Chapter Twenty-Six

TWENTY-SIX

Quincy may not be visible in the locker room at the Superdome, but he's easy to find. Look for the throng of reporters packed five deep, microphones and recording devices aimed inward at a central point. He's the central point.

Taylor and I slump against the wall in the corner. Taylor is eating trail mix from a reusable silicone pouch. I'm putting all my weight on one foot and then the other in turns, trying to give each one a break from the pinch of my shoes. I let my head tip back against the concrete.

"Should we be filming that?" Taylor asks, her forehead contracting. She examines a raisin and drops it back into the pouch.

I make no move for my camera. "I think those eighty-four journalists have it covered."

In Taylor's defense, I often record this kind of thing. But I've already gotten plenty of footage today, and Quincy's learned enough by now to stick to the same rote answers he's been giving all week. This won't be anything new. Also, it's been a long day, and it's only ten in the morning.

"The semifinal game tonight against UNC will be the biggest game you've ever played in," one reporter says. "How are you handling the pressure?"

"Just trying to concentrate on what we're here to do," Quincy says. "Preparing for the game, staying off my phone, and sticking to our normal routines as much as we can."

During their downtime yesterday, he and JGE convened a meeting of their two-person club to discuss the Super Mario podcast. Sticking to the usual routine hasn't been easy. All week the college basketball marketing machine has taken Coach Thomas's efforts to keep the team insulated from distractions and blown them up like an overproduced pregame fireworks show. Photo shoots, press conferences, open practice for fans and press to observe. It's been fun at times, no doubt, but it's awfully difficult to focus on basketball.

Not even the locker room is a refuge. Dozens of strangers with ID badges around their necks are milling around. The room's cinder block walls have been frosted with banners and signs bearing the Ardwyn name and team colors, the NCAA logo, and the tournament's slogan: The Road Ends Here.

The spectacle peaks today and Monday, but it started as soon as our feet touched the ground in New Orleans. When the plane landed, airport employees rolled out a custom carpet in Ardwyn Blue, and a brass band played as we walked into the terminal. Fans in team gear populated the restroom lines, which coiled past the snack kiosk like four-colored snakes. When we walked by, the dark blue parts of the snakes cheered.

It was easier to focus once we arrived at the hotel. It's in an unfortunate location on Canal Street, and outside it smells like hot rum garbage and sugar-dusted spring break. But it's reasonably quiet, and the room I share with Jess overlooks an endless row of palm trees with fronds like waving hands. Every so often a red streetcar moseys by. Between the two big hotels across the street peeks a cluster of colorful buildings with cast-iron balconies, the tiniest glimpse of the French Quarter.

"How is the atmosphere here in New Orleans?" another reporter asks Quincy, stretching his arm to get his tape recorder closer.

"Great," Quincy says. "We haven't had a chance to see much of the city, but the staff here at the stadium is so welcoming, and you can't beat the weather."

His media training has paid off. Every day here has been the same: meals, film, and rest in the hotel, practice and everything else at the stadium. Back and forth, up and down Poydras Street on the bus.

"UNC has no freshmen in their starting lineup," one of the journalists says. "Do you think their experience gives them an advantage?"

"This is the Final Four, so I expect a tough game. All I can say is that my mindset has changed and I've grown a lot this year. The experience I've gained has been priceless for me, and I'm so grateful for it."

It dawns on me that those sound an awful lot like the words of someone reflecting on the looming end of his college career. I guess he's made his choice.

Jess ambles over, tugging on her sagging beanie. "My phone is dead."

Taylor pops an almond into her mouth and chews. "Wall charger or portable charger?"

"Portable, please." Jess holds out her hand.

Taylor pulls one out of her bag. Jess reaches out for it, but Taylor draws her hand back. "You should really carry one of these yourself. You use your phone for work."

Jess takes Taylor's face in her hands. "You are seen, valued, and appreciated," she says.

Taylor emits a tiny, incomprehensible squeak.

As the group of reporters moves from Quincy to JGE like one living organism, the locker room door opens. Eric slips in. He stops to talk to Coach Williams, who holds a clipboard between them and the reporters at mouth level, as if somebody might try to read their lips. When they're done, Eric works his way through the crowd to me.

His eyes brighten when he sees my outfit. "You look like Ms. Weston."

Ms. Weston was an ancient hippie who taught psychology at our high school. The main thing I learned from her—well, from reaching into her car every Monday to help carry a box of books inside—was how to identify the smell of hash. I look down at my floaty skirt and patterned blouse. Hm. Eric may be on to something. "I'm both thrilled and horrified."

He angles his body to cut Taylor and Jess off from the conversation. Not that they're paying attention. Jess has the charger now, but they're talking about how to get a replacement for Jess's headphones, which she left on the plane.

"Arizona Tech just went into their locker room, so we should be fine," Eric says in a low voice. The teams follow a staggered schedule, so if the Rattlers are in the locker room, there's no chance of running into Maynard in the hallway when we head out to the court for shoot-around.

The knot that's occupied my stomach all week loosens for the moment. "Good." I nod once, a wordless thank you. Eric offers me a high five, same as he would for a player who needed encouragement.

Every time I think about the prospect of seeing Maynard this week, that knot grows tighter and more twisted. Across the room, across the court, it doesn't matter—he'll be right in front of me, in the flesh. How will I be able to focus on anything else?

Leave it all out there, Kat said. It's become my motto. I won't let him ruin this for me.

"Check this out," Eric says, tilting his phone screen toward me. It's a post from Beach House Logan, a photo of an airplane window, captioned: Final 4 bound, LAX MSY . A goofy giggle bubbles out of his mouth. "Is it weird that I'm nervous? He's going to be watching me tonight. How the tables have turned!"

"Pull yourself together," I say.

"Five minutes!" Coach Williams's voice booms. Time for the last practice—a relaxed, easy shoot-around—before tonight's game.

I heave my bag over my shoulder and turn to Jess and Taylor. "I'm going ahead to set up." I wind my way through the locker room to the exit, and as my fingers wrap around the handle, the door flies open. Ben stands on the other side. "Hey," I say, touching his arm. "Where'd you come from?"

His mouth is tight, his forehead wrinkled with tension. It's been a stressful week for everyone, but in a good way, and this is not the face of someone experiencing the good kind of stress. Something is wrong. My mouth goes dry, and instead of I forgot my laptop or Kyle screwed up the lunch catering, my mind immediately flies to the worst possible place. I just saw Coach Maynard, it will start.

"I just saw Coach Maynard," Ben says.

A block of ice materializes in the center of my rib cage. "Oh?" I choke out.

He leads me into the corridor, to a spot down the hall. Shifting from foot to foot, he looks around, at the ceiling, the sign for the restroom, the carpet, in a vaguely dissatisfied way. He scrapes a hand along his scalp.

"Uh-oh, not the hair rub," I say, trying to elicit a smile. He gives me nothing, and my heart rate climbs up and up.

Finally his eyes settle on me. "Annie, can I be honest?"

"Okay," I say slowly.

"I'm dying a little." He breathes out a half sigh, half laugh. "I have so much I want to say to you. I know you don't want to talk about us until the season is over. And it's not the ideal moment. But. This is going well, right?"

This is not where I expected this conversation to go. But it's not where I want to go either, not right now. "Ben," I say, twining my index fingers around each other. "Yes, but please."

"I don't need for the season to be over to know how I feel about you," he says.

I'm about to take down your idol, possibly get fired, and doom the school's fundraising efforts all at once, so… "Yes, you do. Where is this coming from? What does it have to do with Maynard?"

He rolls his bottom lip between his teeth. "He offered me a job at Arizona Tech for next season. One of his assistants is leaving."

I gawp at him. The universe is supposed to be chaotic, not diabolical. I feel as stupefied as a bird that's crashed into a windowpane.

"I see," I manage to say through the rush of alarm swirling through my head.

"He needs me to make a decision by the end of the weekend. A lot of teams are starting to fill slots now that their seasons are over and if I'm not going to take the job, he wants to find someone else."

"What? That makes no sense. It's Final Four weekend. How are you supposed to consider any other options? Tell him you need more time," I say.

"I think he expected it to be a no-brainer for me," Ben says. "He seemed surprised I didn't commit right away. He and I have talked about this for years, but I didn't think it would happen now. I don't want to jerk him around."

The ice block in my rib cage turns molten. "He's such an asshole, " I sputter.

"Please don't say that," he says.

"You need to think about yourself! Not him."

He drags the toe of one shoe along the carpet. "I need to explain something, and maybe it will help you understand where I'm coming from." He swallows. "Coach has always known what my family situation was like. After college, he gave us the most generous gift. It's embarrassing for me to even admit it, but—he paid for my mom to go to nursing school."

"What?" My voice is faint. How much does nursing school cost? I have no idea. But there are enough zeroes for it to matter.

"I owe it to him to take this seriously," he says.

Which is exactly why he gave you something so excessive, I want to say. People who owe him are easier for him to control. "What does this have to do with me, then? Sounds like you've made your decision."

"No," he says. His eyes, wild and pleading, lock onto mine. "If there's a chance Williams is leaving…" He exhales an unsteady breath and pauses, clearly turning words over in his mind, trying to figure out which ones he wants to say, which ones he's allowed to say. "I know it hasn't been that long, but I don't want to cut this off if we both think it could go somewhere. And I really want it to go somewhere."

I cover my face with cupped hands and groan. My heart is soaking up his words like a stale cookie in a glass of milk, but damn. There is so much we need to discuss before he makes proclamations like this, and no way we can talk about those things now. My nerves are already shredded, knowing Maynard is in this building as we speak. And practice starts in about ninety seconds.

"Why is that a bad thing?" he cries. A group of reporters exits the locker room, and he waits for it to pass out of earshot. "Do you think in a week I'm going to completely change my mind? I'm not Oliver. I'm not a twenty-one-year-old asshole who doesn't understand commitment. And I'm not some guy fucking around on reality TV. This gets more real for me every day. Even if that's not how it is for you. I can't keep trying to guess how you're feeling and what you're thinking about the future, especially when I'm standing here telling you I've been asked to make a decision by tomorrow."

A spiky lump rises in my throat, and I twist the chain of my necklace around my fingertip. "What are you—do you want me to say okay, you're threatening me so let's do it your way?"

His voice shakes and his cheeks turn red. "I'm not threatening you. This isn't me trying to manipulate anything. I sleep next to you every night at home, and I'm not even allowed to say I like you. But I've done it, because you said you needed that boundary, and I respected that. Now I'm telling you what I need, and I need you to respect that. Either you want this or you don't. I can't wait in limbo anymore. I can't."

The look on his face is fragile glass, transparent and vulnerable, and I'm terrified of shattering it.

Ben has had enough people waver on whether they want to be part of his life. He deserves someone who can tell him to his face that they're committed to him, and for it to be true.

I need to be that person. There's a throbbing ache in my chest, and the realization flattens me: I already feel all the things I've been trying to hold at bay.

Willful ignorance strikes again. At first, I told myself the flirting was enough, until it wasn't. Then I told myself the kissing was enough, until it wasn't. Finally, I told myself I could have everything except the words, and that would be enough to protect me. But it wasn't. Turns out you don't have to say anything out loud to make a promise. You don't have to name a feeling to experience it. I was trying to control something that couldn't be controlled. It was like trying to catch a wave with a shot glass, and it knocked me on my ass.

Sarcasm, denial, deflection. I've got a lot of well-honed tools in my arsenal for moments like this one. But if there's one thing I've learned during this magnificent, beautiful season of the greatest game ever played, it's that building a shell around myself for the last eight years wasn't an effective way to avoid getting hurt. It was just another way of getting hurt, only with a duller weapon.

Ben is good. He's so good. Inside or outside the snow globe, it doesn't matter. He's trustworthy, and this thing between us is special. What if instead of retreating like always, I…don't?

The army inside me drops its defenses, and I catch his hands with mine. "We have a lot to talk about," I say, my voice thick. "Not here."

He nods quickly. "I know, and—"

The locker room door flies open, and the team streams out. We release each other's hands. Williams emerges from the group, looking around, and pivots when he sees Ben. "Callahan," he barks. "With me. Let's review matchups in the paint."

Ben gives me a helpless look.

"Later," I assure him. "We'll make time. I promise."

He disappears with Williams, and I rejoin Taylor and Jess, going through the motions of normal conversation while I'm reeling inside. On our way to the court, we cross paths with some of the North Carolina staff. Coach Thomas and his Tar Heels counterpart greet each other with a firm handshake and an embrace punctuated by a single back slap. Thomas says something in the other coach's ear, and they both laugh.

Work. Right, I should do my job. My equipment is snug in the camera case, so I dig around for my phone. Better than nothing.

"Excuse me," someone says when I'm done recording, a guy with a crew cut and a powder blue polo shirt. "Are you the one who makes the hype videos?"

He introduces himself as Scott something, from the media office in UNC's athletic department. "We've been watching your stuff all season," he says. I'm not sure who we is. He asks if I have a team or work alone, and what my process is like. I reciprocate with polite questions about his department. I'd rather walk barefoot down Bourbon Street than network, but the guy is being especially gracious, and I can't leave anyway.

He glances around as if to gauge how private our conversation is. We're surrounded by coworkers, but he must conclude it doesn't matter, because he offers me his business card anyway. "If you're ever looking to make a move." He walks off with a wave. I stare at the card, then unzip the interior pocket in my bag and slip it inside.

I promised Ben we'd talk later, but it's easier said than done. The rest of the day is scheduled to the millisecond, like a royal wedding. I can barely find a minute to pee, let alone meet him somewhere private for one of the most important conversations of my life.

The team sits down to an early dinner in one of the smaller hotel ballrooms, with a dark carpet patterned to hide all sins and a large chandelier with gold detailing. The buffet is the same everywhere we go: chicken, steak, pasta, vegetables. Only the most basic sauces and seasonings, to avoid upset stomachs from unfamiliar ingredients. No athlete wants to mainline Pepto-Bismol during warm-ups.

As soon as I sit down with my plate, I realize I forgot utensils. My table was the last to get our food, so the buffet is empty, save for Quincy surveying the row of metal tins on the white tablecloth. He's already back for seconds, piling his plate with a Jenga tower of lean proteins.

"How are you doing?" I ask.

"Just ready to play," he says, looking up from the grilled chicken breast. "Getting antsy."

"You're as prepared as you can possibly be. You'll be great." I pluck a fork and knife from the basket. "I'll see you later."

"Hey, one second," he says. He puts his plate down on the buffet table. "I want you to be one of the first to know. I'm coming back next season."

"What?" I screech, wrapping my arms around as much of him as I can and squeezing hard. "For real?"

He laughs, hugging me back. "For real. I'm not making any promises beyond next year—I'll never be an astrochemical engineer or whatever like JGE—but it's what I want. I want to be a player who can lead, and Ardwyn is helping me become that person. I also want to thank you."

I let go. "Me? For what?"

"The night I hurt my ankle. You were there for me, and it could've gone bad if you weren't. And now look where we are."

I wave my fork at him. "Don't get all sentimental on me."

He makes a dismissive noise. "Don't tell me what to do. That night was a turning point for me, and you helped make it happen."

"You did all that yourself," I say. "I didn't do anything. I just hid your skateboard."

"I don't know. Maybe it didn't seem like anything, but it mattered to me."

Ben's words pop into my head: Make it better, even in small ways.

I turn away but whirl back. "I have to thank you for something too. You taught everyone on this freaking team to call me A-Rad."

He grins. "Damn straight."

"Excuse me, guys. Just grabbing a napkin." I turn around, and there's Ben, leaning over the table.

"Benjamin," Quincy says.

He cocks his head, looking Quincy over. "When did you find time to get a haircut?"

He's right. I hadn't noticed before, but Quincy's fade appears refreshed. He pats his head. "Looks good, right? We had a guy come to the hotel earlier."

"TV-ready," Ben says.

Quincy returns to his seat, and Ben gives me a soft, appraising look. "Are you good?" he asks. "I know that was a lot, this morning."

"I'm good," I say. "I want to talk to you about everything. I do. I'm scared, but it doesn't mean I don't want to."

He nods. "I know that. How about tomorrow after dinner? I'll bribe Kyle to stay out of our room for a while."

"That sounds great," I say, and the knot in my stomach eases instead of cinches. A year ago, if someone told me I'd be spending Final Four weekend working for Ardwyn and looking forward to a serious relationship talk with Ben Fucking Callahan, I'd have asked where they got their hallucinogens.

For years I've told everyone I know, including myself, that certain things weren't for me. But inside me all along has been a stubborn voice, hoping and craving and never dying, even when I tried to suppress it. It whispered, What if? What if things could be different?

What if I try to be brave? What if it's worth it?

That voice dragged my heart kicking and screaming all the way here. Tomorrow, I'll be brave and finish the job. In a quiet hotel room, I'll tell him everything exactly the way I want, and we'll deal with it together.

But first we have the game against UNC, our biggest challenge yet. The Tar Heels are well-coached, disciplined, and poised under pressure. They made the semifinals last year too, so most of their team has done this before. It's no surprise, then, when they come out strong, completely unbothered by the magnitude of the moment. They take an early lead by sticking to a sensible if uncreative game plan, focused on getting the ball inside to capitalize on their height advantage. We play jittery at the start, throwing up hasty shots instead of waiting for the right ones. Rosario gets in early foul trouble, and Quincy misses a pair of easy free throws.

We settle down eventually and chip away at their fifteen-point lead. JGE grabs a few clutch rebounds, and Gallimore draws an offensive foul, sending UNC's leading scorer to the bench for most of the second half. Their lead drops to twelve, and then seven, and then two.

With a few seconds left, Quincy threads a pass through two defenders that makes me want to break out a ruler to measure the gap between their bodies. It shouldn't be physically possible, but he gets the ball to Andreatti, who makes an effortless-looking layup to tie the score.

Overtime starts, and it's like a new game. Quincy and Gallimore get hot from three, and nobody in the country can keep up with that. UNC has no idea what hit them. We win by ten. When the buzzer sounds, Andreatti is holding the ball, and he brings it to his mouth and gives it a big, smacking kiss. Our band springs into action, blowing their horns and beating their drums like they're trying to bust a hole in the roof. Taylor's hand digs into my shoulder as she jumps up and down next to me.

We're going to the finals.

Now I can stop pretending I haven't been working on the hype video for the championship game for the last three weeks. I've written the copy, and it's on its way to Michael B. Jordan. An A-list actor with a gorgeous speaking voice and a starring role in the most iconic Philly-set film franchise ever? He's perfect for the job, and I can't believe he agreed to do it.

I don't watch the Arizona Tech game. I don't even follow the score online. It doesn't matter, for my purposes. Despite Taylor's fantasies of a video highlighting long-fermented resentments and intertwined paths leading to a dramatic showdown with Maynard, I chose not to focus on our opponent at all. The video is all about Ardwyn.

It opens on a shot of the players sitting around stretching before practice, filmed last week. No music, just casual conversation, everyone reminiscing about championships they played in as kids or watched on TV. A couple of the guys ragging on Andreatti because he's never made the finals of anything. "It's not only about talent," he says defensively. "It's also about timing and luck. Like that old saying, ‘I'd rather be lucky than good.'?"

Quincy chimes in, and I swear I didn't script this: "I had a coach who used to say, ‘I'd rather be lucky and good.' That's how you win a championship. Everything needs to come together at the right moment. It's the only way."

Dad's last championship was Quincy's freshman year, and I remember him saying that, deadpan like always: "I'd rather be lucky and good." The game was at Rutgers, in an arena much bigger than any others the team had played in, and the players were nervous. "You can't do much about the luck part," Dad told them. "But you can do a lot about the good. And we have, by putting in the work this season. Being a champion is special and rare. You've worked all season, your whole lives, really, toward the next thirty-two minutes. That work—not whatever happens in this game—has made you into the people you are, the guys I'm proud to coach. Being champions would be icing on the cake. Now go take your shot."

I'm using shots from practice, the players doing drills and conditioning, sweat pouring down their faces. Walking to the weight room before sunrise, snow on the ground. Sitting in the film room, studying tape. These images are interspersed with quick, sudden transitions to the biggest moments of the season, the flashiest dunks, the most impressive three-pointers, the raucous student section. Then I took some old film of Quincy at fourteen staring at the basket, ready to shoot a free throw, and found a similar shot from this season. I morphed the first into the second, so it looks like he's growing up on-camera. JGE and Gallimore gave me some ancient travel ball videos, and I used a similar effect on them.

"Who have you become by playing basketball?" Michael B. Jordan will ask. "What has this game given you? And with this opportunity, what will you give this game?"

When I finish for the night, I check the result of the Arizona Tech game, even though I know what I'm going to find. Despite their moxie and the fact that most of the country was cheering for them, Iowa Plains's luck has finally run out. And so, it seems, has mine.

We're playing Maynard on Monday.