Chapter Thirteen

THIRTEEN

We lose to Blake. There's still a long way to go, but I can't help but worry about the bar for saving the athletic department— a national championship —and after the way we played today, it feels impossible to reach. After the game, I find an empty seat on the bus and slouch against the window, staring up at the concrete fa?ade of the unfamiliar arena. My phone buzzes with texts from Taylor and Jess back at home, brainstorming for content now that we don't have anything celebratory to post.

Taylor: what else do we have?

Taylor: wtf. there aren't even any alumni birthdays this week! I checked all the rosters going back thirty years

Taylor: cute baby dancing in Ardwyn gear?

Jess: no

Taylor: favorite team sneaker post w/ a poll??

Jess: no

Taylor: history of the soft pretzel????

Jess: hmm, maybe

I put my phone away. While the bus idles, waiting for the team to come out, one of the student managers walks down the aisle passing out sandwiches wrapped in wax paper for the ride to the Indianapolis airport. The clunky mechanics of the door sound as it opens, and Ben jogs up the steps, weaving through the people standing in the aisle, looking for a seat. His suit jacket is off, his shirt rumpled, and his tie loose. He slides in next to me and grabs a sandwich from the box in one motion.

He's never sat next to me on the bus before. " Friends! " I want to shout, with jazz hands. It's a universal fact that regardless of age, everyone reverts to middle school behavior on a group bus ride. The players always elbow each other out of the way to claim the last row, and Coach Thomas and Coach Williams once bickered about rights to the window seat all the way down the Blue Route.

Ben is holding a bag of chips. "Where did you get those?" I ask. I lean over him to pick a sandwich, bracing myself on his shoulder.

"You have to know the right people."

I sit back and put the sandwich on my lap. "I know you, does that count?"

He opens the bag and turns it toward me. "Only one?" I ask. Grumbling something indecipherable, he hands me the bag and leans into the aisle.

"Psst, Verona." He snaps his fingers. Another bag flies toward him from a few rows ahead and he catches it with one hand.

"Never would've pegged him as your dealer," I say, crunching on a chip. "That fleece vest helps him slide under the radar."

My phone buzzes again in my bag, and I sigh. It's time to put Taylor out of her misery. An idea is brewing in my head. Fragments for now. That's how it always starts, with one image, or a specific line from a song. This time it's a voice.

We've been going to ridiculous lengths on social media to distract from our inability to win a game, and it's never going to work. I've tried getting people to watch my videos despite the fact that we're losing. It's time to try getting them to watch because we're losing.

Dad was never afraid of losing during the regular season. When his most-hyped team ever fell in double overtime, ending a fifteen-game winning streak, he said, "Eh. They needed it. They'll come to practice hungry tomorrow."

I turn to Ben. "Callahan, do you know Keith Wesley?" Keith Wesley played for Ardwyn in the eighties. His Wikipedia article is three paragraphs long and talks mainly about one thing: the infamous free throw he missed that lost the team a double-overtime tournament heartbreaker in a year they were supposed to win everything. I hadn't yet been born when it happened, but repeated YouTube views have stamped it in my brain. The shot went up, and the ball took one full rotation around the entire rim, hung still for a moment, and fell the wrong way to the floor.

Ben is unwrapping his sandwich. He pauses. "Believe it or not, he does our alumni community service event every year. Why do you ask?"

"He's still involved with the program? That's even better. I want to talk to him about doing a voice-over this week."

"I have so many questions, I don't even know where to start." His knees nudge my thigh as he turns to face me, his mouth tilting into a curious smile. His shirtsleeves are rolled up. Does he normally wear his sleeves rolled up? My proximity to him is forcing me to pay attention to his forearms. They're nicely toned, thanks to years of dribbling basketballs and opening jars for little old ladies, probably.

It feels like a private place, the bus's leather seat for two. Long and narrow and walled in by the tall back of the row ahead, drawing us closer, making me forget we're not alone. It's having a strange effect on me, warming my face and weighing down my blood, forcing my heart to beat harder. What the hell? This must be why Mom always insisted on driving me to and from school when I was a teenager. Dangerous things could happen here.

But I can't dwell on this, and Ben doesn't have time to ask any of his questions. A funereal hush overtakes the bus, which can only mean that the team has arrived.

"Look," I say, pointing out the window.

Ben leans over, his shoulder pressing into mine, his breath skating over my ear as he laughs a little. "Not what I was expecting."

They're walking out of the building together, athletes first, coaches behind them. Usually after a loss they're subdued, wearing their headphones like a shield and not making eye contact with anyone, hence the respectful silence from everyone else. Not today, though. Their heads are up. Anthony Gallimore is singing to himself and no one is complaining about it. A couple of the guys are dancing along. Even Luis Rosario is bopping his head, and he's typically as stoic as they come.

Ben hasn't moved, and I'm hyperaware of every place our bodies are touching. My breathing is too shallow. He's close enough to notice, if he's paying attention. That would be humiliating.

Intimacy is a basic human need for most people, and the last time I touched a man was the night of Cassie's bachelorette party last summer, when I shared one lackluster dirty dance with a stranger. Sex? I still had bangs when my most recent relationship petered out, nine months and three haircuts ago.

Ben is not inspiring this reaction. Being close to any reasonably attractive man would do it. Lufton isn't terrible-looking, so he could probably get my pulse racing right now.

Okay, definitely not. But only because that's a bad example.

The players board the bus single file. "What do you think that's about?" I ask, turning to look at Ben.

He's closer than I realized, even. His lips are parted slightly. "I don't know," he says in a quiet, hypnotizing voice.

Eric sits down in front of me, snapping me out of my daze. I lean forward and tap him on the shoulder. "Why are they all in good moods?" I whisper.

He tilts his head to whisper back. "I'm not sure. JGE kicked all the coaches out of the locker room before they came out. The players were in there for twenty minutes. I'm guessing he gave them a pep talk."

Jamar Gregg-Edwards plays a background role on the court, but he's not striving for a career in professional basketball. He might be the smartest person I've ever met. Engineering major, president of the Black Student Union. Next year he's off to England for a prestigious fellowship to study water treatment. He's this team's rock.

When we get back to campus, I set up a meeting with Keith Wesley for later in the week. He's gracious and open and spends an hour in front of the camera, talking about adversity and self-doubt and his baby granddaughter.

I begin the video with a soundbite from a twentieth-century philosopher, because nothing sends the message that something serious is coming quite like the authoritative voice of an old British man. "There is no chemical element on this planet as sturdy as the mettle of mankind," he says, over the clip of Keith Wesley's missed shot.

Then I show Keith Wesley now, grayer and softer, thumbing through yellowed newspaper clippings, running his hands over old trophies, and studying the "Ardwyn Basketball: 1987 Sweet Sixteen" banner hanging in the arena lobby.

"I failed in the most significant moment of my basketball career," he says. "We lost the biggest game I'd ever played in. Do I wish we won? Of course. I'm an athlete. But I learned a lot from that game, and I'm grateful for that. I learned how supportive my teammates and friends and family were. I learned that life went on, and so did basketball, and so could I."

I try to get Quincy to tell me about JGE's speech in the locker room, hoping to work some of the themes into the video, but despite my wheedling, he refuses to say a word. No one knows what he said, and the players seem to have sworn themselves to secrecy. Regardless, whatever JGE said, it works. We win the next three games, even without Quincy playing. And then we win the next four after he returns.

The fans can feel the momentum shift. It's obvious in the sellout crowds, in the comment section, in the follower counts. My video about losing gets more views than anything I've ever made. I wake up the morning after it's posted to a text from Cassie, the earliest of early risers: LEbrON SHARED YOUR VIDEO!!!

"What do we do, after?" Keith Wesley says as the video ends on a shot of the players walking into the practice gym for an early workout while the sun rises over the building. "We show up."

"Let's run Tiger and then we're done," Coach Thomas calls out at practice, hands cupped around his mouth.

Gallimore swings around to look at him. "Already?"

"We're wrapping up early today. Everyone needs a break." What he means is: It's Valentine's Day. And on this one night, everyone with a partner needs to shower that person with love, affection, and assistance with household chores to compensate for the fact that they'll be almost completely absent for the next four to seven weeks until the season is over.

Before I head back upstairs, Coach Williams flags me down.

"My son showed me Instagram last night," he says, the unpracticed syllables of the word Instagram coming out of his mouth stilted, his dark eyes boring into me. "He said Jalen Austin left a comment on one of our videos." Jalen Austin is a junior in high school, one of the top shooting guard prospects in the country.

I saw the comment too. "Beast mode, fire emoji," I say, the corners of my mouth twitching as I fight to keep a straight face.

"Beast mode, fire emoji," he repeats, with gravity. He nods, I nod back. It's the closest he's ever going to get to saying he was wrong about me. I won. Pride bursts inside me like a champagne spray. I don't need his approval, but it still feels good.

Back in the office, the sounds of everything shutting down start before it's even dark outside: the chorus of goodbyes, the flick of light switches, the loud metallic click of the stairwell door.

Donna pauses in the hallway on her way out, hand on hip. "Plans tonight, Ben?"

"Nah," Ben says. "Plenty to do here."

"I'm not saying you need a girlfriend, but at minimum you need a life."

I laugh to myself, and Donna whirls around. "I assume you have something exciting going on this evening?"

"I do."

"Really?" She sounds skeptical.

"My dad's old assistants are in town to see a big high school game. We're meeting for dinner after." I've been checking the clock, leg bouncing with anticipation. Paul and Big Ed are like uncles to me. When they told me they'd be in the area, I jumped at the chance to see them. The game should be over around the time I finish work for the night, so they're going to pick me up straight from campus.

Donna taps a long nail on her chin. "Cute, but that doesn't count."

I could swear I hear Ben snort from across the hall.

There's something about this place that makes it impossible for me to keep my distance. I've had more personal conversations here in the last four months than I had at my previous workplaces combined in the last eight years. "Can't you be nice? I'm single on Valentine's Day. Maybe I'm wallowing."

"You? Nah." Whatever that's supposed to mean, it doesn't sound good. She jerks her head toward Ben's office. "Him, though? Maybe."

"Ouch," Ben says. He sounds more entertained than offended, but there's a kernel of truth in Donna's analysis. Ben is sincere, responsible, clean. He was made to be somebody's boyfriend.

Four hours pass at an excruciatingly slow pace, the ounces on my water bottle dropping away like the tide going out. At nine o'clock, I check the score for the thirtieth time. The game is going into triple overtime, and it's time to accept that Paul and Big Ed are bailing. On the bright side, I am fully hydrated.

Rain check , Paul texts a few minutes after I see the score. Getting late. Have to see the end of this one.

And, yeah, it's triple overtime. It would be unreasonable to expect them to leave before the end. They're like Dad, and it would've been physically impossible for anyone to drag him out of his seat to make an early exit from a game like this one.

It would've been nice, that's all. Dad, Paul, and Big Ed used to go to this frozen-in-1974 Italian restaurant near the high school after every home game to debrief over bar pies. As a kid I always begged to tag along, and Dad let me. We'd stay out way past my bedtime, and they'd strategize and reminisce about the old days, and I'd soak it all in while mainlining Shirley Temples. Sometimes I'd fall asleep on the faux leather cushion of the booth and Dad would have to carry me to the car.

They'll make up for tonight some other time, so it doesn't make sense that I've got a lump in my throat that I'm trying to swallow, or a knuckle pressed up against the outer corner of each eye. I was looking forward to spending time with them, that's all. And I'm exhausted. I'll get over it by tomorrow.

What I wouldn't be able to get over is letting Ben see me cry in the office on Valentine's Day. If I pack up my stuff quietly enough and take the stairs, I can slip out without saying good night.

When he appears in the doorway, I have one arm in a camel wool coat, my tote slung in the crook of my other elbow. "Hey," he says in a gentle voice. He looks at my jacket and then my face. I busy myself with my bag, digging around the bottom so my head is nearly inside it.

"You heading out too?" My voice is overly chipper, but I've been caught. I'm sure my eyes are puffy, my cheeks blotchy. There's no hiding.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and rocks back on his heels, studying me carefully. "I saw people talking about the game online. Sounds epic."

"Yeah, I told the guys not to worry about dinner. It's too good to miss."

Peeking up from the jumble of lip balm tubes and loose change, I see him nod slowly, working his jaw back and forth. Uh-oh. I thought he was letting me off the hook, but the longer he stands there the more likely it is he's going to try to say something nice—

"Come on. Let's go out to dinner."

I withdraw my face from my bag. "Like, me and you? Together?"

My mind flashes to the night Quincy hurt his ankle, to Ben's hand on my hip when we fought over his phone. Goddamn. That memory invades my thoughts at the most inconvenient times. Despite the completely nonsexual context, my legs go liquid when I think about it, which is too often. I could sketch the exact position of his palm and each fingertip from memory. His grip was steady. Decisive. Purposeful.

If I dwell on it too much, I short-circuit.

He rolls his eyes. "Yes, me and you. We both need to eat. It won't be that different from every other night. We'll just be sitting in the same room for once."

That's true. Recently, he's started poking his head in to ask if I want anything when he orders food. We eat at our own desks and talk about basketball from across the hall.

But this feels different. It's not about convenience, or passing the time while taking a break. This is intentional. I should probably decline, because my body and mind will end up more confused than they already are.

Except I want to go. The idea of retreating to my apartment is too depressing to contemplate, and being around Ben is easy. He's good company.

I'll build a fortress of sarcasm to protect myself, like I always do. It'll be fine.

"You want to have dinner with me tonight ?" I ask.

"Don't overthink it," he grumbles.

I clasp my hands to my chest and bite my lip. "On Valentine's Day?"

He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. He went to the gym and showered earlier in the evening, so it's his post-work mass of chaos. "I mean, technically, yes, I guess that's what I'm proposing."

I step toward him, offering my best Disney princess smile. "Wait, now you're proposing? This is moving a little fast, but I'll be honest, it just depends on the ring." I wiggle my left hand in front of his face.

"You know what, I changed my mind. I think I'd rather eat a frozen burrito in my office and spend the rest of the night trying to convince my Facebook friends from middle school that vaccines are safe."

He grabs the hand I'm waving in his face and squeezes once before batting it away. Probably a pity squeeze, but a warm one all the same. A long-dormant, hungry ache rises in my chest, like something buoyant I've been holding underwater, fighting to reach the surface. Down, girl, I order.

I turn off the light and give him one extremely nonchalant pat on the chest. "Too late, technical Valentine. Let's go."