Chapter Twenty-Three

TWENTY-THREE

Sometimes a team comes out flat. Flat means all the hunger vaporizes somewhere between the locker room and the court, and everybody plays like they have cement blocks for feet, glue for brains, and no heart whatsoever. This can happen even when the game is important. Even when the team is good and its opponent is much weaker—maybe especially then.

This is how the Monmouth game starts, our team playing sloppy and listless through an excruciating first half. It's the most delicate thing. It can be over, just like that.

Luckily, it's not. At halftime we find whatever we were missing, and after that we play loose and fiery, building an unassailable lead that holds firm through the final buzzer. In the second round we'll play Indiana.

I stay up late Thursday night working on the hype video, until my body tells me to stop with a tension headache like a thumbprint burrowing between my eyebrows straight into my skull. Ben stays up even later. He studies film until it's so late I don't remember him slipping into bed next to me, just find him curled around me the next morning.

The pundits are hyped for the matchup, because Ardwyn and Indiana both experienced championship glory decades ago, grew accustomed to the lifestyle, and have won a big fat nothing ever since. The parallels have people salivating. But the buildup promptly deflates, because we run right over the Hoosiers.

It's an early game and the flight back to Philly takes only ninety minutes, so we're home in time for dinner. I go to my apartment to do laundry and pick up clean clothes before heading to Ben's. When I check the scores, I see that Arizona Tech has moved on to the Sweet Sixteen too.

Taylor calls to talk about the voice-over for next week's hype video. Lately celebrities have been reaching out to us to ask for the gig instead of the other way around, and it's way better than making lists of people to beg. Last week we had Pink, a Bucks County native. For the next game, we've locked down the Phillies' star first baseman.

During the dryer cycle, I wait in the laundry room and text Kat about the games, the videos, the flight. And the nights in the hotel, within reason.

Annie: and on top of all that…he told me he LIKES me

Kat: No fucking way. You and Rold Gold are hooking up and spending every night together and baring your souls, and you're trying to tell me he likes you? Sounds like a bit of a stretch

Annie: hate you

Annie: anyway I made him agree not to discuss such unseemly matters as "feelings" and "the relationship" until the season is over. no point in getting attached if this is just march madness-induced infatuation

Kat: So you're going to *continue* hooking up and spending every night together and baring your souls but since you're not talking about it, you won't get attached?

Kat: That sounds like a thing that's going to work. For sure

Kat: In other news, the day has finally come, batten down the hatches: mom bought a book about enneagram types

Practice is light on Monday. I sit in the second row with Taylor and Jess, my feet propped up on the chair in front of me. The players are warmed up and waiting for Coach Thomas. Unfortunately, he's at the other end of the court, deep in conversation with Ted Horvath. Every once in a while he tries to retreat, only to get sucked back in for another round of semi-relevant chatter and hearty laughs.

Quincy stands near half-court, lunging sideways to stretch his inner thighs. "That Horvath dude is always smiling."

"It's creepy," Andreatti says.

Gallimore pops up from the floor, where he was halfheartedly touching his toes. He looks from side to side like an overexcited long-necked bird. "Hey, what three words do you think you could say to him that would wipe the smile off his face the fastest?"

A wave of muffled laughter ripples over the court.

"?‘Season-ending surgery,'?" one of the sophomores offers.

"Not if it was your surgery," says Gallimore. "I bet he doesn't even know your name."

A chorus of ohs rings out. "How about this one?" Quincy says, snickering to himself. "?‘Country club closed.'?"

Gallimore grins. "Now where'll he get his lobster rolls?"

"?‘Notice of allegations,'?" Lufton offers from the sidelines.

"I'd be shitting my pants too if the NCAA came knocking."

Jess mimics the quavery voice of Ted's assistant. "?‘Lily Sachdev called.'?"

Quincy claps three times, delighted. "We've got the Instagram crew joining in!"

"Please do not ever joke about Lily Sachdev," Taylor says, shuddering.

"Who's Lily Sachdev?" Andreatti asks.

"A journalist who writes about sleazeballs in sports," Taylor says. "Team owners groping cheerleaders and stuff. And she did that one NFL concussion story, about the cover-up. If I ever see your name in a Lily Sachdev story, Andreatti, I will hunt you down."

Andreatti looks terrified. Of Taylor, not of Lily Sachdev.

Then strong-and-silent Rosario clears his throat. Heads turn. "?‘Taking a knee,'?" he says solemnly, the first words I've ever heard him utter. I'm astonished. He talks like a baritone saxophone. He was born to narrate a hype video. Everyone knows, intuitively, not to make a big deal of his speaking, in case it discourages him from ever repeating the behavior.

Quincy nods coolly, like it's normal for Rosario to participate. "That's a good one, man." Then people toss out their own answers all at once.

"?‘Amtrak quiet car.'?"

"?‘Low ticket sales.'?"

"?‘Can't talk, busy.'?"

JGE shakes his head. "You guys need to think bigger." He holds up his hand and lifts one finger with each word. "?‘Protected. Concerted. Activity.'?"

I snort, then quickly google the phrase, because I only have the faintest idea of what he's talking about. Something smart. About…unionization?

Gallimore blinks. "I'll be honest, I have no idea what the hell that means, but thanks for playing."

Quincy turns to JGE for an explanation. "Protected concerted activity?" he repeats.

He says it loud enough that Ted stops talking to Thomas mid-sentence and gives them a deer-in-headlights look, and everyone dissolves into laughter again.

On Monday night, Ben roasts a chicken. It's a ridiculous thing to do since we're both exhausted, but he swears he's dying for a home-cooked meal and wants to go all out. It's been nearly a week of hotel food and takeout, and after we head to Atlanta tomorrow morning it'll be more of the same. With the chicken he makes potatoes with rosemary and honey-glazed carrots, and while he cooks, I nurse a glass of wine. It's all so domestic that if I'm not careful with the wine, I'm going to wake up tomorrow with a Dyson vacuum and a butter dish that says butter on the side in a whimsical font.

We sit at the table. It's late March now, and the sun is just starting to sink below the horizon. The sky out the window is blazing like a bonfire with streaks of orange and yellow, and the light turns Ben's skin golden. He's wearing a worn-in gray T-shirt and his feet are bare. When he scratches the side of his neck below his ear, my eyes follow his fingertips. I know what the skin there feels like against my mouth. And if it's not fresh enough in my memory, I'll have the opportunity to re-educate myself later.

"You're smiling," he notes.

I wipe my mouth with a napkin. "Because this is delicious. I wouldn't even have known where to start with a whole freaking chicken."

"I can follow a recipe, that's all." His forehead wrinkles. "But I thought you were into cooking. The lasagna?"

When did he—oh, that night Cassie and I made it for the Beach House party. I set down the napkin and cover his hand with mine. "Good news and bad news about that," I say, squeezing. "Bad news first. Lasagna is the only good thing I make, so if you're only hanging out with me for the food, you're going to be extremely disappointed."

He signals to an imaginary server. "Check, please."

"Don't you want to hear the good news first?" I ask, leaning forward. "That was emergency lasagna. We made it last minute. The real thing is a hundred times better. And it takes, like, eight fucking hours."

"And how might one get the opportunity to try the real thing? To confirm that it is, in fact, better than the emergency lasagna."

I pick up my utensils. "Unfortunately for you, I only make it when I'm super stressed or upset about something. On a related note"—I pause to sever a carrot—"I made it a lot during the first half of this season. This guy at work was being extremely unpleasant. Big-time lasagna material."

"I'm sorry to hear that. Sounds like a jerk. But, um, since you made so much of it, did you happen to freeze any?"

I chuck a sliver of potato at him.

While I clean up in the kitchen, Ben cracks open his laptop. His dishcloths are the same blue and taupe colors as his living room décor. I still can't get over the excessive matching, simultaneously precious and dorky; I want to razz him about it but also go to war with anyone else who tries to do the same.

"Their ball control is solid," Ben says when I turn off the faucet. He's talking about our next opponent, Tennessee. "I can't get over this assist-to-turnover ratio. It's just…" He trails off with an aching sigh.

"Turning you on a little?" I finish the sentence.

"Absolutely. It's over one point six."

I start the dishwasher. "Now I know what kind of dirty talk you like."

His eyes flick to mine over the top of the computer. "Pretty sure you've already got a handle on that."

My cheeks grow warm and I press my hands to them. He laughs at my sudden shyness and then he's closing the laptop and dragging me out of the kitchen and I'm following him to his bedroom. The whole way there I chant, "One point six, one point six," until I'm lying over him on the blue comforter, his hair dark against the taupe pillowcase under his head.

After, when he's in the bathroom, I ask, "When you're a coach, are you going to miss analytics?"

He climbs back into bed. "All coaches have different strengths. It'll always be a tool I use, but I can't wait to do other stuff too. Work directly with the players, especially. I want to do for them what my coaches did for me. Hopefully in four years."

"You don't have to wait four years." I intertwine my cold feet with his warm ones. "You can do it next season."

He nudges me with his toes. "Still trying to get rid of me. Ruthless as ever." Turning to face me, he plants his elbow on his pillow. "A while ago you told me you came back to Ardwyn because you had no choice, but it seems like you're happy here now. Aren't you?"

I scoff, but it's weak. "I guess," I admit. Out loud, for the first time. He smiles, satisfied, as if I said Absolutely, yes, with all my heart. In a way it feels like I did.

But then his brow furrows. "I still don't understand why you stopped working in basketball to begin with."

I pause, swallow. "I always liked the actual work, but there were other aspects of the job I couldn't handle. The whole swearing-your-undying-loyalty, taking-the-blood-oath, loving-the-team-like-your-own-mother thing. This isn't a family, no matter how many times people say it is. It's a business. And college sports are a mess."

"How do you mean?" he asks.

"Where do I start?" I shake my head. "Shitty medical coverage for athletes, including football players who get whacked repeatedly in the cranium. Racial disparities in graduation rates. With NIL, I'm glad they get paid now, but it's total chaos. There's so much money and power on the line. It's hard for things to change."

Senior year, when the season started, Maynard asked me to sit in his hotel room and take notes while he watched film on road trips. He made the request in front of other people, certain coaches and staff members he was close to. They didn't say a word, so how could it be inappropriate? Who would allow it to happen if it was inappropriate? Those people looked the other way for him. I saw their presence as a sign of my safety, but they were there to keep him safe. Their careers depended on him.

He didn't do anything weird the first couple times. Never said anything he wasn't supposed to, just watched film and told me what to write down. There were always snacks.

Sometime in mid-November he was on the phone when I knocked on the door. He let me in, pointed to the couch, and walked into the bedroom. He left the door open a crack, so I couldn't avoid hearing his end of the conversation. "I don't know what to tell you," he was saying. "It's already stressful. Please don't make it worse."

When he walked back into the room he said, "Sorry about that. Kelly doesn't want to go to this hospital banquet." He let out a big, dramatic sigh. "I should bring you," he said, "but everyone would say you're too young for me." And then he laughed, like of course it was a joke.

I said, "I hope everything is okay." What I meant was: I want you to be happy with your wife, because if you're happy with your wife then this is probably all in my head. He was giving me this look, and I was so uncomfortable, so I put my head down and pretended to start taking notes, even though he hadn't started the tape yet. He said, "Ah, married life," and left it at that.

A few nights later, when I came into the room, he sat down on the couch and immediately said, "Sorry I'm in a mood." I hadn't been there long enough to notice his mood. Then he said, "Kelly is pissed at me again for missing a family thing last night. I've been coaching for fifteen years, you know? She knew what she signed up for." His arm was over the back of the couch, behind me but not touching me.

I said, "Sorry to hear that." I was sweating. I couldn't stop thinking about his arm. I was wearing the biggest, baggiest Ardwyn sweatshirt I could find, like that would protect me.

He looked down at his wedding ring, twisted it. "She doesn't understand me. You'd be out recruiting with me." And then he laughed again. There was always a laugh, for plausible deniability.

Later that week, I got another middle-of-the-night text: I hope I'm not scaring you off marriage with my venting. Just make sure you're compatible with whichever lucky guy you end up with. You need to be on the same page about careers, family, sex. Unfortunately, Kelly and I are having issues with all three.

I felt sick when I read it. At that point I couldn't pretend he wasn't being inappropriate, but I convinced myself I could keep it under control. I told myself he had a crush, he was lonely, he had marital problems. Maybe a midlife crisis. He knew my dad, recruited his players—why would he jeopardize that by making a move on me ? If I found the perfect balance of acting like everything was normal, laughing off the flirtatious stuff without engaging with it, but not being so direct that I hurt his ego, he would stop. It was like walking a tightrope. I spent a half hour coming up with a response to each of his texts. I used to cry before going to his room. I figured eventually, he would get that I wasn't interested and give up, and it wouldn't affect my job.

But I was wrong about my disinterest and discomfort warding him off, because he never cared about whether I was interested. And I was wrong about him not making a move. It wasn't a game I could win by saying all the right things and using denial and deflection as weapons. I thought I had agency, and I thought he had character. I was wrong about both.

I can't tell Ben any of this yet. I don't know how he's going to react, and there's no need to drop the bomb right now, before the season is over. "Do you want to know what's fucked up?" I say instead. "I still love it. I feel so strongly that all those things are wrong, and I complain about them anonymously on the Internet, but I still love college basketball. Does that make me a huge hypocrite?"

He strokes my hair, thinking. "Every industry, every business, every institution has its issues. But you have to work somewhere, so work in the place where you get to do the thing you love. And if you're here, you can make it better, even in small ways."

"I don't know if I believe that," I say. "Sometimes the only way to make something better is to blow it up."

"True." He shrugs. "But I don't know how to blow anything up. I just want to be good at what I do and make a difference that way."

"You're going to be a great coach," I say.

He squeezes my waist. "Don't you ever regret leaving? After college?"

I flop onto my back and look up at the ceiling. I can barely make out the shape of the fan. My eyes are heavy, and it's getting late. There are some things you can only say in the dark.

"It's complicated," I start. "On one hand, no. But at the same time, I keep thinking about my best video."

"Which one? The one with Keith Wesley?"

I smile. He has a favorite. He didn't even have to think about it.

"No. I don't know. See, that's the problem." I lay my forearm across my eyes.

Eight years is a long time.

I don't know if I want to continue, but the words claw their way up my throat anyway, my voice jagged with the scratches they leave behind. "I've realized lately that I haven't actually lived my life in a long time, and it's made me wonder what I've missed. Sorry, this is really heavy."

"You can be anything you want with me," he says. "But please never be sorry."

I nod. Swallow. "What if," I hazard, "I never made my best video? What if I never did my best work? What if it's something I would've done five years ago, and never did, and never will? That probably sounds like nonsense. And it doesn't matter anyway, I'm not curing rare childhood diseases—"

"Annie." He sounds surprised. Concerned. Maybe because of what I said, maybe because of the vulnerability in it. "You haven't made your best video yet. Even if you count all the ones you never made." He punches out the words with force, like he wants me to understand how sure he is.

"How do you know?" My voice is small. I hate that it is.

"Because I know this team, and next week—I don't care, I'm saying it—we'll be playing for a national championship. And I know you. You're going to turn it into magic."