Free Keeping Score by Regina Hart Page B

could.
    He cleared his throat. “Hello.”
    “Rick?”
    “Hi, Dad.” Was he wrong to wish he hadn’t answered the phone?
    “Were you sleeping? You should be getting ready for the game.” John Evans’s voice was sharp, his tone disciplinary.
    After this morning’s workout, his body had needed the two-hour rest before tonight’s game. But try explaining that to his father. The older man had cheated him of thirty minutes and criticized the other ninety.
    Warrick sat on the edge of the king-sized bed. “I am getting ready. What can I do for you, Dad?”
    “Napping before the game didn’t help you Thursday night. You looked as though you were sleepwalking. Everyone said your head wasn’t in the game. Marlon Burress made a fool of you.”
    After thirty-four years, Warrick had given up hoping for positive feedback from his father. Nothing he did was ever good enough. “Thursday was a tough loss, but we won Saturday.”
    “Which only goes to show that you’re inconsistent.” His father pounced on a new line of attack. “Your team needs to be able to depend on you. But from game to game, they don’t know which one of you will show up, the sleepwalker or the playmaker.”
    Warrick’s patience was wearing thin. “The series is tied.”
    “That’s why you’ll never be a champion.” John was accusing. “You’re satisfied with the series being tied at one apiece. You had an opportunity to be ahead two to nothing but you blew it.”
    Warrick stood. He didn’t need this. “I have to get ready for tonight’s game.”
    John grunted. “You’ve always chosen to run from the truth rather than admit when you’re wrong.”
    Warrick gritted his teeth to keep from defending himself. It never did any good. “As much as I enjoy our talks, Dad, I have work to do.” He checked the clock on the nightstand. The green liquid crystal display numbers read three thirty-eight. He needed to get to the Empire Arena by five o’clock—three hours prior to the game—for his pregame ritual warm-up and preparation.
    “What did Mary say about your game?”
    Warrick gripped the receiver. Nothing. She hadn’t asked about the loss or the win. What did she think about the first two games? Did she even care anymore? They used to talk about his games and her deliveries. When had that stopped?
    He pulled his attention back to the phone conversation and his father. “She wasn’t as critical as you.”
    “Everyone is talking about your separation. Why did I have to read about it in the paper?”
    Because failure wasn’t a subject one broached with John Evans. Warrick swallowed hard, part regret, all frustration. “I’m sorry.”
    He’d hoped the response would end the conversation. That strategy had worked in the past.
    “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.