Chapter Thirty

THIRTY

It's dark when I finish the video. It ends on a shot from practice, the camera zooming out as the players stretch on the court like they do every single day. "This is your moment," Michael B. Jordan says. "Go take your shot."

I send it to Taylor. While I wait for a response, I lean on the windowsill in the second-floor office and peer outside. The patio behind Cassie's parents' house is weathered stone, illuminated by bronze lanterns. A thick swath of ivy climbs the back fence, and creamy white flowers bloom on the magnolia tree below the window. It's only a few miles from the hotel, but it's a different world.

It's seven thirty. The last team dinner of the season probably just wrapped up. A twinge of anxious longing hits me, the feeling that my life is happening elsewhere. I should be eating bland chicken and listening to motivational speeches with everyone else.

Taylor: It's AMAZING.

Taylor: I'm crying!

Taylor: Posting at 9am.

Peace settles in. That's it, then. The best thing I've ever made is done. Ben was right, I couldn't have created something like this five years ago.

Taylor: We missed you tonight.

Jess:

A heart emoji? From Jess? Things are truly dire. Maybe it's best I'm not with the team. The last thing I need is people fumbling for how to treat me.

I take my time descending the creaky wood stairs, making the transition from my editing cocoon back to the real world. Not that this version of the real world is a hardship to endure. Cassie's parents' house is a gorgeous Greek revival, with original moldings, towering ceilings, and an eclectic art collection. I find her sitting at the kitchen table in the dark, hugging a bottle of coconut water like it's a life raft. A bag of ice sits nearby, melting.

"How are you feeling?" I ask.

Cassie groans. "Day drinking is fun, they said. You're starting your own practice, let's do shots, they said." She rubs her forehead. "Nobody mentioned the seven p.m. hangover."

"Oh, you sweet, innocent girl." I pick up the ice and hold it against Cassie's temple. "On the bright side, you'll be fully recovered by the morning."

"On the bright side, even if I'm not, I don't have any work to do tomorrow before the game."

"What's the next step, after you give your notice?"

"A trip somewhere nice, since we didn't take a honeymoon. I'm not thinking about anything else until after that." She takes a sip of coconut water and makes a face. "So. How was Ben?"

I trace a crack in the old table with my finger. "Pretty sure ‘shattered' about covers it. I think he's mad at me for not telling him."

"It's all going to work out. I know it will."

"I don't know," I say. "A lot has happened. A lot is happening. The Maynard stuff, and work—I have no clue how it's going to turn out for either of us. We've never even had an honest conversation about what we want from each other. Our relationship is so new I don't know if it can take all this. You think…he believes me, right?"

Cassie sits up straight. She looks horrified that I'm even asking. "I'm sure he does."

She's right. He believes me, of course. It's just…I haven't heard from him all evening. And I keep going over some of the things he said, his facial expressions, the fact that he didn't try to leave with me. What if, when he asked How could I not have known? , he meant I don't believe this could've happened without my knowing ? What if, when he said I can't believe this, he meant it literally?

I force a smile. "I'm sure you're right."

"Well, I'm rooting for you guys," Cassie says. She takes the bag of ice from me. "I think my eyeballs are sweating. Is that normal?"

In the living room I find Mom watching Jeopardy! while Kat lies on the couch frowning at her phone. "I'm updating Fuckwaffle's Wikipedia page," she says without looking up.

"Is that wise?" I ask.

"Well, I could go back to fighting with trolls. This seems better, doesn't it?"

"She sent pictures of one guy's rude comments to his employer," Mom says.

I cringe. "Oh, god. Please don't tell me what they're saying on the Internet about this. I don't want to know."

Cassie's thumbs fly across the screen. "Most of the response is good. But the rest need to pay."

"They'll drag you down to their level, you know that, right?"

Kat offers a cheery smile. "We're past that point. I'll be down here in hell for another couple hours. See you on the other side."

Mom pats the seat next to her. "Come over here." I sit. "I don't want you doing anything basketball-related from now until you leave for the game tomorrow. You need to decompress."

I look at the TV. "If I even go to the game," I say, a bitter taste flooding my mouth.

"Annie, it's the national championship."

"I don't know if I'll be allowed. I may be blacklisted by now."

"I don't think they're going to be that harsh. And lucky for you, your lawyer is in the other room."

A loud banging sound echoes from the kitchen. "I'm fine!" Cassie shouts.

"She'll be sober by tomorrow," Mom adds, wrapping a reassuring arm around my shoulder.

"I don't want to be a distraction. I don't want to see Maynard. And I especially don't want him to see me. It's better if I stay away." I try to say it with confidence, but my bottom lip trembles.

Mom mutes the TV and studies the remote. She turns it over, opens the battery compartment with her thumbnail, clicks it back into place. She sets it on the coffee table. "You were my bold child," she says. "You threw yourself into everything from a young age. It terrified me. I was always afraid of you getting hurt. And then you did get hurt, and you stopped being bold, and that was worse.

"But your fearlessness still came through when it was for other people. It wasn't gone, you just reserved it for the rest of us, not for yourself. You've always shown up for the people who matter. I think it's so important to do that. I don't really like basketball, do you know that? But I've been to more games than most people who love it passionately."

I open my mouth, but Mom holds up her hand. "Don't look so surprised. I don't like shopping all that much either."

"Mom!"

"But I love my family, so I went to basketball games, and I take my daughters to the mall so I can spend time with them," she says. "I still remember the way you yelled at that guy who was criticizing your father's coaching from the bleachers a few years ago. And when you marched into that frat party to confront that kid who was spreading rumors that he had nude pictures of Kat on his phone.

"Lately, you've been my bold girl again, more and more, just older and wiser. Don't stop now. You have to show up for the people who matter, and this time the person who matters is you. This is the national championship, and you should be there."

Fine. After this trip I'll sit down and help her figure out that ancestry website once and for all. I rest my head on Mom's shoulder, wiping my eyes with the poor beat-up sleeve of my sweater. "Ah, god, Mom. You're such a Pisces."

She laughs and wraps an arm around me. On the other couch, Kat is still poking feverishly at her phone, her eyes alight with mischief. It's almost a perfect moment.

I swallow. "I miss Dad."

Mom squeezes me closer. "Me too. Always."

"It's weird," I say. "I didn't go to a single basketball game from the day Dad died until the day this season started. I was afraid it would make me miss him too much. But I've realized it does the opposite. When I'm at a basketball game, for a little while, he's there. Not in a religious way, obviously, and I know Kat's full of crap when she tries to convince us there's a ghost in your attic—"

"Rude!" Kat objects.

"—but it feels like, if I turn around, he'll be standing behind me. Just…the sound of dribbling, the smell of popcorn and pretzels, the rhythm of the game. It's what he was made of. It makes me feel so close to him."

Mom smiles. "Basketball connected the two of you for your whole life. Why would it be any different now?"

We watch TV in a comfortable silence until Cassie shouts from the kitchen. "Dinner's ready!"

The three of us exchange puzzled looks.

"You should not have cooked," I say when I enter the kitchen. "I'm surprised the fire department isn't here. You should have gone to bed instead."

"Relax," Cassie says, depositing a pan in the sink. "Even in my current state I can handle this."

I follow her gaze to the four grilled cheese sandwiches laid out on the table.

"I wanted to make something better, but when I opened the fridge I rested my head on the orange juice carton for a minute and almost fell asleep. I decided not to push it."

"This is amazing," Kat says, busting into the kitchen.

"It's perfect," I agree.

When we're all sitting around the table, Cassie picks a gooey string of cheese off the edge of her sandwich and turns to Mom. "How are you liking New Orleans, Mrs. Radford?"

"I love it here. I've never been any place like this. I don't think there is any other place like this," she says. "I took some photos this morning." She pulls out her phone and puts on her reading glasses. "Let's see. Tons of beautiful buildings in the French Quarter. Oh, here's the one with the weirdo selfie guy. He was actually pretty cute."

"Ooh-la-la, Mother," Kat says. "Let's see him."

She flips the phone around and the three of us lean in. Holy shit. Cassie shrieks and her chair tips forward. She barely catches herself on the table. I laugh, and Kat sits back with a bemused smile.

I rip the phone from Mom's hands to get a better look. "Mom, he wasn't a weirdo! People probably ask for photos with him all the time. He misunderstood what you wanted."

"What? Why would they ask for photos with him all the time?"

Now Cassie grabs the phone. "Because," she gasps. "That's Logan. From The Beach House. "

I go to the game. Probably I always intended to go to the game, if I'm being honest. But sometimes it's easier to say you don't want something when someone else controls whether you get it or not. When I board the bus, I half expect a stranger in a suit to rip my access pass from around my neck and shove me out the door.

It doesn't happen.

Another thing that doesn't happen, despite my wishes: Arizona Tech suspending Maynard for the finals. They release a gutless statement about how they take the allegations seriously and will conduct and release the results of a thorough investigation in due course. Blah, blah. They want to squeeze in a national title before dealing with any consequences.

"Glad you're here," Eric says during shoot-around.

"Me too," I agree. Last night I asked him to tell people not to say a word to me about the article, and so far they've all obeyed. Except Taylor, who checks on me every five minutes and keeps offering me snacks. It helps that the team has the biggest game of their lives to focus on.

Ben shuffles past with his hands in his pockets and does a weird eyebrow-raise-chin-jerk-acknowledgment-thing. "You okay?" he croaks, not quite making eye contact. I didn't know my stomach could sink any lower, but somehow it does.

I look for Maynard as soon as his team files onto the court. Better to get it over with. When my eyes settle on him, the shrill wail of a danger alarm jolts to life in my head. I want to limit myself to a quick glance, but I can't look away.

His hair is starting to gray. He still wears his jacket too long in the sleeves and wide in the shoulders, like he's trying to look disarming. Despite the last twenty-four hours, he's carrying himself like he belongs here, with complete ease, even in front of all these people.

I won't have to speak to him. I've planned out how to do my job tonight while giving him a wide berth, and if he approaches me there are a dozen people here who will body-slam him to the ground, starting with Taylor.

I'm on the opposite corner of the court filming warm-ups when Ben approaches Maynard. The camera falls to my side, their interaction commanding my full attention. Ben leans in to speak directly into his ear. The conversation lasts for at least three years, each of them taking turns speaking. Both of their expressions are unreadable. Unfortunately, most coaches are good at maintaining a poker face when an entire arena is watching their every move. Then Maynard nods, claps Ben on the back once, and walks back to his bench. When Ben turns around, his face is neutral, but I know him well enough to spot the tension in his jaw. He doesn't look at me.

I'm pretty sure Ben just asked Maynard for his side of the story. I need to accept what's happening right in front of my face: Ben is, at minimum, hearing him out. He's distancing himself from me. And it's possible he's aligning himself with the enemy.

The stadium vibrates with anticipation as the teams gather at center court for tip-off, amped-up fans screaming louder and louder. I feel dead inside.

Arizona Tech wins the tip-off. Their small forward drives aggressively to the basket and makes a layup, drawing a foul and making the free throw. On the next possession, we run the length of the court, and Quincy sinks a picture-perfect three-pointer. Fifteen seconds into the game and both teams have set the tone.

Mercifully, basketball does what it does best for me. It takes over, and I mostly stop thinking about Ben. The Rattlers are rough near the basket, not shying away from contact. Elbows dig into abdomens, but we give it back as best we can.

With a few seconds left in the half, their point guard floats a miraculous alley-oop pass to the rim as he's falling over, and their center slams it home to give them a four-point lead. Oof. It's a killer play, and it sets them up to take command after halftime.

On the first possession of the second half, Andreatti catches their point guard flat-footed. He lunges toward him and swipes the ball away as smoothly as a pickpocket, then passes to JGE, who makes an easy layup.

Okay, then. No need to worry about us giving away the momentum. It's a close game the rest of the way, both teams making impossible shots out of sheer will, playing at an unrelenting pace. The lead changes hands more times than I can count. I knew our team could play at this level, but I've never seen them do it for forty minutes straight. Based on how loudly Arizona Tech's fans are cheering, I'm guessing they feel the same about their own team.

With seven seconds left we're down by one point. It's time for Tiger, the play we run at the end of every practice to prepare for situations exactly like this one. Only no matter how many times we practice it, it's impossible to know how it'll turn out in a game. There are endless permutations, all hinging on snap judgments. That's the point.

Quincy waits for the inbound pass from Gallimore, eyes locked on the ball. JGE wipes the bottom of his shoes with his palms for traction. Gallimore completes the pass without issue and Quincy dribbles down the court calmly, like this is any old play and not the most important seven seconds of their careers.

JGE sets a textbook ball screen. When Quincy crosses half-court and reaches the three-point line, he has a shot. Not a perfect shot, but he's made dicier ones. But then Gallimore is on his right, trailing him by a couple feet. He's wide open, his defender lost in the paint somewhere near the basket. And he's standing in one of his favorite spots on the court, a spot Ben would say—has said, many times—gives him the best chance of scoring.

Quincy tosses him the ball, easy. Gallimore flicks his wrists and releases a perfect arc and the ball swishes through the net as the buzzer sounds.

Thousands scream in joy and agony. The rest of the team rushes the court, jumping on top of each other until the whole pile gives way and they collapse. Streamers rain down from the heavens and Quincy lies in them, moving his arms and legs like he's making a snow angel. It's an ending fans will relive for generations. When an Ardwyn die-hard has a bad day or is in a nostalgic mood, they can go to YouTube and press play, again and again.

For me the ending is like the final moment of a good dream, right before you wake up and remember that your life is in shambles. Ben and I should be hugging in the middle of the chaos right now. Eric should be running over to us, his eyes bright and gleeful as he yells, "Mom and Dad!" and tackles us to the floor.

Instead, it's like my heart has been carved out of my body. I search the crowd for Ben automatically, but he's completely disappeared. My camera is like a brick wall. I capture everyone on the other side shaking with adrenaline, roaring in triumph, crying with joy. But on my side of the lens, the volume is muted and I can't seem to locate any sort of feeling whatsoever.

By the time I put down my camera, Arizona Tech has left for the locker room, and Coach Thomas is doing a postgame interview at center court. Dozens of people are still milling around, soaking in the atmosphere. Quincy bounds up to me with his hands full of streamers and ties one around my ponytail. Taylor and Jess grab me for a three-way hug like the one I thought I'd have with Ben and Eric.

I feel a little better.

Where were you when we won it all? Ardwyn fans will ask each other years from now. I was buzzed at a bar, some will say. I was at the campus watch party. I was with my family, watching at home.

Me? I was heartbroken. I was spiraling. But I was here. I was part of it, and no one can take that away. That's going to have to be enough.