Chapter Twenty-Four

TWENTY-FOUR

"So much for Tennessee's sweet assist-to-turnover ratio." I pat Ben on the back. Ardwyn blew that stat to pieces in our rout of the Volunteers. I'm lucky to have spotted him when I made my way back to the court after packing my camera away. The band is blasting the fight song, and people—players, staff, media, VIPs, security—are moving in every direction. I grab his shoulder and pull him down so I can shout in his ear. "How will you cope?"

"I'll manage," he says with a smile. "Elite Eight is a decent consolation prize."

Elite Eight. That means we're three wins away from pulling it all off: winning a title, making history, and saving the athletic department and our jobs.

Looking around, it's mind-boggling. At this stage of the tournament the games are in football arenas with basketball courts plunked in the middle. It's like playing on the moon, plus spectators. Coach Thomas and Quincy are at center court, doing a post-victory interview with the sideline reporter. Taylor appears in front of me like a type-A mirage, squeezing through the throng, saying something I can't hear.

"What?" I yell.

"I said, ‘There you are!'?" Taylor yells back.

When the music stops, it gets quiet fast. Even the chatter of the remaining fans hanging back in the stadium isn't enough to fill the vast space. It's quiet enough for me to hear JJ Jones behind me, telling someone that Arizona Tech is trouncing St. Mary's.

"What's the score?" Ben asks, turning around.

"Can you imagine if we make the finals and play them?" Taylor asks with wide gleeful eyes.

I grimace. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

"Think about the hype video. The story writes itself. All that history, Maynard coaching here—coaching one of our coaches—and leaving to go to Arizona Tech? Then having to face us in the finals?"

"Ben too," I say.

"What?"

"He wasn't just Eric's coach. He coached Ben too."

"What's that?" Ben reappears at my side.

"Brent Maynard," Taylor says. "We're going to have so much content if we play them."

Ben rakes a hand through his hair. "Let's not get ahead of ourselves."

Taylor ignores that statement for the second time. "I forgot you were here at the same time as him, Annie," she says. "Are you friendly with him? I wonder if we could do some cross-promotion, something we could post on both our channels if we both make the finals."

"Absolutely not," I spit.

"Taylor, please," Ben says. "Don't plan that far ahead. You'll jinx it."

He's not superstitious.

"We don't talk," I tell Taylor. The last thing I need is for her to put something into motion that I won't be able to stop. I need to squash it before I end up in a room with him. "Let me be perfectly clear: There's not a chance in hell we'll be filming anything with him."

"Maybe you guys should talk about this somewhere else." Ben looks around to gauge whether anyone is listening. JJ Jones is still standing behind him, but he's engrossed in his phone. His belt is embroidered with little chipmunks holding tennis rackets.

"Hey, Annie?" he asks distractedly, looking up. "You got time to grab coffee tomorrow?"

"Hey, now," says Ben.

"Um," I say.

"I want to interview you. For a story. We're working on a piece about hype videos, and you're the best in the game."

"That's awesome," Taylor says.

I shoot her a look. "I'll be busy making the hype video."

Taylor sets her hands on her hips. "Which more people will watch if ESPN does a story on you."

"Come on, we're friends, right?" he asks. Taylor looks at me expectantly.

This bit of self-promotion will be about as pleasant as my last IUD insertion, but I should do it. I need to keep building my case for sticking around, in case we lose. "Fine," I relent.

"Wonderful!" Taylor claps her hands.

He names a place and time and I don't think any more of it. But that night, Ben brings it up as we wait for the elevator in the hotel. "The coffee shop where he asked you to meet him is far away. He wants privacy."

That sounds logical. All the teams and most of their fans are clustered in the hotels near Centennial Park, and every restaurant and Starbucks nearby is oozing people in team colors. No privacy to be found.

The doors open. I walk in first and lean against the mirrored wall panel. "He's not going to hit on me, but I appreciate the concern."

He follows me inside and presses two buttons, one for my floor and one for his. The doors shut. "No, what I mean is—I think he's lying. I don't think he's doing a story on hype videos. If he were, he could do it anywhere. I think he wants privacy because he's talking about a job interview. ESPN is going to try to poach you."

I don't give a shit about the story JJ is telling about the time he went to Pebble Beach on a golf weekend with his dad and brothers and ran into Phil Mickelson in the clubhouse. But I'm alternating nods and the occasional "wow" every thirty seconds or so, because if he senses my disinterest he might ask me a question, and the only thing worse than continuing to listen to this story would be having to actively participate in this conversation.

It's an endless cycle. He annoys me, and then he senses my irritation and gets agitated, and then guilt sets in so I try to be nice, and then he says something like: "This barista's latte art game is hella on point, man."

Why am I here? He's supposed to be interviewing me and he hasn't asked a single question yet. I should be back at the hotel, working. We play West Virginia tomorrow, a team that beat us in one tournament game ten years ago. I was splicing together clips from that game early this morning, and I had a rhythm going before a calendar reminder for this meeting popped up to interrupt me.

I work hard to continue to appear interested in whatever JJ is saying while I make a mental to-do list for when I get back to the hotel. Beats I want to hit, effects I want to incorporate—

A face catches my eye. A pale, serious face with dark eyes that does not belong in this coffee shop. I squint past JJ's shoulder. What is Coach Williams doing here?

He slides into a booth across from someone else whose face I can't see. And then the other guy leans forward, resting his elbows on the table, and I realize who it is and what's happening all at once.

I squeeze the gold bar on my necklace. My eyes dart back to JJ. He's still talking, and Jesus Christ, he's so into this pointless story that his eyes are closed. Thank god—he hasn't even realized there's a real story breaking right under his nose.

Ed Daniels is the athletics director at Meagher University. No one in this half-empty café knows who he is. But I do, and so does JJ. There's only one reason for Williams to meet with Ed, especially here, far from the madding crowds. Williams is the assistant head coach of the hottest team in the country. Meagher lost in the first round of the conference tournament and their coach was fired before the team plane touched down in Milwaukee.

This is a job interview for Williams. If JJ finds out, that's going to be the headline tomorrow, and the team can't afford the distraction.

I weigh my options. Under no circumstances can I allow JJ to turn toward the front door. Luckily, the counter is behind me.

I fake a cough. "Hey, JJ?" Cough. "Can you get me a glass of water?"

Thankfully there's a line. I pull my cell phone out of my coat pocket. I'd be less likely to get caught if I texted, but I can't afford the risk that Ben will be in a trance watching film and won't see it until it's too late.

"Pick up, pick up, pick up," I whisper with urgency as it rings.

He answers on the third ring. "I'm at the meeting with JJ, and Williams just walked in and sat down with Ed Daniels," I say quickly. "JJ hasn't seen them yet."

"What's the place called again?" he asks without hesitation.

I tell him. "You have to hurry, I don't know how long I can—"

"I'm on my way."

Breathe in, breathe out. I can't see Williams's face, but he's gesturing with his hands, and Ed Daniels is nodding. Williams wants to make a move. It shouldn't be surprising; he's qualified. And if he leaves for Meagher or any other school, a coaching slot will open up at Ardwyn.

Ben can get that job. He can stay, even if his current job gets cut. Which means I can stay too. He can coach, and do what he wants to do without leaving Ardwyn, and especially without going anywhere near Arizona.

First things first, prevent a crisis. I slide out of my seat and head over to JJ. He's still in line, so I squeeze between him and the person in front of him.

"I was tired of sitting," I say. "Anyway, finish your story, I want to know what happened after you got out of the bunker."

The things I do for this team.

When we reach the front of the line, I fumble for ways to stall. I ask for a description of every pastry in the glass case. I scrap the water and order the most elaborate drink ever concocted, even though I have a perfectly good cup of regular coffee back at my seat. The barista sighs and JJ moves to return to the table.

"They'll call you up," he says, confused when I stop him.

"I know, but it's warmer back here. It's freezing by our table. Let's just wait. Have you met any other famous golfers?"

Finally, Ben walks through the door with a purposeful stride. Our eyes connect. I tilt my head toward Williams and Ben veers toward the booth. He puts a hand on Williams's shoulder and bends down, whispering in his ear. Williams rises, and this is the riskiest part because he's so damn tall, and of course JJ turns to scan the room as Williams walks toward the door. Panic flares in my chest and I send a silent apology to the guy behind the counter and let my drink slip through my fingers.

"Oh shit," JJ says, peering down at the splatter on the floor. Droplets of my half-caf-ristretto-syrup-syrup-syrup-syrup-extra-whipped-cream abomination dot his loafers. "Smooth move."

The bell on the door jingles and Williams is gone. I exhale. Ben is still standing by the booth, looking back at me, his eyes triumphant. I want to run to him and jump into his arms for a Beach House –style hug.

An employee appears with a mop, and I hold up an inadequate fistful of napkins. He refuses my efforts to wave him off, and I make a mental note to put a twenty in the tip jar before I leave.

When we're back at the table, JJ looks at his phone and winces. "Sorry if it seems like I've been stalling."

I almost laugh out loud. If he only knew.

"It's my bad," he says. "Honestly, I was telling you all those golf stories to try to buy time. My colleague is supposed to meet us, but she's running late. Her flight from New York this morning was delayed. She's the one who wants to talk to you." His face is serious in a way I've never seen before. "Annie, there's no story about hype videos. That's not why we wanted to meet with you."

Oh. Ben was right, after all.

"Who's your colleague?" I ask. If ESPN really wants to offer me a position, it must be someone on the video production side.

"Her name is Lily Sachdev."

My stomach boards an elevator and the cable snaps.

This may not be about hype videos, but it's not a job interview either. Lily Sachdev wants to talk to me. Lily Sachdev, who writes about abuses of power in sports, about corruption and misconduct. Who writes about sexual harassment.

She wants to talk to me. There's only one possible reason for that.

I always wondered if this day would come. What would I do if a journalist came knocking? I asked myself again and again over the years. Even lately, I've asked myself the question. Other stories like mine have been in the news a lot. Sometimes I thought that if it ever happened, I'd say No, absolutely not, leave me alone. Other times I fantasized about it. I knew exactly what I'd say. I practiced in my head.

But now. Now what?

I give him a pained smile. "I don't mind waiting for her."

"Holy shit," Ben says when I walk into the hotel conference room a couple hours later. He's standing by the window, holding his hands to his head. I break into a sweat at the sight of him. He should be getting ready for practice, so I expected the room to be empty.

"I feel like a spy," he continues. "He didn't notice anything, right?"

I set my bag next to my computer and sit down. "Right." My chest is tight and the taste of stale coffee sticks in my mouth. Water. I need water, so I stand back up.

"That was wild." He shakes his head. "Not the smartest decision Williams has ever made. He shouldn't have been there. Is it weird that I'm having an adrenaline rush?"

"Yeah. No," I say, half listening. I open my bag but can't remember what I'm looking for, so I put it back down.

Ben crosses to the table and perches on the edge. I back away, needing time, space to think. He's not supposed to be here.

Lily Sachdev's flight did make it to Atlanta after all. JJ and I met her at her hotel, near the coffee shop. Her handshake was firm, and after she invited me to sit, she thanked me for coming, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, "I'm working on a story about sexual harassment in college basketball. Specifically about Brent Maynard."

Lily let that information hang in the air for a minute, watching me through no-nonsense glasses.

"I heard you talking about him after the last game," JJ explained. "I wondered if maybe you'd want to speak to Lily."

I toyed with the little hotel notepad in front of me, folding the top piece of paper in half and then in half again. "I see," I said quietly.

"You don't look surprised," Lily observed.

I looked up. "I'm not."

Lily's immaculate red lips curved compassionately and she gave me a brisk nod. "My piece will probably be published shortly after the season is over, regardless of whether you choose to participate. There are some risks, which we can talk about. Take the weekend to think about it, and if you decide to move forward, I'll come to Philly next week to meet with you."

I want to scream. It's not fair that I have to make this choice now.

"I have nothing against him for exploring his options," Ben is saying. "That's how this works. Although he's been with Coach Thomas so long, I thought he'd stay forever. I just can't believe how sloppy he was. He should've waited until after the season is over, or at least met him somewhere private."

"You're right," I say.

Ben studies me. "You're quiet."

I shake my head like I'm clearing out the cobwebs and force a smile. "Sorry. Long morning." The water, I remember. That's what I wanted from my bag. I don't have my usual bottle with me, so I take a plastic one from the ice bucket on the sideboard.

"It was a different kind of interview, wasn't it." Less a question, more a statement.

My blood freezes in my veins. "What?"

"Like I said last night. It was about a job, right? I bet if you want, they'll have you working on serious stuff, not just game highlights. Those Outside the Lines features on athlete sexual assault cover-ups or steroids or the pay-to-play scandal."

I almost laugh at how close he is to the truth. "It wasn't about a job." The water bottle is cold and the label is damp. I scrape part of it off with my fingernail.

He looks disappointed. "Are you sure?"

Tell him. Part of my brain urges me on, hurling the whole knotted mess at the door, trying to beat it down. But we're still in the snow globe, and if I tell him now, his reaction will be exactly what I'd hope for. Shock at first, remorse where appropriate, exactly the right amount of rage tempered by his cool head. Worse, he'll say things like I want to support you in whatever way you need, and We'll get through it together, and What we have is big and real enough for us to handle anything, and by the end of the conversation I will be hopelessly in love with him.

After that, the final game buzzer will sound, and the snow globe will dissolve into a fine mist. A month or so from now, when each of us is working who knows where, he'll realize that while this has been nice, he's not going to build his life around it. It's easy to believe your feelings can conquer anything when you're slow dancing in a cobblestone piazza or living one of your biggest dreams together. The truth isn't always clear until you're video chatting for the fourth night in a row with nothing left to talk about and no end in sight.

Or worse, the scandal will tank the department's ability to fundraise, and the gymnastics program will be the first to pay the price. He'll say it's not my fault, but the truth will always be that my actions led directly to his sister's dream being crushed. Natalie will go to college somewhere else, and every time she fails a test or gets written up for smuggling booze into her dorm room, we'll be reminded that it could've been different if I had dealt with my past privately.

That's not even the most pessimistic view. In my heart, I'm sure he'll believe me. But it would be irresponsible not to remind myself that it's not guaranteed. I'm not ready to brace myself for that scenario.

I rub the soggy paper between my fingers. "Yes, I'm sure. It was exactly what he said. He's doing a story on hype videos."

He seems to accept this and is quiet, contemplating.

"I better get to work," I say. "And you're going to miss the bus if you don't get downstairs."

He hesitates but thankfully can't pinpoint what's giving him pause. "Yeah," he says. Kisses me once, starts for the door. He stops at the threshold. "I hadn't thought about the possibility of one of our coaches leaving."

Thankfully he doesn't push it further. It takes a while before I can focus on my work. In one morning, everything has changed. Ben has a chance at getting everything he wants at Ardwyn. And I've only recently started to feel confident that I'm cementing my place there, but now—I don't know what's going to happen anymore. Not if I tell the world how Ardwyn basketball failed me.

It's better that I didn't tell him now. There's a safer way to do it. First, I need to clear my head and make a decision about talking to Lily. Then there are games to win, maybe even a face-off with Maynard. After that we'll go home to a quieter normalcy and see how everything shakes out, and I'll tell Ben everything with plenty of time to spare before the story goes public.

It's ten days, at most. I can handle that.