Chapter Twenty-Eight

TWENTY-EIGHT

This is probably the worst possible way this could have happened. I should be angry. I should be afraid. Instead, I'm numb.

Ben takes a step toward me. He has to get around the crowd. I run my hand along the wall behind me until I find the push bar on the door and slip out of the room. Without consciously picking a direction, I just walk, out of the interview room, past the mechanical closet, beyond the restrooms. Away.

"Annie."

The story isn't supposed to come out now. What the hell? A couple weeks after the end of the season, that was the plan. I'm supposed to tell Ben tonight, on my own terms. He's supposed to have plenty of time to absorb it before it goes public.

"Annie!"

I'm still walking. But I can't walk all the way back to the hotel, or to Philadelphia, and at some point he'll catch up. He's in better shape than I am. When I reach a door labeled vip lounge I take a chance and try it. Unlocked, and nobody's inside.

Finally I turn around, resigned. "In here."

The room looks like the inside of a bottle of scotch, all wood paneling and leather club chairs. Ben collapses into one. His face is raw, gutted. His body crumples in on itself, his back curved, his elbows barely propped up on his knees. He looks like an open wound. "Tell me."

I can't sit down. "I promise I will," I say. "But first, can you pull up the article while I try to find out what happened? It wasn't supposed to be published today. I need to know what's going on. My name is in it."

He starts to make a noise or say something, but it gets caught in his throat. His voice is hoarse when he speaks again. "This is real, then?"

Over the last week, I've had a lot of practice rehashing the worst thing that ever happened to me. Lily Sachdev is an extremely thorough journalist, with her Moleskine notepads and diligent questioning. It was scary, but this is equally terrifying.

"Yes," I whisper. "It's real."

His dark eyes hold on to mine so tightly it's hard to look away. But I need to talk to Lily, and I need to see the article. Maybe they're breaking it into pieces, posting part of it today, with more to come at a later date. Maybe the gory details of my story will be covered in part two.

I pull out my phone. Fourteen missed calls, twenty-two text messages. I ignore most of them.

Lily: Call me ASAP. It's urgent.

Lily: The story is dropping shortly. My editors feel that we need to publish now, while BM is most newsworthy. There will be fewer eyeballs on him and the story after the finals. I wish I had more time to warn you.

Lily: I'm sorry, Annie.

"Here it is," Ben says.

I lean over his shoulder. "Skip ahead. We probably don't have much time."

His thumb shakes as he scrolls, first past the introduction, then through the accounts of some of the Arizona Tech women.

Annie Radford . Holy shit, there it is. My name. It's so overwhelming I have to look away, at the light switch, the crystal glassware on the shelf, the photo of the cathedral in Jackson Square mounted on the wall.

When I look back, Ben is reading Lily's summary of the night Maynard drove me home from the bar.

"I was a big believer in the Ardwyn Family." I'm not sure if Ben is paying closer attention to the words I'm saying or the words on the screen, but I keep going. "Maynard was always like…a cool uncle, or something. It didn't bother me that he saw me wasted that night."

"He never acted like a regular boss," Ben says quietly.

"Right. He humored my zaniest video ideas, always asked what music I was listening to. How much time did we spend sitting around the office listening to him tell stories about his playing career, his early coaching years?"

"He loves telling stories," Ben says.

"He could tell a story better than anyone else. I don't know about you, but he's still the most charismatic piece of shit I've ever met, to this day."

Ben nods, swallowing thickly. I can't see his face from this angle, looking at the phone over his shoulder. It's better this way.

"His approval was priceless to me back then," I continue. "The way he treated us, like our work mattered?"

"He took us seriously."

"Exactly. You weren't the only one who took that to heart. I wanted to work in basketball so badly. Maynard knew what he was talking about, and he didn't have to tell me I could be successful, but he did it anyway."

Scrolling further, Ben skims the next few paragraphs. When he reaches a picture of Maynard's text messages to me, he freezes.

Metadata confirms that the following screenshots were saved eight years ago, the article says. Thank you, Cassie.

The last thing I need is to read these messages again. I sit in the chair across from Ben, burying my face in my hands. "I don't know which ones they included."

"?‘What are you dressed as for Halloween?'?" Ben reads. "?‘You're a beautiful girl.'?" He pauses, clearing his throat. "?‘Will you send me a costume picture too?'?"

"He texted me a lot. I sent a lot of awkward ‘ha-ha' responses. I was already partying too much, trying to forget about Oliver. The stress of the messages only made it worse. I started to develop this Pavlovian stomachache every time my phone buzzed. I drank more. Slept less. Couldn't focus at work."

"Did you tell anyone?" A muscle in his jaw twitches.

I shake my head. "Telling someone would make it seem like a big deal, and I didn't want it to be a big deal. All I wanted was for everything to go back to normal. I was still hoping he'd hire me full time after graduation."

He chews his lip, reading further. "What the hell ?" His nostrils flare. "He told you to come to his room to take notes while he watched film?"

"Yeah."

"That doesn't even make sense," Ben sputters. "Helping with film was my job, not yours."

I stare at him. "That wasn't really why…"

"I know. I just don't understand. How, and why." His brows furrow as he continues reading.

My heart aches, watching him wrestle with this. It dredges up memories of what it felt like to have my conceptions of the world and the person I idolized pulverized. It's jarring to see. But then I've had eight years to get used to these facts, and he's had ten minutes. Maynard's picture is sitting on his desk back at home as we speak.

"Can you put the phone down? Let me just tell you." I wring my hands. "It all came to a head when we went to Florida for the holiday tournament."

I'd been dreading it, because I knew it would be a shit show like every year. Four days in a hotel somewhere warm and everyone always acted like it was spring break. I was hoping Maynard would get too drunk at the bar in the lobby with the rest of the coaches to ask me to come to his room, but nope.

"When I got there, he tried to get me to drink a beer with him. He took a sip from the bottle first and then tried to hand it to me, like it was normal for us to share. I said, ‘No, thanks,' and he told me, ‘It's okay to let loose sometimes. We've been working hard and we deserve to relax.' The next thing I knew he was touching my shoulders, giving me a back rub."

Ben's expression turns from heartbroken to homicidal.

"You're probably sore from the plane," Maynard had said. "I know I am." I froze. Forget fight-or-flight—I sat there and couldn't move. It felt like acid was burning a hole in my stomach and I couldn't process the fact that his hands were on me.

My throat closes up. I pull my water bottle from my bag and take a sip.

"After a couple minutes I was able to move away and a ridiculous story came out of my mouth, about how I hated massages and once got a spa gift card for my birthday but gave it to my sister, and I told him I wasn't feeling well and left. The following night I went straight to my room after the game even though he told me to come by. I was climbing into bed when he sent me a text. It was a picture, the outline of an erection through his pants."

My voice breaks. Ben leans forward on his elbows and picks up my hands, dropping his forehead to rest against them. I give myself a few breaths to regain my composure before continuing, but the memory of that night is vivid in my mind.

After I got the text, I went to the bathroom and threw up. Then I called Cassie and woke her up and told her everything, finally. We cried together, and then she went into Cassie mode and started talking through all the options, but none of the options seemed viable. What was I going to do? He was like a religious figure on campus. Even though I had proof, going up against him was unfathomable.

A little while later he texted again. I apologize. That was meant for Kelly. I knew he was full of shit, and I didn't feel safe. I was sharing a room with Daria, the student athletic trainer, and thank god she came back to the room at that moment, because I was worried if he knew she was at the bar he would come to find me. But in the morning Daria had to leave early to tape ankles.

I squeeze Ben's hands. "He came to see me the next morning. I shouldn't have let him in, I knew that, but what was I going to do, make a scene in the hallway?"

As if all the people whose futures and livelihoods depended on his success would save me. No, my plan was to tell him I didn't see him like that, but no hard feelings, and that we could pretend it never happened. No big deal. I kept thinking about the fucking video I had to finish editing to send to the recruits, how I needed footage from the game that day. How I needed to deal with this—him—to get to that. I was in that stage of shock where you go on with your daily routine because you can't bear to accept that everything has changed. But he didn't give me time to say what I wanted.

Ben's face is hidden, resting against my hands, but my knuckles are wet with his tears.

"He told me he couldn't stop thinking about me." My voice wobbles. "That we had a connection, and he'd been trying to deny it, but he couldn't anymore. That he wanted me so badly, and he knew I felt the same way. He told me I'd been dropping hints for months with my texts and the way I always made an effort to dress up. That I was constantly hanging around that spring, making excuses to spend time with him. Pretending it was all about the internship I wanted. The internship he'd gotten for me."

The internship that, maybe, Ben would've gotten instead of me, if Maynard hadn't had ulterior motives.

Ben's head snaps up and he releases my hands. "Like you said earlier," he says. "He's a talented storyteller."

I fiddle with the lid on my water bottle. "He told me I was sexy. And I said, ‘I'm sorry if I gave you the wrong impression.' When I think about that, I want to rip my hair out."

I finally got to say something and I apologized . Afterward I fantasized about what would have happened if I'd told him he was delusional and needed to fuck off. Nothing different, I know that now. In the moment I wanted to de-escalate the situation, and honestly, part of me felt bad for him. I was worried about his feelings, which was a total joke, because he'd never given a single thought to mine.

I close my eyes. "Then he looked down at himself and said, ‘So, what, you're going to leave me like this?' I didn't look. I walked right past him, out the door and down the hall, and sprinted to one of the team buses outside."

Every sympathetic feeling I had for him, every remnant of admiration—it all went poof. I just felt bitter. This was the guy I thought was so capable, so supportive? That I looked up to? I went to the game. My hands wouldn't stop shaking. The footage was crap. I called Cassie at halftime, and she booked me a flight home.

"I left in the third quarter, packed, and was through airport security before anyone else left the arena. I never heard from him again. I got some texts from other people—you included—asking what happened, and I ignored everyone. I told my family, and Eric, and I begged them all not to tell anyone else. I wanted to forget it, and forget basketball."

I just wanted it to be over. A system where a person like that has so much power, enough power to fool most people and control the rest, can't be healthy, I decided. The whole thing was corrupt, rotten, top to bottom. I believed that for a long time.

I open my eyes. "I always thought—hoped—I was the only one. But I recently learned there were others. As soon as he left for Arizona Tech, he started pursuing a student manager there. No one before me has come forward, but Lily—the ESPN reporter—doubts I was the first. There's always been at least one at any given time. There's probably one right now."

I fall silent, and relief seeps into my body. I'm done. I told him everything.

Ben sits up and exhales a jagged breath, red eyes blinking rapidly. I watch him try to gather himself to speak, but he's not doing so hot.

I offer a weak smile. "On the bright side, you can never again accuse me of being a bandwagon fan."

He ignores the joke. It's probably time to retire it for good.

"I didn't know," he says. "How could I not have known?"

I shrug. "You couldn't have."

"Shouldn't I have been able to tell something wasn't right? I spent all that time with him, I worshipped him. Shouldn't there have been signs?"

"It's not like he walked around wearing a pin that said ‘Serial Sexual Harasser.' He fooled a lot of people for many years," I say. Well, not everyone. Lily told me there have been rumors on certain message boards for some time, but it wasn't until a woman at Arizona Tech approached her that she had enough for a story.

I had a fleeting suspicion my first day back. What did Verona say when I accidentally recorded his conversation with Ben and Lufton? Something about Coach Thomas: At least he's not a sexual predator.

Both our phones light up. My missed calls and texts have doubled since I last checked, and Coach Williams's name appears on Ben's screen. He glances down but ignores it.

"What was it like for you, after you left?"

I have to wipe my eyes before I answer. Now we're both crying. "I went numb for a while. Then Oliver moved to Boston, and I thought, well, our relationship was the first domino in the chain reaction that led to my life being ruined, so maybe I should try to salvage it so I have something to show for this entire mess."

Ben opens his mouth to speak.

I hold up my hands. "Ass-backward, I know. But that's why I forced it so many times. And he was good to me, about what happened. I had panic attacks, and he was so supportive. He's the one who convinced me to go to therapy, and it helped. He probably didn't anticipate that therapy would also help me realize that our relationship wasn't working, but it did that too."

He rubs his face. "I can't believe this. All I do is tell people how great he is. My mom loves him. We took his money. " His voice breaks. "Annie, you didn't tell me. I get why you would've stayed quiet back then, but we're close now. At least I thought we were. Why didn't you tell me?"

"I wanted to. I was scared, and it was complicated. I was planning to tell you tonight."

"This is why JJ wanted to meet with you." He blinks as it sinks in. "Deciding to do this article was probably the biggest decision of your life. You must've been thinking about it nonstop the past few weeks. And you didn't say a word to me. I must be the least observant person on the planet."

I'm trying to be patient, but it's becoming difficult. "I get it, Ben, but this isn't about you. Right now I'm stuck in this room, with Maynard somewhere in the building, and a bunch of reporters who know who I am right outside the door. It's not ideal."

The rumble of something heavy being wheeled down the concourse interrupts the silence that follows, and a walkie-talkie beeps from somewhere nearby. Ben's jaw tightens as he gives the door a dirty look. "You're right," he says. "We shouldn't be talking about this."

Here, he means. We shouldn't be talking about this here.

"What do you want to do?" he asks.

Maybe I should say take a quiet moment alone, or call my therapist, but neither of those comes to mind.

I take a deep breath. "I need to get out of here." I stand, and he follows my lead. "I need to get my computer from the hotel. I spoke to the press about things that make Ardwyn look bad. I have no idea what that means for my future. But I have to finish the video, do you understand?"

I need to hide out somewhere no university administrator can find me. Cassie has told me the school won't fire me right away. If they want to get rid of me, they'll let a few months float by and blame the budget or tank my performance reviews. But I have visions of some HR person cutting off my access to the network, telling me to take some time for myself, a paid leave of absence, effective immediately. I need to work on the video, because no matter how this ends, I'm not leaving my story unfinished. I need the rest of the day.

He doesn't question whether it's the right thing to focus on right now. Because he does understand. That's why, when he inevitably tries to leave with me so we can finish our conversation in private, I need to convince him to go to shoot-around instead. Because he deserves a chance to concentrate on basketball right now too.

He grabs a handful of tissues from the table in the corner and hands me one. "Let's go, then."

I dab my eyes and fan my hot, swollen face. I'm completely drained. Too drained to contemplate whether our tiny baby bird of a relationship and my future at Ardwyn can survive this.

All I can do is try to find the exit.