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“Does this need to stay in New York have anything to do with that reporter you’re supposed to be sleeping with?”
Shock and disappointment swamped him. “Are you reading the Insider?”
“I wanted to know more about the blog that’s making you crazy. So? Are you sleeping with her?”
Troy closed his eyes. Why was he having this conversation? “First, that’s none of your business. Second, don’t believe everything you read in anonymous, gossip blogs.”
“That means no.” His sister’s sigh was heavy. “She must be pretty ticked off at you about that blog then. Have you apologized?”
“Yes, and she—” Troy’s security phone rang. Saved by the bell. He stood. “And she accepted my apology. Shel, I’ve got to go. Someone’s at my door.”
She sighed again. “Call me back. We aren’t done with this.”
“Sure.” He’d say anything to get his sister off the line.
Troy replaced the phone receiver and glanced at the clock on the cable box beneath his television. It was after nine o’clock in the evening. He’d only recently returned from Andrea’s apartment. His security phone rang again.
Troy strode to his hallway and picked up the phone. “Marshall.”
“Good evening, Mr. Marshall. Barron Douglas is at the security desk for you, sir.” Beneath the guard’s smooth delivery, Troy heard a hint of disapproval.
He rubbed the back of his neck. Was Barron drunk again? “I’ll be right down.”
He grabbed his keys and rode the elevator to the marble and mirrored lobby. Waiting with the young guard beside the security desk, Barron gave Troy the wide, blurry grin of the happy drunk.
The NBA player flung his arms wide, causing the wiry security officer to lurch back. “Troy, I’m here to cheer you up, buddy. Sorry to hear abou
t your job.”
Troy winced. Serge must have called Barron. Who else had he told? Luckily, the lobby was empty except for him, Barron, and the hapless guard. He wasn’t eager to share his unemployment status with his neighbors.
He grabbed one of Barron’s outstretched arms, then glanced at the guard. “Thanks, Ted.”
Ted nodded stoically, but Troy saw the relief in his eyes. “You’re welcome, Mr. Marshall.”
Troy guided Barron back to his condo. Once inside, he poured a glass of cold water for the Monarchs captain.
Barron curled his lip as he took the glass. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
“Drink it.” Troy turned away. “I’ll make coffee.”
“Don’t you have anything else to drink?”
“Not for you.” Troy spoke with his back to the player as he filled the coffee carafe with water from his sink’s filtered faucet. “What the hell’s wrong with you, Barron? You’re already drunk and it’s only nine o’clock. When did you start drinking today?”
“What are you, a priest? I don’t have any confessions for you. I’m trying to cheer you up and you’re bringing me down.” Barron sounded like a petulant child.
Troy squelched the urge to pop the other man in the mouth. Instead he concentrated on measuring coffee into the filter. “You played like shit last night. Are you planning on repeating that Thursday night? Do you want the Monarchs to be swept out of the play-offs because of you?”
“You’re blaming me for Monday’s loss?” Gone was the sulky child. Barron sounded angry and defensive.
Troy wasn’t impressed. He turned on the coffeemaker and poured the water into the machine. “I’m blaming you for not being ready for the game. You looked like a man playing with a hangover, probably because you were.”
“At least I didn’t go on TV to call my boss a liar. Yesterday wasn’t a good day for either of us, cuz.”
Troy turned away from his kitchen counter. The player was right. “No, it wasn’t.”
The security phone rang again. Troy crossed to the entrance way to answer it. “Marshall.”
