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“You’re not going to win Mary back unless you get your act together.”
Was his father gloating? He had to end this call. “I appreciate your concern—”
“She’s a medical doctor. She saves lives. You play ball and you don’t even do it well. How do you expect to hold on to a woman like that?”
The barbs were flying faster now, eliciting both fear and anger, two emotions that were always present during exchanges with his father. John Evans had erred on the side of discipline rather than affection. In fairness, he’d taken his paternal responsibilities seriously. Warrick wouldn’t have achieved his dream if it weren’t for his father. For that, he’d always be respectful. But now, he needed to get the older man off the phone.
He took a deep breath. The scent of jasmine lingered in the room, filling his head, easing his tension. Marilyn. “Dad, it’s getting late. I’ve got to go. Give Mom my love. I’ll talk with you later.” He hung up before his father could respond.
Warrick rotated his head, trying to relax the muscles in his neck. His father’s idea of a motivational speech was to identify your most vulnerable area and put a bullet in it.
He wandered toward the room’s dressing table. His gaze lingered on their wedding photo before landing on Marilyn’s ring box. Holding his breath, Warrick opened the case. He exhaled. It was empty. At least she was still wearing her rings. That was a good sign, wasn’t it? He closed the box.
You’re not going to win Marilyn back unless you get your act together.
He was beginning to wonder how he’d won her heart in the first place. He studied their wedding photo. She looked so happy with him. They’d held each other so tightly. Now other people were coming between them.
Marilyn hadn’t married him for his celebrity. The media attention was tearing them apart. She wasn’t with him for his money; she had plenty of her own. Then why had she married him? And why wasn’t that reason enough anymore?
Burress shot the basketball over Warrick, raising the Miami Waves to an 81 to 76 lead over the Monarchs during game three at home. Two minutes and seventeen seconds left to the third quarter. Warrick caught the condemnation in DeMarcus’s eyes. He’d hear about that play in the locker room. He turned, ignoring the twinge in his back as he jogged up the court.
Barron Douglas stood behind DeMarcus in a bronze three-piece suit. The Monarchs captain wasn’t ready to travel with the team, but he’d show his support during every home game—a constant reminder that Warrick wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Am I that good or are you that bad?” Burress’s laughing taunt came from behind him.
Warrick ignored the words that echoed the question in his mind. Burress shadowed him as Warrick found his position at the post. Monarchs’ center Vincent Jardine dribbled the ball past half-court, slowing the tempo of the game and taking control of the shot clock. The Waves’ Chad Erving danced in front of him, bending low and waving his arms. Jarrod Cheeks guarded Serge
at the left perimeter and Phillip Hawk hampered Anthony at the right.
“You’re kind of slow tonight. You feeling all right?” Burress’s tone was meant to irritate. And it was working. Why wouldn’t the other man stop talking?
Warrick was tangled in Burress’s coverage. His opponent’s left hand braced his waist. His right hand stretched over Warrick’s shoulder. Warrick extended his right leg and turned his torso to claim more room. He clenched his teeth at the shooting pain around his waist.
The shot clock was at nineteen seconds. Warrick gestured Jamal to the left corner with an impatient wave of his hand. When would the rookie read the game plan? Walter Millbank trailed Jamal.
With his teammates in place, Warrick opened his hands for the ball. Vincent kicked it to him. Burress pressed in to intercept the pass. Warrick stepped forward to block Burress’s access. He wouldn’t let the other man show him up again. Warrick made the catch with his right hand and twisted his body to protect the ball. His back protested.
His opponent pressured him, crowded him, jockeyed for position. He held Burress off with his back and shoulders, skirting the edge of his third foul. Warrick dribbled the ball, dancing forward, trying to find a good look for the basket. He had nothing. The shot clock counted to thirteen seconds. Two minutes and four seconds remained in the third period.
Warrick watched his teammates shift position, crossing in and out of the paint, circling the perimeter. The Waves stuck to them like a bad odor. Burress bedeviled him, waving his arms in Warrick’s face and jumping up and down.
Serge shook off Cheeks and worked his way open under the basket. A window of scoring opportunity. Warrick took it. A split-second decision to pass him the ball.
Jamal lost his man as Millbank launched his seven-foot body into the lane. The Waves forward came up with the steal. The Monarchs fans groaned their displeasure. The Miami big man powered past the flat-footed Monarchs. Warrick chased after him. His back muscles tightened with every move. His knees protested at every step. Play through the pain. Just play through it.
Burress dashed past him like a locomotive. Warrick dug deeper to pick up his game. A foot from the basket, Millbank launched himself into the air, reaching for the hoop.
No!
Warrick launched himself beside the Miami Wave forward, straining higher, farther, stronger. Wanting it more. He extended his body. Warrick found the ball above the net with the tips of his fingers. One knuckle deep. He smacked it aside.
Rejected!
Monarchs fans went wild. Shouts of approval bounced off the court and echoed around the arena. Relief sapped his adrenaline. Warrick felt himself falling. He slammed to the ground. White-hot pain exploded in his back, blanking his thoughts and taking his vision. He writhed on the court, gritting his teeth against the agony. His body felt like a human torch. Warrick squeezed his eyes shut.
Hands grabbed at him, trying to keep him still. He wanted to shout, “Don’t touch me!” Instead, he allowed them to calm him and eventually help him from the court.
Minutes later, Warrick sat in a straight-back chair in the lounge outside the Monarchs’ locker room. One of the trainers had taped an ice bag to his waist. His feet were propped on a nearby seat. On the television mounted to the wall, his teammates were giving away game three midway through the fourth quarter.
