War Room Read Online Free Page A

Just ended the conversation like he was slamming the door on an aluminum siding salesman.
    The thing that had kept her from exploding was the sight of Danielle. She had stood there looking at her reportcard. All those As and all she could do was stare at the C. No wonder. Danielle had been nervous about her father’s reaction   —but he didn’t react. He hardly acknowledged her presence, let alone her concern. Why couldn’t he see what he was doing to her? Any person with half a heart could see it.
    Elizabeth smelled something acrid, some disturbance in the cooking force, and looked at the oven. A tuft of smoke belched from the vent and her heart sank. She opened the oven door and pulled out the rolls that were supposed to look all buttery and brown on top but were as black as charcoal. She picked one up with prongs and inspected it.
    “Well, I burned the rolls,” she said, more to herself than anyone else. She tossed the roll in the trash and then threw the whole batch out.
    “It’s okay, Mom.”
    “Yeah, I know,” she said. She dished out the spaghetti and sauce for Danielle, put her salad bowl beside it, and went to the bedroom to talk with Tony.
    “Look, if you’ll just come and eat with us   —”
    “I can’t,” he snapped. “This has wrapped me up all day. As soon as I got the notification . . . I can’t believe we’re going through this again! Of all days!”
    “Of all days?” she said.
    “I made a sale today. A big one. The one I’ve been angling for. I mean, it was the best feeling to seal that deal and shake that guy’s hand. And then I get the news that you’ve   —”
    “Tony, please   —Danielle needs to hear you say it’s okay. That she’s okay.”
    “I’ll talk to her later,” he said. “I’ll tell her that later. And I don’t need you telling me what I have to do. I have a relationship with my daughter, okay? You don’t have to get between us like this.”
    “I’m not getting between you, I’m trying to help you understand!”
    He grabbed his gym bag and stormed out of the room. The door to the garage slammed like thunder. And then she heard the familiar clacking and the sound of Tony’s car pulling away.

    Tony drove fast to the gym and stretched out while waiting for a pickup game   —and then he was off, dribbling and moving the ball up court as fast as he could. He was aggressive, going for the basket each time he touched the ball, driving to find an open lane. When one closed, he’d pull back and look for another. On defense he went for steals, fouled hard, and worked up a good sweat at the expense of his opponents, mostly slower white guys. It felt good to be on the court, to be in a game he could control instead of something he couldn’t.
    They were at game point, going to twenty, of the third matchup when his lifelong friend Michael called for the ball at the corner. The defense shifted slightly and Tony shook his head. Finally he got him the ball and Michaeldribbled near the top of the key and signaled. Tony nodded and followed Michael down the lane.
    It was poetry in motion. Everything slowed as Michael elevated and laid the ball off the glass. Tony jumped, took the ball, and jammed it through the net.
    “Ball game!” Michael shouted.
    Every player on the court and those waiting whooped and yelled at the move. Tony was surrounded by teammates who slapped his back and gave him high fives. His opponents even congratulated him.
    “That was sick,” one said.
    “Let’s run it back again,” someone said behind him.
    “Nah,” Tony said. “I gotta go, man.”
    “Come on, one more game.”
    “We just beat you three times.” Tony glanced at the bleachers and saw two fresh players waiting. “Let these guys play.”
    “All right. Jump in, fellas.”
    Tony sat on the bleachers and wiped his face with a towel. His muscles were loose now and a lot of the stress from home was gone. The five thousand dollars still hung over him and stung his gut, but he