Chapter Three

THREE

Other than Eric and Ben, Donna is the only person still around from the old days. In fact, Donna will still be here long after the rest of us have gone to meet our maker, even though she's got twenty-five years on us. Death will be too terrified to ever come for Donna, especially if it tries showing up without making an appointment first.

She's barking into the phone when I approach her desk. "How many times do I have to tell you? No. Solicitors. Don't you dare call again." She hangs up with such force it probably hurts the person on the other end of the line. "Some people need to get their fucking ears cleaned," she mutters. I worship her in a way that makes me understand why some gods find the vengeful approach effective.

Her glower melts into a beatific smile when she sees me. "My beautiful girl." She stands to hug me. Donna is wiry and tanned year-round, with cropped hair dyed a shade of blond that tells people she doesn't give a shit that they can tell the color is fake.

"It's good to see you," I say.

"It's even better to see you. I missed you, I'm thrilled you're back, and that's all the chitchat we have time for, so let's get down to business."

Donna zips through the paperwork and slides it into a folder.

"There's supposed to be a tour, but you don't need it, and I have to go call a booster about his season tickets. He made one of the girls in Development cry, so now I have to return the favor. Your office is over here."

I scamper after Donna as she strides through the lobby toward the quietest section of the office, away from the conference room and the kitchen.

"The bathrooms haven't moved." She gestures down the hallway. "But there are free tampons now."

"How revolutionary," I say.

We turn left. There are only two offices in this stretch of corridor. The one on the left belongs to somebody. There's a coffee cup next to the computer and a cluster of picture frames on the other side of the desk. A bunch of half-deflated birthday balloons droops in the corner.

Donna deposits me in the other office. The desk is empty, but a massive bulletin board fills one wall, covered in old game programs and crumpled tickets. Evidently, the previous occupant was sentimental enough to save everything, but not sentimental enough to take it when they left. On the opposite wall is a row of pennants, one for each of the major Philly professional sports teams.

"Let me know when you take this stuff down and I'll have someone come patch the holes," Donna says. She pauses in the doorway. "Things have changed here. The people in charge are different, and it shows. I never blamed you for leaving for a better opportunity, but I'm glad you're back, and I think you'll be happier now."

"Okay," I say weakly. She never blamed me for leaving for a better opportunity. What opportunity? And why would she blame me, unless someone else did?

On her way out, she peeks in the room across the hall. "Not here," she declares loudly. "Wait until he hears about Kyle's latest fuckup. Lord have mercy." And then she's gone.

I need to start churning out a steady stream of preseason content right away. There are people to help with scripts and shooting, but otherwise I'm mostly in charge. Which means I'm the one who has to reach out to Ben for the information I need for my first video, even though I don't know what to make of this morning's conversation.

Monday, 11:47 a.m.

From: Annie

To: Ben

Hi Ben,

I'm looking forward to working with you again! I'm starting a series highlighting Ardwyn's top players at each position over the years, so I'm looking for some old stats.

Attached is a list of what I need. It's pretty straightforward. The video has to be final by Thursday afternoon, so please send me everything by Wednesday afternoon.

Let me know if you have any questions. Thanks!

I sit back in my chair, satisfied. I even forced myself to include the two exclamation points for extra-friendly vibes. Works well with others! Professional, yet feminine!

Next up, a call to IT to figure out why I can't access the video archives yet. I drag a finger down the phone directory Donna gave me, looking for the right name and extension. Eric's name is near the top, with Assistant Coach next to it. I run into Ben's a few rows below it, followed by his title: Director of Analytics .

The realization cuts like an infomercial knife through a watermelon. What did Williams say at the meeting? Our director of analytics is a modern guy, and he agreed with me. We made our opinions clear to Coach Thomas. I assumed Ben was the director of operations. "Director of analytics" wasn't even a position when we were in school. I should've realized Williams was talking about Ben, though. He was a statistics major. As a student manager, he did all the normal stuff: helped break down film, inventoried equipment, did laundry. But he was also constantly waving a piece of paper in front of Coach Maynard's face with some graph or chart he'd compiled when he was supposed to be sleeping, urging him to tweak the lineup or rhapsodizing about offensive efficiency.

I remember one particular rant. "Elliott should never bother practicing that baseline shot again. Every time he does, he's lighting fifteen seconds of his basketball career on fire. He hasn't even tried it in a game all season." He threw his hands up in the air.

Coach Maynard frowned. "That doesn't sound right."

"The numbers aren't lying. " Like he needed to defend their honor.

It was a late night in the office and I had been listening to the conversation for too long. I tapped a few keys on my laptop and turned it to face Maynard. "Look, Coach, I made a video montage of all the times he's taken that shot in a game this year."

It was a black screen.

Ben and I high-fived. Maynard laughed and shook his head.

Ben argued against my hiring. Williams's opinion doesn't bother me as much because it's not personal. He doesn't know me. But Ben does, and doesn't want me here anyway.

That stings, badly. And it jibes with the way he acted this morning. But why is someone I used to work closely with—so closely that I still remember his Wawa sandwich order—acting this way? I must be missing something.

There's no time for this. If I'm going to convince Coach Thomas that hiring me was the right call while Williams and Ben are whispering in his ear that it was a mistake, I need to focus.

I set off for the storage closet to check out the state-of-the-art equipment Eric promised. The Church, including the office, is long overdue for a remodel. Even when it's clean it seems dusty, and none of the rooms have enough electrical outlets. But the rich wood molding lining the hallways is charming, if battered, and the carpet is plush, although it's faded from its original Ardwyn Blue.

I pass the room where the student managers work and a wave of nostalgia hits me, even though it's barely recognizable without the odor of Monster Energy drinks permeating the air. Shockingly, there's not a Saturdays Are for the Boys flag in sight. It's crammed full of desks with backpacks everywhere, and music blares from a laptop, but nobody's there. Practice just started, so they're probably in the gym. I'll introduce myself later.

I pull open the door to the storage closet, step inside the dark space, and stumble backward. A reedy twentysomething with shaggy hair is standing in front of my beautiful new equipment, biting his thumbnail and watching a clip from Impractical Jokers on his phone.

"Uh, hi," I say.

"I needed a minute," he says, barely glancing up.

"Come here often?" I quip.

Donna hollers from down the hall. "Kyle! Where the hell did you go?"

He shoots me a pleading look. "Can you shut the door?"

Whatever he did wrong, hiding isn't going to make Donna any less pissed. "It'll get worse the longer you make her wait," I say. It may have been a while since I last worked here, but I still know some things about this place.

The first thing I want to film is a fake press conference with jokey questions for Coach Thomas. After Kyle reluctantly drags himself out of the closet, I acquaint myself with all the gear at my disposal, set up a camera in the media room, and check the lighting and sound. I'll have only thirty minutes with Thomas tomorrow and it'll be the first time we meet, so it needs to go smoothly.

As the day winds down, I sit at my desk to review the test footage. A phone call from the payroll department about my direct deposit sidetracks me for a minute, and when I hang up, an unfamiliar voice emanates from my speakers: "Coach Thomas seems cool."

I look at all the open windows spread across my three monitors and then realize where the noise is coming from. After I set up the camera, I left it running while I ran back to my office to grab my phone and got waylaid by Ted Horvath in the hallway for a while. Two of the student managers appear to have parked themselves in front of the camera to eat lunch while I was gone.

One of them speaks. "I guess. At least he's not, like, a sexual predator or something."

Blood whooshes in my ears.

The other one snorts. "Dude, what the fuck?" I don't remember their names, after a day full of introductions. So far, they're White Polo and Blue Monogrammed Vest.

A third person moves into the frame. It's Ben. "Hey, guys, how's it going? Who's setting up for practice tomorrow?"

White Polo raises his hand.

"Who's the new girl?" Blue Monogrammed Vest asks. "With this thing?" He gestures at the camera, oblivious to the fact that it's recording.

White Polo has the answer. "New digital media producer."

I should probably stop playing the video. The lighting and sound are fine. But instead I plug in my headphones and rest my chin on my fist, face too close to the screen.

"I saw her talking to Donna like they knew each other."

"I heard her dad was Bauer's high school coach."

"Holy shit, bro, her dad was Ken Radford? No wonder she got this job."

Ben says nothing. What the fuck? He has a cornucopia of facts to choose from to correct this ridiculousness. Yes, Dad was the winningest high school basketball coach in New Jersey state history. And yes, he was Eric's coach. But these kids know nothing about Dad or me.

They don't know about Dad's dry sense of humor, or his patience, or the way he made his own snack mix when we watched games on TV, mixing up a separate batch for me because I like a higher proportion of pretzels to popcorn. And they don't know that I invented this job. If these beer-me dipshits are longtime Ardwyn fans, they probably got hyped up on my videos when they were guzzling Go-Gurts in middle school.

"Someone said she used to work here. You know her?"

Finally Ben speaks. "She worked here a long time ago for a little while."

"That's a ringing endorsement. How cringeworthy is it going to be? Do I need to unfollow our Instagram account?"

I'd kill to see Ben's face, but his back is to the camera. "That's not the issue. But she doesn't deserve to be here." He pauses. "All I'm going to say is: Get used to it. We're the best we've been in years. Everyone is trying to elbow their way in because of the hype. Hopping on the bandwagon."

The weight of his words drags my jaw down until I'm gaping at the screen. I want to laugh but can't find my breath. I rub my face with my hands and leave them there for a minute, pressing down from my eyebrows to my chin.

"I wish some of that hype translated into a spot in the preseason Top 25," White Polo says.

"That's meaningless," Ben replies. "We'll be ranked when it matters."

"I've literally never heard you talk shit about anyone," Blue Monogrammed Vest says. "She must be a total nightmare."

I rewatch it three times. The first two times to make sure I understand Ben correctly. The third time serves no purpose other than to make my insides feel like they've been jammed into a pot of boiling water with the lid on.

Sitting still and stewing in these feelings seems unhealthy, so I busy myself with the bulletin board, unpinning yellowed game tickets, old rosters, and printouts of news articles about big wins. It doesn't clear my head, but at least it gives me something to do with my hands.

This is worse than I thought this morning. What am I missing? I haven't seen Ben since the fall of senior year, which is an absolute blur. I spent a significant portion of those months in a state of heavy intoxication. I wasn't much better sober, trapped in a haze of preoccupation with the way my love life and job were falling to shreds around me. It's possible I did something grudge-worthy, but nothing stands out in my memory.

My thoughts are interrupted by a giant man with a ginger-brown beard charging through the doorway and squealing, and I instantly feel lighter.

"Annie," Eric sings, pulling me in for a hug. "That shit is so red. You look like the person a senator calls when they need help covering up a felony."

I squeeze him back. It's the latest iteration of a joke he's been telling for over a decade, since we became friends in high school. Eric talking about clothes is like putting a sentence into a translation app, turning it into Hungarian, and then turning it back into English. You can kind of track, technically, where the sentiment came from, but overall it makes no sense.

After detaching myself from him, I smooth the lapel of my blazer. "Thanks, I think."

He's beaming and nearly bouncing around the room, roaming from wall to chair to window. "I'm so glad you're here! I've been counting down the days. Honestly, I was afraid you were going to back out."

"Nope. I'm in it to win it," I say, with an anemic fist pump.

"I'm so happy. And you started on the wildest day. Did you hear what happened? Donna realized our director of operations, Kyle, used last year's schedule to book all our travel for the first half of the season."

I hadn't heard, but it doesn't surprise me that the guy who was unembarrassed to be caught hiding in a closet watching prank videos on his phone would screw up that badly. "That guy is the director of operations? Why? How? He doesn't even seem capable of directing someone to the bathroom."

"His uncle is the university's CFO," Eric says. "He's new. It was a favor." He spots the pile of thumbtacks and team paraphernalia on top of the filing cabinet. "Redecorating already? I love it. Tell me, how great was your first day?"

I let out an uneasy laugh. He genuinely thinks this job is the key to my happiness, not a means to an end, and I'm not ready to crush his spirits. "It was a day, that's for sure. Williams? You could've warned me."

He's plucking items from the upper edge of the bulletin board, where I can't reach, and adding them to the pile. "What do you mean? I thought you'd get along with him. He reminds me of your dad."

"What?" I hiss. "My dad was nice."

"It's not that. It's the tunnel vision." He switches to a robot voice. "Must. Pursue. Victory."

"Eric, that's not even what I'm talking about. There's a weird vibe here. Some people aren't being very welcoming." I don't mention Ben by name. Eric isn't known for his discretion.

He unpins a birthday card. "What? No. Everyone is stressed, but they shouldn't take it out on you."

"Why is everyone stressed?"

He fumbles the pushpin. It disappears, and he drops to his knees to search for it, bumping into the furniture with all his lanky limbs as he crawls around.

"Eric, why is everyone stressed?" I repeat.

He goes still, his upper half hidden under my desk. "Well, funny story. Not ‘ha-ha' funny. More ‘the universe is chaotic so you just have to laugh' funny. I did plan to talk to you about it. Maybe after work today?" He pops his head out, looking up at me hopefully.

"No," I say, my stomach dipping. "Let's talk about it now."

He climbs into a sitting position, his back against the desk, and covers his eyes with the birthday card. "Promise you won't get mad?"

"Absolutely not." I snatch the card from his hand. "Spill."

His face droops. "There was an internal announcement last week," he says. "The athletic department is planning a budget cut for after this season. A big one. We're the only revenue-generating sport, and we haven't had any standout seasons lately, even though we've been improving every year. Ticket sales are down, donations are shrinking…"

A budget cut. Yet here I am, a brand-new employee with a brand-new salary and a closet full of expensive, brand-new gear. I fight the urge to staple Eric to the bulletin board. "Why didn't you tell me before I took this job?"

"I didn't know!" he says. "It was clear we weren't thriving , but I didn't realize it was this bad. We were still spending money, hiring people. When they told us last week, you were already moving into your apartment." He scratches the back of his neck. "Look, nothing is set in stone. The team has a lot of potential. And I think you belong here, and you're going to help bring new energy to this team."

"But if things don't go better this season," I say, realizations piling up in my head, "budget cuts will mean layoffs. And I'm a new hire in a completely nonessential role." Shit. Another six-month stint to add to my résumé. A heavy weight settles on my chest.

"Maybe," Eric admits. "I'm really sorry. But maybe not. We won't get the worst of it, because we're still the only team that has a chance of pulling in significant money. Coach says they're planning to take away one position from our staff, so it looks like we're in it together with everyone else. Other teams will bear the brunt of it."

"That makes me feel much better. Maybe the field hockey team can play without sticks? When I get laid off, I'll help the swimmers look for puddles big enough to practice in once they lose their pool."

"None of it is inevitable," he presses. "We have a whole season to turn things around and the talent to do it. And even if the worst does happen, the sacrificial lamb isn't automatically going to be you. "

"Are you sure I didn't get hired just so they can fire me when it's time to cut someone?"

"I'm sure," Eric says firmly. "Coach wants you here. He believes you can make a difference. Prove him right."

I pace across the room to my desk, and my eyes land on the staff directory. If I'm not automatically going to be the one laid off, then who else could it be? It won't be a coach, or the strength and conditioning coordinator. They're vital. It definitely won't be Donna. This team needs her more than it needs an actual basketball. Kyle is safe, given his connections.

"Then who…" I say, trailing off when I realize my office door is open. I move to shut it to thwart any eavesdroppers, but someone is coming down the hallway. Half-zip, sculpted hair, dark eyes. Crap, it's Ben. I try to avoid eye contact but it's too late, and he stutter-steps awkwardly, like he'd rather keep walking but feels compelled to stop.

"Callahan!" Eric says, hoisting himself off the floor. "Get in here, buddy. Annie and I were talking about her first day back."

He stands in the doorway reluctantly, a somber pout on his unfortunately still-attractive face. Damn, I was hoping it had just been the flattering October sunlight. Life is truly unfair.

He gestures to the room across the hall. "My office is right there."

Ten feet away. I grit my teeth, and he shoves his hands into the pockets of his chinos. "That's so great," I croak. The two of us, stuck together for an entire season.

The two of us.

There it is, the answer to my question slotting into place. If I'm not the one laid off, it'll be Ben. It makes perfect sense. He's nonessential; having a dedicated statistics analyst is a luxury. Even though he's good enough at his job to win an ESPN award, he apparently still hasn't done enough to earn a coaching position, despite the fact that he's been here for a decade.

He needs me to fail because if I don't, he'll be the one who gets fired.

Eric's eyes land on him and then jump back to me, but he doesn't notice the tension. Instead his face lights up with a memory. "Hey, it's Mom and Dad! Remember?"

Mom and Dad, our old nicknames.

It started with one of the younger managers, Spencer. When we heard he was failing Intro to the Humanities, we sat him down in the conference room.

"We know it's hard to balance basketball and school," Ben told him. "We want to help you."

Spencer slouched in his chair. "There's not enough time in the day. How do you do it? Do you even sleep?"

Ben and I exchanged a look. I survived by taking easy classes and contenting myself with average grades. He did it by staying in and studying every night.

"Let's make a plan," I said. "You have a paper due Friday, right?"

Ben opened his laptop and pulled up the calendar he and I shared. "If I put Garrett on laundry…"

I leaned in. "You'll have to set up for practice by yourself on Wednesday."

"Maybe Donna can help get the recruiting letters out."

"I'll look over his paper on Thursday night."

"Perfect." Ben input the changes to the calendar. "Oh, Garrett's birthday is on the twelfth."

"I'll make cupcakes."

"You have a test that day. Sociology, right?"

I amended my statement. "I'll beg Cassie to make cupcakes."

Ben closed his laptop and folded his hands. "You're off duty for the rest of the week," he told Spencer. "Take the time to write a good paper."

"Send it to me before you hand it in so I can make sure it doesn't suck," I added.

Spencer hunched forward, his face red. "I feel bad making you go to all this effort for me."

"Ardwyn basketball is a family." I patted his arm. "We look out for each other."

"Thank you," he mumbled.

Spencer showed his gratitude by calling us Mom and Dad behind our backs. It caught on immediately. I know the other managers used to joke about us hooking up too, but it was never like that between us. Ben had a girlfriend, and I was only interested in emotionally unavailable music snobs. We didn't hang out outside work. All we had in common was basketball, and it probably worked better that way.

Jeez. Is this what this whole season is going to be like? It's like somebody's following me around and hitting me repeatedly with old memories like a rusty shovel to the face.

"This is an epic moment. You two, reunited!" Eric mimes taking a photo of us with an imaginary camera. He feeds off an enthusiastic audience, but unfortunately he doesn't require one. "Dad, how does it feel to have Mom back at home?"

Ben flashes a tight smile. "Hm. Wow. I have no idea what I've done to deserve this kind of luck."

I laugh out loud and his eyes pin me down, etching his displeasure into my skin.

My stomach twists. I barely suppress a scowl and turn back to Eric. In my best patronizing parent voice, I say: "Honey, Mom loves you very much. But that doesn't mean Dad and I are getting back together."