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“She’s right.”
Troy glanced at Warrick, then away. “I know. I apologized, but she doesn’t believe I’ve learned my lesson. She thinks, in a similar situation, I still won’t trust her.”
Warrick shifted on the bleacher. “Would you?”
Troy hesitated. “I don’t know.”
Warrick grunted. “Then she’s right not to believe you.”
Troy dragged his right hand over his hair. “She said if I can’t trust her, then I don’t love her. Well, this sure feels like love to me.”
“How do you know?”
“I just do.” Did he sound insane?
Warrick patted Troy’s shoulder. “Do you want to know if you’re in love?”
Troy looked at the embattled husband. “Yeah.”
“Ask yourself if you’re better with her than you are without her. If the answer’s yes, then you’re in love.”
“Is that how you feel about Mary?” Troy saw the flash of pain in Warrick’s eyes.
“Yes.”
Troy sighed. “Then what do we do?”
Warrick hesitated. “We ask ourselves if they’re better with us than they are without us. If the answer’s yes, we have to find a way to convince them.”
Troy’s stomach muscles knotted. “What if the answer’s no?”
Warrick looked bleak. “Then we’re screwed.”
Were the odds in his favor? Andrea gave him confidence. She’d taught him patience. But what had she gotten from their relationship? Maybe she was better off without him.
But maybe he could change.
23
Andrea hustled to keep up with the New York Horn’s managing editor, Bruce Donnelly, as he led her through the newsroom to his office Thursday. His brown, cuffed pants were a little long for his short, stocky frame. His blue, white, and brown striped shirt was wrinkled and stained with newsprint—and it was only eight-thirty in the morning.
She dodged a couple of storage boxes and circled stacks of old newspapers as she examined her surroundings. The competition didn’t appear to believe in reinvesting in their product either. Computers and printers were outdated. Workspace was overcrowded. Office furniture was bruised and battered. The air stank of aging newsprint and burned coffee. If it weren’t for the unfamiliar cast of characters speed walking past her and shouting across the room, she’d think she was still at Sports.
Kirk West, the Horn’s basketball reporter, glared as she passed his desk. She wouldn’t receive a warm welcome there. Andrea nodded at the other reporter as she adjusted the strap of her brown purse on her shoulder. She inconspicuously wiped her sweating palms on the skirt of her light gray business suit. Why did this feel like a mistake?
She entered Bruce’s office. The older man shared the space with several boxes. Was he moving?
“Thanks for coming.” Bruce lowered himself into his seat behind his desk.
Andrea settled into the sole guest chair. It squeaked. “What made you change your mind about the interview? You rejected my initial application.”
“We’ve been following your work for a long time.” Bruce smoothed back what was left of his iron gray hair and leaned back in his chair. It wailed in protest. “You’re good.”
“Thank you.” Andrea waited for Bruce to continue. She gripped her purse in her lap.
“What do you know about hockey?” Bruce’s narrowed hazel eyes pinned her.
Andrea played along. “There are thirty teams, six divisions. The season starts in September. It runs through April, when the Stanley Cup play-offs begin.”
