Chapter Twenty-Seven

TWENTY-SEVEN

When the audio track for the hype video hits my inbox, I open the file so fast the sender probably hasn't taken his finger off the mouse yet. I've been refreshing my email all morning waiting for it. Of course it couldn't arrive when I was eating a granola bar in the hotel room with Jess this morning, watching hungover UNC fans in powder blue shirts stagger down the street from the window. Or during the bus ride or the team meeting.

It has to land now, when I'm standing in the middle of the concourse at the Superdome, enveloped in chaos. Dozens of reporters surround me, yakking with each other and shouting into their phones, waiting for the doors to the interview room to open. Every so often a golf cart noses its way through the masses, ferrying equipment. A constant stream of people pause by the trash can behind me to chug the remains of the complimentary coffee and toss their empty cups. Not an ideal listening spot.

I scramble for my headphones and press play, struggling to listen as JJ Jones waves at me from a distance, dressed like an Easter egg. I try squeezing them tighter against my head, but it doesn't help. The audio isn't the problem. My headphones are top-of-the-line, supremely noise-canceling. The foam cushions covering my ears are large enough to serve as a pair of flotation devices for a toddler swim class.

The problem is that I need to close my eyes and focus, and I can't do that in this crowd, especially when the guy standing next to me keeps jostling my bag as he squeezes mustard onto his sandwich and spreads it with the empty packet. Damn. I'd like to go back to the hotel, listen to it there, and finish the video right away, but I have to record the press conference first.

In theory I could wait until the press conference is over, but I don't have the self-control for that. I have that Christmas morning feeling, and this email attachment is the biggest present under the tree.

The narration is the last piece of the last video. I imagined Michael B. Jordan's voice in my head while we worked on the script, but hearing it for real—well, it's going to hit differently.

I initially took this job because I had no other options. Now I know: The real reason I took this job was to make this video. Maybe, hopefully, my best video. After the press conference, I'll go back to the hotel and incorporate the audio, breaking it up so it hits the right beats, layering it over the background music. Then it'll be done, ready for Taylor to upload first thing in the morning.

A notification pops up on my screen and I open it without thinking.

Taylor: OMG it's amazing!!!!!

Seriously? It's bad enough that she heard it first, but the last thing I want is spoilers.

The doors to the interview room will open any minute. I need to find a quiet spot nearby. I hurry down the concourse until the voices fade and turn into an alcove near a mechanical closet. It'll do. I take a deep ceremonial breath before pressing play and—

"Of all the gin joints." Scott from the UNC media department stops in his tracks, a broad, clueless smile on his face.

Goddammit. I hope your team loses to Duke every single time you play them for the rest of eternity.

Whoa, rein it in. He did casually offer me a job yesterday. Probably not a great idea to call for a pox on a house I may need to live in next year.

I take my headphones off my ears. "Hi, Scott." My voice is strained with forced politeness. "Sticking around to watch the finals?"

"No, just packing up. We're about to head out. Is it weird that I'm looking forward to seeing what you come up with for tomorrow, even though you just beat us?"

"Little bit," I say, holding my thumb and forefinger a half inch apart.

"You know our program is significantly bigger than Ardwyn's. If you worked for us, you'd have whatever resources you needed. And we're a bigger name nationally with incredible connections, so the potential for working with cool narrators is limitless."

If only he knew. I resist the impulse to wave my phone in his face. "I think we do okay."

"Absolutely. But if you want to go even bigger, give me a call." He cranes his neck. "Looks like the doors are open now."

"Great," I say through gritted teeth.

I give my phone a desperate look before trudging off to the interview room and setting up in my usual spot, near the front and off to the side. The TV cameras get the prime location in the center, but my view isn't bad. Everyone settles in. Normally JJ would swing by at this point to say something ridiculous about swagger or grit, but he's nowhere to be found. Strange. He was just here, wasn't he? Ben, Eric, and Coach Williams stand on the opposite side of the room against the wall, looking as bored as the non-suspects in a police lineup.

It starts with little fanfare. After a week of nonstop press, everyone knows the routine. Coach Thomas climbs the steps onto the platform and sits in front of one of the microphones.

The questions start right away. What does it mean to you personally to coach your team in a national championship? How important is the three-point shooting game to your prospects for tomorrow? How proud would your father be if he could see you today?

Halfway through, JGE and Quincy join him at the table. How do you prepare for a game like this? Have you had a chance to enjoy yourselves here in New Orleans or have you been entirely focused on basketball? What makes this team special? What does it mean to you to be here? What does it mean to your families, who've sacrificed so much? What would it mean to win?

What does it mean?

What does it mean?

Honestly, once I start recording and make sure everything looks good, I let the camera roll and zone out. I force myself to pay attention to the questions in case somebody asks something interesting, but during the answers I daydream about the audio track. My phone vibrates in my pocket: three or four text messages, then a phone call, then another. At this point Taylor is just rubbing it in. She knows I'm stuck in here. I turn my phone from vibrate to silent.

JGE wraps up a response with two minutes left. The moderator scans the raised hands in the room. This must be the last question, right? Time to get a move on. I tap my foot against the floor.

"In the back, on the left," the moderator says.

The guy recites his name and the name of the publication he works for, and then he asks his question. "Coach, what can you say about the story that broke on ESPN a few minutes ago about Arizona Tech coach Brent Maynard?"

My head goes staticky. No. No, no, not now.

Ben is here, I suddenly remember. Fuck. He's looking at the reporter, his eyebrows furrowed.

Thomas looks mildly irritated. "I've been sitting here with you for thirty minutes, so you know I can't say anything since I have no idea what you're talking about."

"ESPN is reporting the results of an investigation…"

This is not supposed to be happening. Not now. A sickening panic floods my entire body, and the room tilts on its axis. I move away from the camera and grab the back of a chair.

"…pattern of alleged sexual misconduct…"

Get the fuck out of here, my body orders, even though I'm not sure where my feet are. I duck my head and charge down the row. It's possible I bump into a chair, but I'm not sure. It's like walking through a fun house full of strobe lights.

"…at least seven junior female employees and student volunteers…"

Seven. That comes through with zinging clarity, like a sucker punch. I had an idea, from my conversations with Lily, but not the exact number. I can't breathe, and I need to get out of here, but I also need to hear this. I hover near the exit.

"Most of the accusers are at Arizona Tech, but at least one has made allegations dating back to Maynard's time as your predecessor at Ardwyn."

A brief silence, and then the room explodes into mayhem. Reporters shout over each other as Thomas holds up his hands. Someone from the university PR department darts into the fray. The moderator says something, but nobody listens. It's all part of the out-of-focus background of a portrait. All I see is Ben.

He looks at the spot I occupied a minute ago. Searches the room when he realizes I'm not there. Finally his eyes, wild and confused, lock onto mine.

I can't even guess what my own face looks like, or if he needs to see my expression to know. But everything clicks into place for him pretty quickly. I can see it happen from all the way over here, his realization that this is not just a story about Maynard. It's also a story about me.

Undiluted devastation.