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The cable news came to life on the screen. Andrea set the remote on the coffee table. She pulled her cell phone from the pocket of her warm-up jacket and checked her Twitter account. She bit her lower lip when she read Barron’s latest message.
“What’s wrong?”
She looked up at Faith’s question. “Barron Douglas is going clubbing again tonight.”
Faith shrugged. “So?”
“That’s two nights in a row, and practice is eleven o’clock in the morning.”
“I guess that’s a bad thing.”
Andrea lowered her cell phone. “His team has made it to the
postseason. Barron should be focused on the play-offs, not the clubs. His behavior is out of control—just like mine was.”
“If you’re worried about him, talk to Troy.”
Andrea returned her gaze to her phone. “I tried. He won’t listen to me.”
“And you said he won’t let you talk to the players, either.”
Andrea’s hand tightened around her cellular. “I have to at least try to help Barron.” She shrugged. “I can always apologize to Troy later.”
The next morning, Andrea got out of her Escort as Barron pulled his liquid silver BMW sports car into a parking space about five rows ahead of hers. The Monarchs’ captain was cutting his schedule pretty close. Friday’s practice would start in a few minutes. Then the team would leave for Cleveland and its best-of-seven series against the Cavaliers.
“Barron.” She shouted his name to detain him as she jogged across the Empire Arena’s parking lot.
Barron stopped, lowering his wraparound black sunglasses to scan the lot. In seconds, his gaze landed on Andrea. His features twisted into an irritated scowl before he turned and continued toward the arena. Too late. His momentary hesitation bought Andrea enough time to catch up with the NBA star as he was halfway across the lot.
“Barron.” She was slightly out of breath. Little had she known her morning jogs would help her chase down professional athletes. “May I speak with you?”
“No.” He didn’t slow down.
Andrea tried to match his long strides. She angled her head to search his features about eight inches above her. Strain lines bracketed his tense lips. His jaw flexed as he gritted his teeth.
“You have a hangover.” She made it a statement.
A light breeze carried the scents of nearby cut grass, spring blossoms, and the marina. It ruffled her hair. She brushed the loose strands away from her face.
Barron dragged a hand over his thick cornrows. He didn’t look at her. “Find someone else to screw with for your paper.”
Andrea winced but still managed to keep pace with the point guard. He’d probably move faster if he weren’t afraid his head would shatter.
The front entrance was in sight. “I’m not screwing with you. I’m trying to help you.”
Barron came to an abrupt halt. He moved in, crowding Andrea. “Are you kidding me? How is that piece of crap you wrote about me supposed to help me?”
Andrea stood her ground. “You’re staying out late clubbing every single night. You’re getting to practice late and not giving a hundred percent when you’re there. Your behavior is a cry for help.”
His expression darkened. “This ain’t no soap opera. I’m not some teenage girl losing her mind.”
“No, you’re not.” Andrea held his gaze behind his sunglasses. “You’re an NBA player under a lot of pressure.”
Barron rocked back as though she’d slapped him. “What the hell are you talking about?”
Andrea stepped forward. “This is the first time you’ve been on a play-off team—”
“So?”
