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Barron strode into the lounge in his bronze suit. The diamond studs in his ears winked at Warrick. “You’re good?”
“I’m good.”
They both ignored his lie and focused on the Monarchs’ desperate struggle to prevent a game three slaughter.
Barron broke the awkward silence after a few possessions. “There’s a lot of pressure out there.”
“It’s the play-offs.” Just tell me I played like shit, then leave me alone.
“I couldn’t handle the pressure.” Pain and disappointment thickened the other man’s voice.
Warrick shifted his gaze from the television to the back of Barron’s head. His thick cornrows were shorter now. “You’ll be back next season.”
Barron turned to him with a chuckle. “You were always my wingman, on and off the court.” He sobered. “There’s a lot of pressure out there, bro. The other guys, they’re icing you out. I can see it. But that shit doesn’t matter.” He jerked his head toward the televised game. “You’re just as good as the rest of those fools and better than most. Take that to the bank.”
Warrick watched his captain leave. Barron’s words had done more to heal his back than the trainer’s ice pack and massage.
Warrick’s heart contracted at the familiar scene. Across the room, Marilyn had fallen asleep on the sofa. Her slender body half sat, half lay on the dark brown cushions. Warrick smiled, imaging she hadn’t fallen into sleep willingly.
He crept farther into the family room and gazed down on her, careful not to disturb her. The corner lamp cast highlights on her dark brown hair. The thick tresses fanned out behind her shoulders.
Marilyn’s cheek rested on her folded hands. She’d changed into her hot pink shorty pajamas after she’d returned from the hospital. The outfit bared her well-toned arms and long, shapely legs. Warrick’s smile widened at the sight of toenails painted a glittery purple.
He rescued the universal remote she’d tucked against her stomach and switched off the television and cable box. His brows knitted. Had she caught any of the game after she’d returned from the hospital? She must have. What did she think of how he played tonight? Did his poor numbers and the team’s loss make her think less of him? Were his father and Marlon Burress right?
Warrick carefully returned the remote to the center of the table and checked his silver Movado wristwatch. It was after one in the morning. Marilyn looked so relaxed and peaceful. He didn’t want to wake her. Maybe he could carry her upstairs. He’d had an ice bag around his back for the better part of the fourth quarter. After the game, the trainer had worked his knotted muscles until he’d felt loose again. Maybe he could risk the movement. He wanted to risk it. He needed to hold her in his arms. Warrick stepped closer to the sofa and leaned toward her.
Marilyn’s eyes snapped open. She blinked twice, then stretched, rolling onto her back and raising her arms above her head. “Hi.”
Warrick grinned. “Hi, yourself.”
She gave him a drowsy smile. Her voice was groggy. “Thank you for the Grease CD.”
He touched her cheek. Her skin was soft and warm. “You’re welcome.”
She lowered her arms. “What are you doing?”
Warrick straightened. “I was going to take you upstairs.”
Marilyn suddenly seemed wide awake. She struggled into a sitting position. “You can’t carry me anywhere. You’ve hurt your back.”
She’d seen the game. Warrick tensed. “I could’ve carried you. But, since you’re awake, we can walk up together.”
Marilyn’s chocolate eyes darkened with concern. She searched his features as though trying to read his thoughts. “How are you feeling?”
“My pride hurts more than my back.” Warrick reached beside her to turn off the lamp. The hallway light strained to illuminate the family room. He offered her his hand. Marilyn’s palm felt small and delicate in his hold.
She rose to her feet with his assistance. The care in her dark gaze made his knees shake. “Would you like me to give you a massage?”
Warrick hesitated. After the trainer’s ministrations, he didn’t actually need Marilyn to massage his back.
“That would be great, if you don’t mind?” Warrick loosened his black necktie, pulled it free of his collar, and shoved it into the front right pocket of his gray suit pants.
Marilyn moved past him to lead the way upstairs. “Of course, I don’t mind.”
The thought of Marilyn’s hands on him, her fingers pressing into his muscles, her body close enough to warm his, was almost enough to send his back into spasms. “I’d appreciate it.”
She tossed him a cheeky smile over her left shoulder. “We need to
