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Barron chuckled. “Guys like you are always with a honey.”
Troy ignored him. “I was working late at home.”
Barron’s voice was distant. “You think you’re going to get some kind of recognition for your hard work? I’ll give you some advice, man. Wake up. You think the front office cares that you care?”
Troy pulled up to a red light. He turned to Barron. “I’m in the front office.”
“At the end of the day, your desk won’t protect you. The front office isn’t loyal.”
“If I weren’t loyal, I wouldn’t be here.”
Barron grunted. “You aren’t here for me. You said yourself this is about the franchise.”
“And you’re part of the franchise.”
“Am I?”
Of course he was. He was the Monarchs’ starting point guard, their captain. He and the team were inseparable. To protect one, you had to protect the other. And that’s exactly what Troy was going to do.
Troy strode into the New York Sports newspaper’s weathered and worn reception area. The middle-aged woman behind the desk was simultaneously transferring phone calls, typing at a computer, and signing for packages. She stopped typing, transferred the call, and thanked the delivery woman before turning to Troy.
“May I help you?” The question was brisk and delivered with a hint of an Asian accent.
“Troy Marshall to see Andrea Benson.”
Her dark eyes studied him as though trying to decide if he was trouble. “Do you have an appointment?”
Maybe he should have called before driving to the newspaper’s office. But after reading Andrea’s article in that Thursday morning’s edition of the Sports, he hadn’t stopped to think about it.
He tried to win the receptionist over with a smile. “No.”
Her cheeks flushed. She lowered her eyelashes and picked up the phone. “I’ll see if Andrea’s available.” She pressed a few buttons. “Andrea, Troy Marshall is here to see you.” After a moment’s silence, she slid her eyes back to him. “I’ll let him know.” She replaced the receiver and nodded toward a row of chairs. “She’s on her way. Please have a seat.”
Troy stepped toward the cracked and battered vinyl chairs. He chose one in direct line of sight of the newsroom. Before long, Andrea Benson walked through the doorway. Troy stood as she came closer. Her long, lithe body moved with a sexy confidence that defied her conservative black slacks, white blouse, and gray blazer. Her honey brown skin glowed. Her straight dark hair swu
ng hypnotically behind her narrow shoulders as she advanced on him across the aging linoleum.
She stopped and offered her hand. The expression in her wide sherry eyes was more curious than welcoming.
“This is a surprise.” Her melodic voice reminded him of satin sheets and summer nights. But with her distant manner, he’d never confuse fantasy with reality.
At five-foot-nine, she was almost a foot shorter than his six-foot-four inches. But her energy and assertiveness made her seem even taller.
Her hand was warm and delicate in his. Troy gave her the smile that had won over her receptionist. “Do you like surprises?”
Andrea ignored his question and drew her hand from his. “What can I do for you?”
He glanced behind her at the newsroom before meeting her gaze again. “Could we talk privately?”
She arched a winged brow. “A private conversation? What was wrong with the phone?”
Andrea was his challenge. He needed something more than a smile to charm her, but he still hadn’t figured out what that was. “I wanted to talk with you in person.”
Her perceptive eyes searched his. “All right.” She led him to the newsroom.
Troy had never been to the New York Sports offices. He’d suspected the organization struggled financially. The worn gray carpeting, peeling paint, and battered furnishings confirmed his suspicions.
He was struck by the stench of newsprint and burned coffee, battered by the cacophony of ringing telephones and shouted conversations. The scene brought back memories of his days as a sports reporter. Part of him missed the adrenaline rush of chasing a story. But, on the whole, he’d rather be back on the court.
