told a different story. His fingers were knotted together. His shoulders were rounded. Warrick didn’t care what the older man said. His decision wasn’t set in stone.
Still, he’d given Warrick a lot to think about. Coaching. Could it be in his future?
His gaze roamed the practice facility, bringing to mind images of the practice that had ended almost two hours ago. The Monarchs were on their way to the finals. The NBA Championship ring was so close his hand itched.
He turned back to Oscar. “It’s your decision when you retire. I just hope you’ll continue to help us through the play-offs.”
Oscar scowled. “Season’s not over yet.”
In Oscar-speak, he’d just given his word that he wouldn’t leave before the finals were over. Satisfied, Warrick shrugged his gym bag back onto his shoulder. “I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then.”
Warrick made his way to the parking lot. He slipped on his sunglasses as protection against the 3:00 P.M. SUN. SUMMER WAS ONLY WEEKS AWAY.
“Rick.”
The sound of Marilyn’s voice surprised him. It was unusual that she’d come to the practice facility. But then, she wasn’t working right now.
His pulse beat faster at the sight of her hurrying toward him. Her dark brown hair—free of that clip thing—swung frantically behind her shoulders. A brisk marina breeze molded her thin tan T-shirt to her firm curves. Dark brown shorts bared her endless legs from midthigh. She stopped in front of him. He could reach out and touch her.
Warrick fisted one hand in the front right pocket of his gray khaki shorts. His other hand held the strap of his gym bag in a death grip. “What’s wrong?”
Marilyn’s gaze scanned his features. “Andrea stopped by this morning. She has a theory about how Jordan Hyatt learned about your tattoo.”
Warrick shifted his gaze from her lips. “How?”
Her expression was strained. “It appears in some of the pictures that Peeping-Tom photographer took of us in our kitchen.”
Warrick gripped his gym bag even harder. “It’s on my hip. Did the guy use a telephoto lens?”
“It’s true. I saw the photos.”
“You’re kidding.” Warrick felt sick.
Marilyn’s scowl cleared. “We can use this information to discredit her.”
“How?”
Marilyn’s eyes reflected her confusion. “By telling the media that Jordan Hyatt isn’t having an affair with you. She only knows about your tattoo because of those pictures.”
“And when the reporters demand to know which photo, what am I supposed to do? Show them the pictures of you and I making love?”
The faint dusting of color on Marilyn’s cheekbones was answer enough. “Of course not.”
Warrick sidestepped her. “That’s not my first choice, either.”
Marilyn kept pace with him. “We’ll figure out something.”
We. That word, when applied to them, had been the culmination of a dream.
Warrick paced to his black BMW in silence. He deactivated the car’s alarm and tossed his bag onto the passenger seat.
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