get your partnership ?” His lips were numb. If only his heart were, too.
Marilyn raised her hands, palms up. “Our relationship is already under a lot of strain.”
“So you’re going to throw it away for your career.”
“Rick, it’s—”
He left the room, closing the door with quiet restraint behind him.
Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce.
Warrick’s legs carried him down the hall toward the master bedroom. On autopilot, he found a pair of socks and his running shoes. Minutes later, he jogged down the stairs and out of his home. A cool evening breeze softly kissed his heated cheek and wrapped the scent of spring around him. Warrick blinked the sting from his eyes. He had to keep moving. He didn’t know what would happen if he stopped. And he was afraid to find out.
“Get your head in the game, Rick.” DeMarcus sounded like he was chewing nails. The same nails he’d use to pin Warrick’s ass to the wall after this debacle, otherwise known as Thursday’s game one of the Monarchs’ Eastern Conference Championship series against the Miami Waves. His coach was using the team’s final time-out to make that clear.
Standing on the sidelines surrounded by exhausted teammates and an apoplectic head coach, Warrick wiped the sweat from his brow with his right forearm. He hadn’t spoken with Marilyn since Tuesday night. Was she watching the game?
DeMarcus got in his face. “Are you hearing me, Rick?”
Warrick flinched. At DeMarcus’s caustic tone or Marilyn’s request for a divorce? “I heard you, Coach.”
Would Marilyn stay with him if the media gave him positive press? Would that make a difference or was she opposed to any type of coverage?
Warrick glanced at the clock. Twenty-nine seconds remained to the game. The Monarchs were down by 12 points, 98 to 86. No way were they getting back into this contest. All they could hope for was a more respectable final score. A loss was a loss. But no one wanted to be blown out.
DeMarcus continued growling at him. “Burress is getting into your head. You’re missing rebounds, breaking plays. Focus.”
The buzzer sounded. Warrick followed his teammates onto the court. Vincent Jardine, the Monarchs’ center, inbounded the ball to starting forward Anthony Chambers. The shot clock gave the Monarchs a fresh twenty-four seconds. Warrick felt Marlon Burress leaning against him. He pushed back, keeping his arms free.
Burress pitched his voice to be heard above the roar of the Waves’ fans. “You never answered me. You and your shortie getting back together?”
“Mind your business.” Warrick mentally kicked himself for responding to his opponent. Again. Block out the noise.
He watched Anthony dribble to the paint, then pass the ball to Serge at the post. A swarm of green and white Waves jerseys covered him. Warrick drew closer to the paint, ready to grab the ball if Serge couldn’t get to the basket. The game clock counted down to seventeen seconds. The shot clock flashed off.
Burress was on his back like white on rice. “Heard your shortie moved out. Been gone long?”
Warrick strained to shut out Burress’s words and focus on the game.
Maybe we should get a divorce.
Get your head in the game.
Serge kicked the ball ahead to Warrick. Warrick missed the pass. Walter Millbank, the Waves’ near-seven-foot shooting guard, slapped the ball aside right into Burress’s hands.
“Are you here to play?” Vincent snapped the question as he raced back up the court.
Warrick gritted his teeth as he also gave chase. How had he missed that grab?
Burress jumped to the basket for an easy layup and another two points for the Waves. Vincent recovered the ball with seven seconds left to the game. He raced back down the court. Warrick hustled to the basket. He could hear Burress’s footsteps behind him.
The Monarchs set up in the paint and around the perimeter. The Waves covered them. Three seconds
Marilyn raised her hands, palms up. “Our relationship is already under a lot of strain.”
“So you’re going to throw it away for your career.”
“Rick, it’s—”
He left the room, closing the door with quiet restraint behind him.
Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce. Maybe we should get a divorce.
Warrick’s legs carried him down the hall toward the master bedroom. On autopilot, he found a pair of socks and his running shoes. Minutes later, he jogged down the stairs and out of his home. A cool evening breeze softly kissed his heated cheek and wrapped the scent of spring around him. Warrick blinked the sting from his eyes. He had to keep moving. He didn’t know what would happen if he stopped. And he was afraid to find out.
“Get your head in the game, Rick.” DeMarcus sounded like he was chewing nails. The same nails he’d use to pin Warrick’s ass to the wall after this debacle, otherwise known as Thursday’s game one of the Monarchs’ Eastern Conference Championship series against the Miami Waves. His coach was using the team’s final time-out to make that clear.
Standing on the sidelines surrounded by exhausted teammates and an apoplectic head coach, Warrick wiped the sweat from his brow with his right forearm. He hadn’t spoken with Marilyn since Tuesday night. Was she watching the game?
DeMarcus got in his face. “Are you hearing me, Rick?”
Warrick flinched. At DeMarcus’s caustic tone or Marilyn’s request for a divorce? “I heard you, Coach.”
Would Marilyn stay with him if the media gave him positive press? Would that make a difference or was she opposed to any type of coverage?
Warrick glanced at the clock. Twenty-nine seconds remained to the game. The Monarchs were down by 12 points, 98 to 86. No way were they getting back into this contest. All they could hope for was a more respectable final score. A loss was a loss. But no one wanted to be blown out.
DeMarcus continued growling at him. “Burress is getting into your head. You’re missing rebounds, breaking plays. Focus.”
The buzzer sounded. Warrick followed his teammates onto the court. Vincent Jardine, the Monarchs’ center, inbounded the ball to starting forward Anthony Chambers. The shot clock gave the Monarchs a fresh twenty-four seconds. Warrick felt Marlon Burress leaning against him. He pushed back, keeping his arms free.
Burress pitched his voice to be heard above the roar of the Waves’ fans. “You never answered me. You and your shortie getting back together?”
“Mind your business.” Warrick mentally kicked himself for responding to his opponent. Again. Block out the noise.
He watched Anthony dribble to the paint, then pass the ball to Serge at the post. A swarm of green and white Waves jerseys covered him. Warrick drew closer to the paint, ready to grab the ball if Serge couldn’t get to the basket. The game clock counted down to seventeen seconds. The shot clock flashed off.
Burress was on his back like white on rice. “Heard your shortie moved out. Been gone long?”
Warrick strained to shut out Burress’s words and focus on the game.
Maybe we should get a divorce.
Get your head in the game.
Serge kicked the ball ahead to Warrick. Warrick missed the pass. Walter Millbank, the Waves’ near-seven-foot shooting guard, slapped the ball aside right into Burress’s hands.
“Are you here to play?” Vincent snapped the question as he raced back up the court.
Warrick gritted his teeth as he also gave chase. How had he missed that grab?
Burress jumped to the basket for an easy layup and another two points for the Waves. Vincent recovered the ball with seven seconds left to the game. He raced back down the court. Warrick hustled to the basket. He could hear Burress’s footsteps behind him.
The Monarchs set up in the paint and around the perimeter. The Waves covered them. Three seconds