Chapter Twenty-Nine

TWENTY-NINE

The reporters are gathering on the concourse. Not right outside the door, but down toward the interview room. The hallway curves so it's impossible to see, but their chatter carries toward Ben and me.

Damn. I hoped they'd still be behind closed doors at the press conference. Or better yet, that they'd already be gone, leaving a clear path for my escape. The longer I wait, the more likely it is that someone will wander in our direction, but I linger anyway. Is it my imagination or do they sound louder? Energized? More frenetic than usual? How could they not be, after a bombshell like that?

They know. They know, and they're going to write about it. My pulse picks up, like the world's most twisted slow clap accelerating in my veins. This is frightening and unfair, and I feel so exposed, especially here.

Despite all that, there's also this: I'm going to exit the stadium today and leave my story with these reporters and their readers. It's no longer trapped inside me, and for the next few hours at least, I'm walking away from it completely. In that sense, I'm free.

Meanwhile, Ben looks like he wants to lie down on the floor and tell me to go on without him. My heart hurts, seeing him like this. How many emotions can one person possibly feel at once? I'm at, like, seven, and it seems like too many.

I didn't make the decision to participate in the story on impulse. For once I thought through the pros and cons first, consulting Cassie and Kat and Mom and my therapist. I had valid reasons for saying no, of course. The pain of reliving my worst memories; the disappointment, if he weasels his way out of any consequences; the risk of doxxing and harassment from angry Arizona Tech fans and garden-variety misogynists. The million ways the Internet might grasp onto the truth, twist it into something unrecognizable, and run with it screaming, like a streaker zigzagging across a football field with his hair on fire and the words Flat Earth painted on his ass.

But the reasons for saying yes won out. Yes, because maybe he'll lose his job. Yes, because there's a woman out there he's going to hurt next, and maybe this article will stop him. But I can't count on either of those things happening. So yes, most of all, for a more selfish reason: because he never fucking listened.

What I said to him never mattered. What I wanted was irrelevant. He never listened, but he'll be forced to hear me now. Over these past few months, I've finally accepted that by leaving basketball, I lost something good for a long time. A dormant red rage crackled to life inside me and I had nowhere to put it, until I poured it into the article like molten steel. Inner peace, acceptance, healing: all well and good. Maybe a smidge overrated. Anger, though. Sometimes anger is the best you've got. I don't know if I have the power to change anything, but I'm sure as hell pissed enough to try.

Like Dad always said: Don't be afraid to take up space in the paint.

Maybe Maynard will stick his fingers in his ears, close his eyes, and shout denials. Even so, my words will be there. His friends and family, his employees, his players and recruits, his bosses—they'll hear them. The uncontrollable beast of the Internet will absorb them and pass them on. And my voice will be louder and stronger because it won't be alone. It'll be joined with the voices of many brave women from Arizona Tech. Maybe he'll emerge with minimal damage, but these women won't make it easy for him. Our words will chase him, stick to him, haunt him everywhere he goes.

Boo, motherfucker.

"Let me think about how we're going to do this," Ben says. In one direction are the reporters. In the other direction a tall metal security gate looms, stretching across the width of the concourse.

Reality crashes in. I have to walk past all those people, and they know everything. My bravado crumbles. I blink away tears and hug myself, pulling the cuffs of my sweater down over my thumbs.

"Hey." Ben squeezes my shoulders. "It's going to be okay. We'll walk fast, heads down, stick close to the wall. I know it seems like everyone will be paying attention to us, but they won't. I'll walk in front of you."

His eyes are red and his cheeks are splotchy. Not exactly inconspicuous himself. But he doesn't seem to care about that.

I make a hideous, wet sniffling sound. "Okay. Let's get this over with."

We inch through the crowd along the wall. My nose is touching his spine.

I hold on to his belt loop with one hand and thrust the other into my bag, casting around for my sunglasses so I can cover my puffy eyes. They must be all the way at the bottom. I dig in farther.

It's a sturdy tote, but not a miracle worker. With one strap in the crook of my elbow and the other dangling free, the mouth of the bag opens too wide and the heaviest item inside topples to the floor: my water bottle. The lid detaches with a loud popping sound. The bottle's contents spill everywhere.

"Shit!"

"So much water," Ben says, dumbfounded. Eight hours' worth, to be precise.

People are staring now, and not just in my imagination. They're coming over with napkins, and someone's looking for a janitor.

Somehow, across the throng I make eye contact with Quincy. I'm lucky this is basketball, because he can see me over everyone's heads. He's standing with Coach Thomas and Coach Williams next to a pair of golf carts, the ones that are supposed to ferry them off to the locker room in time for shoot-around. His eyes scan my tragic face and the commotion around me.

Quincy raises his hands in the air. "Attention, everyone!" His voice reverberates, and the crowd stills. The guys with the napkins turn away from the puddle.

Out of nowhere, Eric is there, picking up my water bottle. "You okay?"

I stuff it back into my bag. "Peachy."

"I have a major announcement to make!" Quincy says.

"Time to go," I say. But then through the open doors of the interview room, I see—"Wait, my camera."

"I'll tell Jess to take care of it," Eric says. "Go."

"The announcement is about my future after tomorrow's game!" Quincy shouts.

"Come on," Ben says, tugging me gently by the wrist.

On the other side of the crowd, Thomas and Williams wait with one of the golf carts. "You take it," Thomas says. "This is James. He'll get you out of here." The man behind the wheel raises a hand in acknowledgment.

Quincy is still going: "As of next week, I will be taking my talents…drumroll please…"

Somebody, somewhere, starts banging a series of beats on a trash can. Thomas squats down next to me as I climb into the golf cart.

"We'll see you tomorrow, okay?" He looks me straight in the eyes, waiting for me to acknowledge him in the affirmative.

A lump swells in my throat but I manage to nod. The room is spinning, but his message is clear: I still want you here. On the other side of the golf cart, Williams is saying something to Ben, but I can't discern his words.

I brace myself for an argument with Ben about whether he should come with me. I need to convince him not to let Maynard ruin this experience for him. It's the Final Four, and he deserves to participate every step of the way.

But Ben doesn't climb into the golf cart. Instead, he flags down Eric, who hops in next to me. My eyes connect with Ben's. His expression is blank, and I don't know what it means. An uneasy feeling washes over me. He can't possibly be that angry with me for not telling him.

As James accelerates, Quincy finishes his declaration. "…I will be taking my talents back to Twitch, hopping on stream for the first time all month!"

The reporters groan in unison.

The stadium whizzes by as James expertly maneuvers toward the exit. Despite my confusion about Ben, relief washes over me when it comes into view. I leap out before the cart stops completely and run for the door, Eric's footsteps trailing mine.

We're outside and alone. "Holy shit," I say, stretching my arms out as if to hug the brilliant blue sky. I let go of the cuffs of my sweater, finally. The right one has a hole in it where my thumb worked its way through.

We're near the loading docks where the bus drops us off every day. I have no clue how to get back to the hotel from here, so I pull up a ride-hailing app on my phone. It's a long wait, with everyone in town for the game. When I finally get a car, I'll have to pack up everything at the hotel, wait for another car, and go—where? My family's Airbnb, maybe?

Once I'm somewhere safe I'll finish the video. Thomas acted like the events of the day won't change anything, but I don't want to bank on that when the fallout isn't over yet.

"You don't need a Lyft," Eric says. "I called in reinforcements."

"My family? I don't even know where they're supposed to be right now."

But wait. Their plans for the day are irrelevant, because they're not at a restaurant or museum or botanical garden. They're here, walking through the parking lot toward Eric and me. Even at a distance, I'd recognize Kat's riot of sunshine hair and Mom's vacation capris anywhere.

I fall into Kat's arms. "I have never been so happy to see you."

Mom puts a hand on my back. "We came as soon as we heard."

With horror, I remember Mom's plans for the day. "You're missing your tarot reading!" She's only been talking about it for a week straight. I shoo Eric back toward the building. "Get to practice," I say. "We're good."

He squeezes me like a near-empty tube of toothpaste. "I'm proud of you."

I do my best to explain to Mom and Kat what happened: the press conference, my conversation with Ben, our escape, the long wait for a car, and my half-baked plan for finishing the video.

"It took us forever to get here," Kat says. "The city is mobbed right now."

"It's true," Mom agrees. "Some strange people too. I asked this guy to take a photo of me in front of Lafitte's Blacksmith Shop this morning and instead he did a selfie of the two of us together."

"Cassie will know what we should do," Kat says.

"Good idea. I'll call her." I pull my phone out of my pocket.

"You don't need to call her," Mom says. "She's right there."

I spin around.

There she is, jogging toward us, arms flapping and curls bouncing. She wraps me in a hug so forceful we almost fall to the ground. "Eric told me," she says, huffing and puffing. "I'm so sorry. I was at my aunt's barbecue. I got here as fast as I could."

"I feel awful for making you miss a family party," I say.

"I feel awful that this is happening right now," Cassie says. "What's the plan?"

We fill her in on what I need to do, and our transportation troubles.

Cassie's got a strange, tense look on her face, and she keeps nodding aggressively. "We can go to my parents' house," she says. She's standing very still. Like she doesn't trust herself to move.

"Are you sure?" I ask.

"Sure as shit." She claps a hand over her mouth.

"I've never heard you curse," Kat remarks.

That's when it dawns on me. "You're drunk!"

Cassie steps to the side, swaying a little. "A little bit." There it is, a hint of a slur. "All the relatives were there. Uncle Henry made his special red punch. I get drunk maybe twice a year, how was I supposed to know my friendship services would be needed today?"

I laugh, and Cassie raises a finger. "Joke's on you because I am extremely useful, even when intoxicated," she says. "My cousin went to her office after she dropped me here to do some work. Workaholic lawyer, sound familiar? Her office is on Poydras. We can take her car to the hotel and then to the house."

She holds her hand up for a high five. Kat obliges.

"Only problem is, my BAC is way too high. Obviously. Whoever drives has to be careful. Traffic normally isn't too bad here, but with the tournament it's pretty chaotic today, especially near the hotel. And watch out for streetcars."

Kat and I exchange a look. All those rides to and from school, the mall, the movies. The hours of sitting in strangers' driveways, at houses with for sale signs on the front lawns. Unnecessary lifts to train stations and airports when public transportation or rideshares would suffice. Mom can't help it; it's her love language.

She's already pushing up her sleeves. Her jaw is set. This is the moment she's been training for her entire life. "I'll drive."