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Troy had to believe he wasn’t wasting his time here. When Barron had his act together, he was a vital part of the team. Troy just needed to convince the team captain to pull himself together. “Are you going to stand here drinking all night?”
Barron set the bottle on the surface of the bar. “I’ll probably sit after a while. Then, once I get my second wind, I’ll go to the club.”
“What about practice in the morning?”
Barron shrugged again. “It starts at eleven.”
Troy held on to his patience. “Will you be there?”
Barron arched a brow. “Why? Are you going to talk to us again?”
His temper was starting to fray. What made him think he could reason with the point guard? “This isn’t a joke. It’s the play-offs. Doesn’t that mean anything to you?”
Barron leaned across the bar toward him. His voice was low and throbbing with anger. “Only if I’m going to play.”
“Marc won’t let you play if you don’t practice. You know that.”
“I guess I’ll just keep drinking then.” Barron pulled the bottle toward him.
Troy fisted his hands in his pockets. “Meanwhile, you’ll give Gerry plenty of material to hurt the team.”
Barron scowled his disbelief. “The team he owns? Why would he do that?”
“Co-owns. He doesn’t want us to contend in the play-offs.”
Barron barked a laugh. “You think I’ll stay home if you tell me Gerry’s going to use me to hurt the team? Nice try. You told us not to talk to reporters outside of the media sessions.”
Troy let his anger show. “You won’t have to talk to reporters. Your teammates will see that while they’re taking care of their bodies and showing up for the team, you’re coming to practice with a hangover. Think they’ll want you around?”
Barron glowered at him. “Screw them and screw you.”
“You already have.” Troy turned to leave.
Nothing had changed with Barron tonight. He may never get through to him. All right. If he couldn’t stop Barron, could he stop Gerry?
5
“I think I’ve found our new roommate.” Andrea spoke over her shoulder to Faith Wilcox as she loaded the dishwasher. She and her roommate had finished dinner and were tidying the cozy confines of their kitchen.
“Who?” Faith scrubbed the pots and pans by hand. The rhythm of her movements was in time with the pop song she hummed under her breath.
“Connie Street. She’s the Monarchs’ new administrative assistant.” Andrea added detergent to the dishwasher’s well. “And she has a three-year-old daughter.”
“I don’t remember you mentioning her. How long have you known each other?” Faith rinsed the pots and pans, placing them on the drain board.
Andrea drew a deep breath as she straightened from the dishwasher. The savory scents of their chicken stew dinner lingered in the air. “We met her at the Morning Glory homeless shelter a couple of weeks ago. Do you remember a tall blonde with a toddler daughter?”
“No.” Faith dried her brown hands on the white and blue dish towel hanging from the refrigerator’s door handle. “She’s a stranger.”
“I was, too. When I answered your ad for a roommate, I didn’t know you or Keisha. Still, you let me move in with you.”
Faith’s dark brown gaze was speculative. “Our first roommate got married and left just like Keisha. I see a pattern here.”
“And I came from the shelter just like Connie and her daughter.” Andrea remembered who and where she’d been when they’d first met.
“A little girl could cramp our love lives.” Faith led them from the kitchen.
Andrea chuckled. “When was the last time either of us brought a man home?”
