Chapter Thirty-One

THIRTY-ONE

Ten minutes a day. Ten minutes to check the news, and that's it. Next week, five minutes a day. After that, I'll cancel my Google Alert and mute Maynard's name on social media. My friends and family can let me know if there's anything I should see.

I sit cross-legged on my bed, laptop resting on my knees, and click on the first article.

speculation runs rampant as az tech begins search for new coach.

I smile; the headline gives me the warm fuzzies, like a video about interspecies friendships at wildlife rehabilitation centers. Rumor has it Maynard tried the sex addict angle behind the scenes, pleading with the university to let him check into rehab so he can beg for another chance when he inevitably bursts out in a month calling himself a changed man.

Rumor also has it he knew the story was coming and scrambled to upgrade his staff to tempt Arizona Tech to keep him around. Which is probably how Ben found himself with a job offer on a ridiculously short deadline.

Regardless, Arizona Tech didn't bite. They fired him the day after the finals, and a bunch of the other women are filing a lawsuit against him and the university. Sometimes people get what they deserve, after all. That doesn't mean I'll be surprised to see him quietly hired as an assistant coach at a smaller school in a year or two. Memories are short, but I've done my part.

I couldn't blow the whole thing up, but I contributed to incremental change. The lasting impact remains to be seen. The institution of college sports is severely flawed, maybe fatally so. I still believe that. But it's less messed up than it was a month ago, and there's enough good in it for me to try sticking around for a while.

I scroll through the rest of the new articles. Arizona Tech, Arizona Tech, Arizona Tech. The part of the story that took place at Ardwyn is almost a footnote.

Ardwyn has survived this scandal unblemished so far. Maybe I should've predicted this. Most of the obvious individual targets for blame—Maynard himself, the former athletics director, even the head of the Title IX office responsible for sex discrimination complaints—are long gone, since so much time has passed. Condemning institutions and structures isn't sexy when there are real people with names and faces to blame instead.

Also, the team just won a championship, which bought the school a gold mine of goodwill. When people talk about Ardwyn now, our win dominates the discussion. A couple days ago, Reddit latched onto a ridiculous thread speculating that Maynard left Ardwyn because he was quietly fired for his misbehavior. It's not true. He left of his own volition, for a pay increase and a job at a school with lower academic standards, where admissions and academic requirements would be laxer. But many people want to believe it, and it's not like Ardwyn is going to correct them.

Donors are happy, the NCAA is about to throw a mountain of cash at us for winning the title, and tons of high school juniors have added Ardwyn to their college application list. The school's piggy bank is overflowing. Nobody's job is going anywhere, and every other sport—including gymnastics—is safe.

That's why I spent most of the week after the championship lugging my furniture and other belongings from Kat's place to my apartment. It's time to settle in for real. I even hung pictures on the walls, although I'm keeping Mona Lisa Vito right where she is.

I have mixed feelings about how the story has (not) affected Ardwyn. Thankfully, at the bottom of the list of recent articles is this, from a Philly paper: ardwyn to commence maynard investigation, review title ix procedures.

I heard about it yesterday, and I'm cautiously hopeful. I never expected Ardwyn to engage in much self-reflection. The university president is a Catholic priest. The precedent doesn't instill optimism.

It's possible the investigation is just for appearances, because they're obligated to send a message that they take harassment seriously, or because they want to stay a step ahead of Arizona Tech and win the head-to-head PR battle in the headlines. But they hired an investigator who's known for not messing around. She's from a firm in D.C., and magazine profiles rave about how she's led the charge for anti-harassment reform at multiple Fortune 500 companies. Change isn't guaranteed, but it seems possible.

And with that, my ten minutes of news consumption are up. It's time to go anyway. I close my laptop, grab a coat, and wind a scarf around my neck. It's a chilly day, and I'll be outside for hours.

The route for the championship parade runs through Center City Philadelphia, down Market Street to City Hall and back toward campus. The cheerleaders lead the way, carrying a banner and waving flags and pom-poms, trailed by a pair of double-decker buses full of players and staff. Blue confetti floats through the air like lazy butterflies. People pack the sidewalks, kids sitting on their parents' shoulders. All the voices shouting "wooooo" harmonize into a never-ending exuberant droning sound.

I sit near the front of the second bus so I can film the players, most of whom claim the upper deck of the bus in front. When I'm done, I plop onto a seat next to Taylor, Jess, and Donna.

"Let's take a picture together," Taylor says, handing Donna her phone. She leans in closer to me. "Jess, come on."

Taylor pushes Jess's beanie off her forehead so her entire face is visible, and Jess squeezes in. Donna holds the phone away from herself and squints. She taps the shutter button. "Good," she declares, looking at the photo.

As we gathered in the parking lot to board the buses this morning, I saw Donna for the first time since the story broke. She didn't say a word, just wrapped me in an uncharacteristic hug, long and tight enough to make me wonder.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. Aww you have work friends! Kat says, with a picture of her computer screen. She's watching the parade online, and the camera panned past us as Donna took the photo. I send back an eye-roll emoji, even though she's right. They may be a ragtag crew of people I never would've bonded with otherwise, but yeah, they're my friends.

When we reach the park outside City Hall, Coach Thomas gives a speech. Then we pile back onto the buses, which wind through the streets back toward the Main Line.

I haven't spoken to Ben today, but it's impossible to be unaware of his presence. He's on the front bus, sitting with Eric. He looks happy, his posture relaxed as he leans back to hear Verona say something into his ear, his smile easy as he points out a fan in the crowd to Eric. He got a haircut, I notice. Just a trim, but it makes my chest ache, that I didn't know about it until I saw him. Maybe he's preparing to interview for coaching jobs.

We haven't spoken since we returned from New Orleans. I've avoided the office, waiting for things to calm down. He called me once, last night, but I was too afraid to answer.

This is how it ends, I guess. It was worth the risk. I've survived awful things. I can do it again.

Cassie is somewhere on this block with her law school friends. I scan the crowd, find her, and wave. On the bus ahead, Eric is waving at Cassie too. But Ben is gone. Maybe he went downstairs to the lower level when I wasn't looking.

No, he didn't. He's still on the bus ahead of me, but he's not sitting in the same spot. He's standing at the back, facing the bus I'm on, looking down toward the road in deep concentration. For a moment his bus brakes, and mine gets close to it, and then—what the hell?—he's climbing over the railing at the back of his bus, and the one at the front of mine. As he swings his leg over, his bus accelerates.

"Oh my god!" a parade-goer shrieks from the sidewalk.

"What is he doing?" someone else yells.

That about covers my own thoughts. I jump up from my seat, as if that will help. If he falls and gets flattened under a tire, I'm never going to be able to look at my pasta roller the same way again.

Fortunately, he manages to land on the bus, albeit with a total lack of grace, stumbling forward and collapsing on one knee. He stands and brushes off his chinos without embarrassment, as if bus-hopping is a normal activity. "Hey."

I sink back into my seat and cross my arms. "I thought you were supposed to be an athlete."

"Hurdles were never my thing." He steps closer, his expression cautious, like a zookeeper wondering if it's safe to approach a lion. Not that I feel much like a lion.

Donna clears her throat and picks up her handbag, rising and moving a few rows back. Jess stands too.

"What's going on?" says Taylor. "Oh—is this…? But coworkers aren't supposed to…Isn't there a rule…?"

"Who cares?" Jess grabs her hand and pulls her up. "It's not a big deal."

"It's not?" Taylor's entire face turns pink and she looks down at their joined hands as Jess drags her away. Jess was right. Taylor's freckles do look ridiculous when she blushes.

Ben takes the seat next to me. "How are you?"

Now that the panic has subsided, annoyance and confusion take over. "What is this? What are you doing here?"

"I was hoping we could talk after we get back to campus."

I huff. "You've been ignoring me completely for days, and now you want to talk?"

He tilts his head toward mine. "I've wanted to talk to you every single minute of every single day, Annie."

My heart rate ratchets up a notch at the softness in his voice. Talking. I don't know if that's a good or bad thing. I want to jump into his lap and never leave, or maybe into the street, where I can crowd-surf all the way back to New Jersey. I want to know how the conversation is going to go, or maybe never find out so I can live off the best version of it in my imagination for the rest of my life.

Whatever mixed emotions I'm experiencing will have to go unresolved a bit longer. "Not today. I'm going away for a few days. My flight is this afternoon, but I'll be back on Thursday."

"Okay," he says with an easy nod, like maybe Eric already told him where I'm going. "Good. But there are a few things I need to say now." He moves to rest a hand on my knee, then thinks better of it and grabs the railing. "First, I can't stop watching your last video, and thinking about how lucky we all are that you came back here. I've also started talking to a therapist. I met with her this week. I think I need to work through…everything, with a professional."

"That's good," I say stiffly. "I'm a big fan of therapy."

"Second." He turns his knees toward me, so he's looking me square in the eyes. "I need you to know that I turned down Maynard's job offer on Saturday night. Before the press conference, before I knew anything."

My mouth falls open. "Why?"

"I thought about waiting, so I could see how things went when you and I talked. If you wanted me, I could've turned it down then. If you didn't, I could've gone. But I knew how uneasy you were about the possibility of me working with him, even though I obviously didn't understand why. I knew it would be lurking over our heads. And I didn't want to waste another second talking to you about him when we could be talking about us instead." He lets out an anemic laugh. "Funny how that worked out."

"I know that was big for you," I say, my throat burning.

"Also, someone once told me that I spend too much time worrying about what I'm supposed to do for other people. At the end of the day, I didn't want the job. There are no Wawas in the state of Arizona."

A snotty laugh escapes my mouth. I dig through my pocket for a tissue.

"I'm so sorry he did what he did to you." His voice is coarse with emotion. "I'm sorry he made basketball feel like an unsafe place for you. I'm sorry for the things I did this year that hurt you. I'm sorry they published the story early. You deserve so much more than what you've gotten. I hate that I made you miserable when you came back, when it took so much courage for you to do that."

"I can get past all of that," I say. "But, Ben, you abandoned me when I needed you most. I thought you didn't believe me."

His mouth freezes in an O-shape. "I never doubted you for a second."

"You couldn't even look at me!"

"I was so ashamed," he says. His hand finds my knee, and I allow it. "I was ashamed of how oblivious I was, of how I made things worse for you. I was sick over the fact that Maynard thought I was someone he could hire and make complicit in what he was doing at Arizona Tech—that I almost let it happen. I didn't know how to make any of it right. I needed to think after you told me everything, and I kept sticking my foot in my mouth the whole time we were talking, so I figured you'd be better off if I gave you space until I got my shit together."

I bite back the urge to ask why he didn't just communicate with me about how he was feeling. It's not like I'm an expert on that front myself. "I should've told you everything earlier," I admit. "My self-protective instincts are too strong. I'm working on it."

The corner of his mouth lifts.

"I saw you talking to Maynard at the game," I say. "You weren't asking him if it was true?"

Ben squeezes my knee. "No. I told him how disgusted I was, and that our relationship was over. I told him I'm paying him back the money he gave my family for my mom's tuition. I don't want to owe him anything, even symbolically."

"And you're not mad at me for the article? Our boosters could've run for the hills. No jobs. No gymnastics program."

"I'm proud of you. I wish I could've been there to support you from the beginning. Jesus, Annie, do you not understand how I feel about you?"

"You never wanted to talk about your feelings," I say, barely maintaining a straight face.

He shakes his head. "Speaking of which, one more thing." Quiet falls over us as he turns his gaze away from me, toward the bus in front of us. I take the opportunity to study him: the dent in his bottom lip where he's biting it, the cold-reddened tip of his nose. He looks more focused on the road ahead than the guy driving the bus, probably. His face glows in the watercolor April sunshine. It never fails. The perfect light always finds him.

The silence continues. Maybe I misheard him. Maybe he changed his mind.

"Ben?" I ask.

"Just—wait a minute." He cranes his neck. "Two minutes. Give me two minutes."

I wipe my nose again, put the tissue away. When he finally looks back at me, his eyes are so soft it's not fair. Those eyes feel like he's holding me.

And then he does reach out for me, his thumb tracing my jaw, his warm hand settling on the back of my neck.

"You are so brilliant and so brave. You are the funniest person I know. We won a national championship and it was only the second-best thing to happen to me this year, because the best thing was you. You are the best thing. I would walk across town on the coldest night in January just to laugh with you. I would sweat my face off in the office day in and day out if it meant you stayed warm. If this was the last time I ever saw you, fifty years from now I'd still never be able to taste Funfetti cake or look at Marisa Tomei without missing you."

He scans the road one more time. The crowd has thinned out to nothing, the cheerleaders are gone. The bus is cruising at a faster pace. "I love you," he says. "The parade's over. I can say that now."

I fall back in my seat and blink, stunned. He's right. There's not a single piece of confetti left in the sky, and the last cluster of fans is half a block behind us. Not until the last piece of confetti hits the ground after the ticker tape parade. He followed my rule to the letter.

My heart is so full, brimming in my chest. He said those words, knowing everything I'd been terrified to tell him. He said those words, even after the real world came crashing in on us.

"Have a nice trip." He stands. "I'll see you when you get back."