Chapter Twelve

TWELVE

At nine o'clock the next morning, a maintenance worker appears in my office to inspect the air vents. Ben must've called them first thing. A strange light feeling bubbles inside me.

An hour later, word arrives: Quincy's injury is a sprain. An ankle sprain is one of the most common injuries in the sport, and so far nobody's asked too many questions about how it happened. Quincy gets a lecture on pushing himself too hard outside official team practices, a sympathetic pat on the back, and he's off to the land of rest and ice and physical therapy for two weeks. He'll miss four games. It could be worse, but four more losses would make it impossible to win the regular-season conference title.

On the bright side, Quincy's spirits improve immediately after the first couple days of respite from the spotlight. He has a concrete, achievable task to focus on: recovery. He has breathing room.

"Tell Mom not to worry. He's handling it well." Mom always had a soft spot for Quincy. I'm on the phone with Kat on Sunday night, padding barefoot into the green room with an insulated tumbler full of Cassie's favorite bedtime tea. A pink glow fills the space, thanks to the strawberry-shaped string lights I hung from the ceiling.

"You must be relieved it didn't blow up in your face."

"Well, yeah. I was pretty nervous at first. I'd have been fine lying, I'm a good liar. My accomplice was the bigger concern."

"You don't think he's going to have a crisis of conscience and come clean, do you?"

The morning after, Ben did look a little pale when Coach Williams stopped by to talk about what happened, but he managed to keep it together. "I don't see why he would. We're in the clear. And it's obvious we did the right thing."

"Obvious to you. You better make sure it's obvious to him. What if he confesses to the team chaplain? ‘Bless me, Father, for I have sinned'? Which one is it, bearing false witness against your neighbor?"

I set my tumbler on the floor and light a candle, which perfumes the air with citrus and jasmine. "I don't think he's that Catholic. And the priest isn't allowed to tell anyway."

"I don't remember the rules. I haven't gone to confession since grammar school."

There's only one seating option in the room, a monstrous, sagging purple beanbag chair. When I moved, I snagged it from my parents' basement, where Kat and I hung out with our friends in high school. Part of my virginity is somewhere in this chair, deep in the mountain of beans, never to be found. It's so big it's unsafe to sit in without someone else present to haul you out. I flop onto it anyway.

"Neither have I. In fifth grade I told Father John I used curse words, and he said God was going to cut my tongue off if I didn't stop. After that, I told Mom I was never going again. I still think of him sometimes when I use the word ‘fuck.'?"

Kat laughs. A seed of worry plants itself inside me, and I can't shake it. Ben seems sincere in his concern for Quincy. He has no reason not to stick to the plan unless he wants to screw me over, which I don't think he does anymore.

But maybe I'm thinking too much like myself. At heart, Ben is a rule follower. Under stress, isn't he always going to revert to that behavior? At the same time, my biggest takeaway from that night was that a lot of my assumptions about him are wrong.

"Oh, two things before I forget," Kat says. "One, Mom wants you to help her figure out how to do her family tree on that ancestry website."

I groan. If my remorseless abuse of obscenities lands me a spot in hell, I'm going to be assigned to whichever circle involves an eternity of teaching my mother how to use a computer.

"Don't complain," Kat chides me. "You're lucky you weren't around for Sunday dinner. She made me take the Myers-Briggs test with her. It was ninety-three questions."

"Okay, fine, I'll text her when we hang up. Next item?"

"You know my friend Noah? He and his boyfriend are getting married in November, and they want to know if you'll do the video."

"Oh." I loosen the lid on my tumbler, then tighten it again. Sometimes I do wedding videos for extra cash, a few times a year. But November is too far away. From now until March the calendar is all blue dots on game days, and it doesn't go beyond that. Plus, I may not even be around next fall, especially with Quincy on the bench. "Well, I have to see. It's early."

"To book wedding stuff? It's less than a year away. That's not early."

"I don't know my schedule for the fall yet. If they want something set in stone now I can recommend a couple people who do it full time."

"Okay, thanks. You probably won't be able to do it anyway, since Ardwyn has a lot of Saturday games." Kat tries to sneak the last part in, her tone casual.

"Very cute."

"What?" Kat feigns innocence. "Are they switching to Fridays next season?"

"I can't take on any wedding jobs when I don't know where I'm going to be after this spring."

"I know exactly where you're going to be. The same place you are now."

I look at Mona Lisa Vito for help. Maybe it's the way the light flickers when the ceiling fan spins, but I could swear she shrugs. "Do you know if Father John is still around? I'd like to find out how many Hail Marys I have to say to arrange for God to cut your tongue off."

The next morning, I get to work early and wait for Ben. I give him enough time to get his coffee and read through his emails before sending him a message.

Annie: how are you doing?

His response takes a few minutes. Ben is typing… it reads, and across the hall I hear the clacking of keys, ninety words a minute, a stream of consciousness. Then it stops, and starts again, and stops. He must be writing a novel.

But no. Instead, I get:

Ben: Fine

I sigh.

Annie: you sure?

More typing, vigorous tapping at the keys, like the sound of Riverdance. Then silence.

Ben: Yes

I shift in my seat. Ugh. This is dire.

Annie:…okay good talk!

I exit the chat window and check the scores of last night's games. By the time I'm done, he's messaged me again.

Ben: Completely unrelated but did Cassie ever tell you about the case where she spent two months reviewing employee chat records exactly like this one, looking for evidence and weeding out all the conversations about office romances/personal drama/evil bosses? So strange to think about how it feels like a private conversation but it's not at all.

Paranoid much? Not a strong sign that he's coping well. Lying doesn't come naturally to him. In a way this is my fault, so I have to indulge him.

Annie: ah gotcha

Annie: and yes, I am her best friend thus I know all her interesting anecdotes. if I recall correctly some of the office romance talk was pretty spicy

Ben: Anyway, maybe we should walk home from the Beach House party tonight and catch up?

Annie: WOW sounds like something somebody in an office romance would say

Annie: I accept your invitation (note to lawyers: PLATONICALLY). I swear this is the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, amen

Ben: Sorry to disappoint with the lack of spice. Please resume searching for crimes.

He hasn't assuaged my concerns, but I'm smiling anyway.

The episode starts with a dance contest, with the winner determined by heart rate monitors. Whichever contestant gets the others' blood pumping fastest earns a couples massage. It ends with Felicia abandoning Cole in the rainforest after he calls her annoying during a scavenger hunt. I definitely lose some brain cells watching, but it's worth it.

When it's time to go, I put on my new coat, an oversized parka with insulated pockets and a giant hood that cinches tight with long drawstrings. Yesterday's snow melted this afternoon and is starting to refreeze. An ice-and-salt crust sits on the sidewalk like patches of bread crumbs, so I've also resorted to a pair of practical waterproof boots.

"Those are nice!" Eric says as he watches me tug them on. "Where'd you get them? Do they make them in men's?"

Now I need to burn them, but I can't do it yet. I need to walk home with Ben first.

"So," I begin as we set off. The piles of plowed snow lining the road are already turning gray. The first house after Cassie and Eric's condo building has a lopsided snowman in the yard, one stick arm jutting upward as if to wave at us. Ben too is wearing boots this time, instead of fussy sneakers. And he doesn't have Sasha today.

"So," he repeats.

"Are you cracking under the weight of our deception?"

He breathes out a puff of laughter and it hangs in the air like a cloud. "No, I'm good. Are you?"

"I'm fine. You don't go to confession, do you?"

He squints down at me. "Like, at church? No. Why?"

"No reason, just wondering. What other kind of confession is there?"

"I don't know, the way you said it made me think you were talking about a workout class or something."

I snort. "A workout class called Confession? What the hell are you talking about?"

"I don't know! Sometimes I see you leaving the classes at the gym. They always have new ones, I can't keep track."

I hold up my fists in a fighting stance. "I do boxing classes. It helps with my inner rage."

He cocks his head skeptically. "Does it?"

I pretend to hit him with a jab. Confession, the Workout. Hm. Groups of people lunging to the beat of techno hymns, repeating chants about sin and forgiveness. "I think you've stumbled upon something genius. We're going to be so rich."

We both smile. It's silent and still out here. Usually there's at least one person walking a dog in this neighborhood, but not tonight. Somebody in one of the old stone houses on this block has a fire going, and the air smells like wood-smoke.

"So I don't have to worry about you telling everybody the truth, then?" I ask.

His face grows sober. "I wouldn't do that to Quincy, or to you. We made our decision. And I think it was the right one. He seems like he's handling things well."

"I think so too," I say. "I'm hoping it's like hitting the reset button. I want to see him come back strong."

"If he's at the top of his game, we can hang with any team in the country."

We turn the corner onto an even quieter side street, narrow and poorly lit, the sidewalks only half cleared of snow. I dodge an icy spot by stepping onto the frozen grass. "Why are we walking when you don't even have Sasha?"

"Didn't you say you like to walk in this weather?"

"Right." Is that what I said that first week? I remember fumbling for an excuse but not coming up with such a terrible one. Nobody likes to walk in this weather. "Where is Sasha, anyway?"

Somehow he looks steady, picking his way through the slippery spots with ease as I struggle. He glances at me. "This sidewalk is a mess. I think it'll get better when we get to the corner. Do you need help?"

I'm walking like a penguin, taking short steps with my arms out for balance. "I got it, thanks."

"Sasha's my mom's dog, not mine. She has horrible separation anxiety when she's alone. She howls and chews on her paw until it bleeds." He pauses, waiting for me to catch up. "My mom works nights, and my sister is usually home, but gymnastics sometimes runs late on Mondays. She loves that dog. I don't want her to worry while she's at her workouts."

"That's very—" A layer of black ice materializes under my feet, and my treads find nothing to grip. My leg slides out from underneath me and my body jerks forward. I reach out, and one hand hits the cold, rough sidewalk, but Ben catches me around the waist before the rest of my body crashes into the ground and hoists me back to my feet.

"—on-brand for you," I finish. "Thanks."

He doesn't let go right away. "You okay?" he asks first. The words brush my temple, his face close to mine. My balance isn't coming back to me yet, so I sway toward him.

"I'm fine," I say faintly. "Oh. I'm bleeding."

The hand I used to break my fall is wet and stinging. I squint at it in the dark.

"Let me see." He cradles my hand in his and uses his phone to get a better look. It's not that bad. The source of the blood is an inch-long shallow scrape, but most of the wetness is melted ice from where I touched the ground. He traces a path alongside the scrape with his thumb and I shiver.

Human contact. It's been a while. First his hands on me when we fought over his phone, and now this. My body has completely forgotten how to keep its cool.

"Will I live?" I joke in a scratchy voice.

"We should clean it," he says.

"Do you have a Band-Aid?"

He's still holding my hand. "A Band-Aid?" he repeats. "Do I seem like someone who carries around a first aid kit?"

"Kind of!" I say. "It's not a weird question. I asked for a Band-Aid, not a condom."

"A condom ?" He drops my hand.

"I need Taylor," I continue, sighing. "She'd have both."

"Dare I ask what the condom is for?"

"Well, Callahan, when two people love each other very much…"

"You can't be nice to me for five minutes after I stop you from falling on your face?"

"I can't hear you," I say, pretending to sway unsteadily. "Everything's fuzzy. I think I'm bleeding out. You'll have to go on without me."

"Okay," he says. "Bye."

I walked right into that one.

He's right about the sidewalks being clearer on the main road. Thanks to the weather, the bars are dead. Most of them have closed early, stools stacked upside down on the bar tops, barely visible as shadowy outlines in the dim lighting.

"You said your mom works nights, right?" I ask. "What does she do?"

"She's a nurse," Ben says. "She went back and got her degree a few years ago."

"That's great," I say. There's no mention of a dad. There never has been, has there? He's not in any of the photos in Ben's office, and I can't remember ever seeing him at a game with the rest of his family.

"Before that she was all over the place, jobwise," Ben adds. "Mainly waiting tables."

Oof. Ben and his sister were raised on restaurant tips, likely by a single mom, and last week I asked him to jeopardize the one stable job he's had in his whole life like it was nothing. After months of trying to make sure he gets laid off instead of me. While his sister's gymnastics scholarship hangs in the balance. The reminder of my misconceptions plucks some internal guitar string inside me, and embarrassment reverberates throughout my body.

"I've been meaning to talk to you about something else," he says in a tentative voice. We're between streetlights, so his face is all shadows. "I spoke to Phil Coleman."

I wince. "Let's not do this." We've been doing so well. Cooperating, being friendly. It's all I need from him to get through the rest of this year until our fates are decided. I don't need to convert Ben. He can go on believing what he wants about Coach Maynard; it doesn't matter. We don't have to talk about it, not if it's going to ruin this. It's better if we don't.

"No, I need to. Phil told me Coach used to tell him that the longer he sat out, the more likely it was that someone else would take his spot in the lineup. That athletes need to push themselves and sometimes that means playing through pain. That he was letting everyone else down by focusing on himself instead of the team. He thinks he pressured the doctor to clear him early."

I focus on the cracks in the sidewalk and wonder how many I can step over while maintaining my normal stride. "It was awful." One. Two. Three.

"You were right, and I'm sorry I didn't believe you. I can't stop thinking about it, honestly. It's so different from the way I remembered it, and it scares me a little, that my perception was so wrong."

Three cracks seem to be the maximum. "He has a way of showing different sides of himself to different people based on what he needs. It's one reason he's so good at his job."

"I know we don't see eye to eye on Coach, so I don't want to dwell on this. But I've always had the utmost respect for him. He gave me so much, and I've always wanted to be like him. To be able to lead a team, to support kids who need it, the way he did for me. But it makes me sick, what happened to Phil. I don't know what to do."

I stop counting and look at his face. It's gentle, contrite, vulnerable, anxious. But I don't know what that last part means. There's nothing he can do about it now. He can't go back in time and fix Phil's Achilles.

We pass a house that still has its Christmas decorations up, red and green lights flashing in a neat row of evergreen bushes. "Don't try to be like him. You're better than that." I need to leave it there, because this conversation is fragile, capable of disintegrating with the slightest clumsy touch. "Why are you still at Ardwyn, anyway? You want to coach."

"I've always wanted to coach," he says, with a sad smile. "I didn't realize it would take so long."

"There are schools other than Ardwyn, you know. I know we were brainwashed to think otherwise. But I'm sure you can get a coaching job somewhere. I think you'd be great at it."

"Wow, that's two nice things you've said to me in the last ten minutes."

I poke him in the shoulder. "Don't expect a third."

We wait for the light to change. His nose is pink from the cold. His hair is so much better like this, messy.

"I probably will leave eventually. When the right position opens up. My plan has always been to stay until my sister graduates, so I can look out for her while she's here. Go to her meets when they don't conflict with our games. Assuming there is a gymnastics program next year, of course. When I leave, I'm sure I'll have to leave Philly, and I won't be able to do any of that from a distance."

"But that's four more years, and you've already outgrown your job," I protest.

He shakes his head. "It has to be the right time," he says firmly. "Can I ask what brought you back here?"

I purse my lips. "I heard from somebody else on the bandwagon that the team was supposed to be good this year," I deadpan.

He nudges me with an elbow. "Really, though."

"Turns out when you develop a pattern of bouncing around every eighteen months, potential employers question whether you're worth the investment," I say. "Eric helped me out. If I can't make this work for a few years, I don't know if I'll ever get hired anywhere again."

I can feel him looking at me, and I don't know what he sees. His competition. My desperation.

My apartment building comes into view. The strawberry string lights are twinkling in the green room.

"I still don't understand why you left basketball—"

"Speaking of jumping on the bandwagon," I cut him off, opening my bag and picking through it to find my keys, "I saw your bracket tonight. I didn't realize you hopped on the Brianne train. I'm going to take full credit for that."

He laughs. "Nope. She's been a beast in the challenges so far. And she has a lot of chemistry with Logan. Did you notice they have the whole witty banter thing going?"

I want to make fun of him, but it wouldn't be fair because yes, I did notice. "She makes him seem slightly less boring."

"He's not like that with anyone else. That's why I'm picking her."

"Okay, we can go with that answer."

"It's the truth!"

We stop at the short brick walkway leading to my front steps. "We better quit while we're ahead. Congratulations to us. We made it through an entire conversation without arguing." I raise my hand for a high five.

He obliges. But then he surprises me by tugging on my hand and pulling me in for a hug. Two people hugging with our heavy winter coats between us is a bit pointless, since it feels more like wrestling a down comforter into the duvet cover than an actual human embrace. But for a moment my face settles in the warm crook of his neck and he cups the back of my head with his hand—and, god help me, I'm starved for affection, because I think about it all the way up the stairs.