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“Because he’s a basketball player.” LaMarr’s laughing response startled Marilyn. “All NBA players are peacocks.”
She wasn’t amused. “Why did he get it, Jordan?”
“How many questions are you going to ask me?” Jordan’s reply verged on a shriek. “She can’t ask that many questions.”
There was a shrug in LaMarr’s voice. “This is a call-in radio program.”
Jordan’s sigh was angry. “I don’t know why he has a p
eacock tattooed on his hip. He never told me.”
Satisfaction washed over Marilyn. It took away the tension tightening her forehead and eased the weight bearing down on her shoulders. “He wouldn’t have to tell you. The reason for the tattoo he chose is written into its design. You would know that if he’d actually shown you his tattoo. You’d also know that it isn’t a peacock. But you’ve never even met him, have you? The truth is you only know about his tattoo from a photo posted to the Internet.”
LaMarr’s voice bounced with laughter. “Mary from Brooklyn.” He spoke her identity pensively. “Would you be Mary Devry-Evans, Rick Evans’s wife?”
Pride lent strength to Marilyn’s response. “Yes, I am.”
Jordan’s gasp of surprise cut across the phone line. “You’re Rick’s wife? Are you going to sue me?”
Marilyn ignored her. For now. “Thank you for your show, LaMarr. I hope you’ll be able to attend my press conference Friday.”
“Are you going to sue me?”
Marilyn didn’t respond to Jordan’s question. She recradled the receiver and sank onto the armchair. She remembered the first time she’d seen Warrick’s tattoo. He’d told her he’d gotten it shortly after they’d met. She’d stroked her fingers over the words, “Strength from adversity.”
Marilyn stared at her wedding photos on the fireplace mantel. She would get back to those happier times. She wanted forever with Warrick even more today than on her wedding day. Please don’t let it be too late.
She lifted the receiver again and dialed Jaclyn Jones’s direct business number. “Hi, Jackie. It’s Mary Devry-Evans. Is everything ready for Friday?”
Warrick drained his sports drink, hoping to cool his body and his temper. What good were these practices if Jamal couldn’t remember the plays?
“Jamal.” Oscar Clemente’s voice was a low growl behind Warrick. The assistant coach stood before the bleachers and singled out the young shooting guard. “Are you playing Denver tomorrow?”
“Course, O. Are you?” Jamal laughed at his own joke. He lowered himself to the bottom bleacher away from his teammates.
Oscar grunted. “I’d do better than you.”
Warrick set down his empty sports bottle and turned to face the action.
Jamal’s laughter stopped. His brows met at the bridge of his nose. “What do you mean?”
“Are you learning the playbook?”
The rookie paled under the older man’s glare. “I’m trying really hard, O.”
“Try harder.”
As though seeking help Jamal’s eyes darted to his teammates sprawled on the bleachers. Warrick swiped the sweat from his brow and remained silent. So did the other Monarchs seated around him. DeMarcus stood with Oscar. His expression was implacable. Jamal would have to get out of this one on his own.
“We’re up two to one, aren’t we?” The rookie’s swagger was slipping.
“No thanks to you.” Anthony’s Christian charity continued to fray as the postseason worn on.
Warrick’s patience was unraveling as well. He drew in air heavy with sweat and wood polish.
“Nice one, Saint Anthony.” Vincent turned to Jamal. “Shape up, rookie. We need you to remember at least the shortened playbook. If you don’t, the rest of us have to pick up your slack to get those wins.”
Jamal popped up from his seat. “I’m not asking you to.”
