Chapter Thirty-Two

THIRTY-TWO

I've never been to Arizona before. I show up at the low-slung stucco ranch house bearing a veggie-and-dip platter and an apology. The celery is browning at the edges and the plastic lid is dented.

"I went to the grocery store near my hotel," I say. "Clearly the wrong choice."

"Oh, please." Monica wears purple glasses and a high, curly bun that bobbles when she talks. "I'm glad you could make it."

Monica emailed me the day after the finals.

Dear Annie,

Subject: Raise your hand if you've ever been personally victimized by…

Sorry, bad joke? My name is Monica Valenzuela. My story: When I worked for the Arizona Tech basketball team as an admin a couple years ago, I had the displeasure of catching Brent Maynard's eye. I reported him through the proper channels and nothing happened. Then I came across a story Lily wrote about the harassment of pro football cheerleaders, sent her an email, and here we are.

Anyway, not too long ago I started meeting up with a couple of others here who went through the same thing we did. The group got bigger and bigger and then I thought, why not try to get as many of us together as possible?

Next Tuesday about a dozen of us will be meeting at my house in Phoenix for lunch. Nothing too formal, we'll just be hanging out and eating good food and chatting. No one is obligated to talk about anything they don't want to, but some of us have found it helpful to unpack everything with others who understand.

It's the friend group you never wanted to join, but once you're in, you're glad to be there, I promise.

Maybe this is a ridiculous idea because of the distance and short notice, but we'd love to have you join us if you can make it. If not, please let me know if you'd like to talk via email or phone or anything, any time.

I booked my flight before I even responded to the email.

At Monica's house the women gather in small groups throughout the kitchen and living room. The mood is upbeat. Someone who doesn't know any better might mistake the gathering for a bridal shower, except instead of playing the Newlywed Game we're bonding over feminist revenge.

Some of the conversations are about Maynard. Others discuss work and family and television. One woman says she wishes she still worked in basketball, and another offers to help her get her foot in the door at a school in Tucson. As things wind down, a latecomer walks in. A tall woman with a pixie cut and freckles and a face I've seen before.

Her name is Lauren. She was a junior at Ardwyn during Maynard's first season as head coach, two years before I started. Her picture is on the wall in the office kitchen, a shot of all the student managers from that year on Senior Night.

I wasn't first.

Lauren is sharp and no-nonsense and I like her immediately. She invites me on a hike for the following day. "Something easy," I request, not confident in my footwear and uncertain whether I have the constitution to survive the desert. Lauren obliges, and we walk together along a mostly flat path surrounded by sandstone formations and alien-looking cacti.

Lauren is a dentist in L.A. She declined to be interviewed for the ESPN story, but she reached out to Monica anyway. "I didn't trust that my name would stay out of it, and I wasn't willing to open myself up to scrutiny—and probably harassment—by die-hard basketball fans," she explains.

We meander along the path, sipping water and talking about life. When you bond instantly with someone over shared trauma and are unlikely to ever see them again, you can skip the small talk.

Lauren tells me about her fertility treatments, her foster dogs, and her narcissistic mother-in-law. I spill my guts about Ben.

"I'm going back tomorrow, and I'm scared," I say. "We've both hurt each other. I've only been in love one other time, and it wasn't good for me. It was exhausting, draining. I was out of control. The rest of my life suffered because all my energy was sucked up by our relationship."

"Does this guy make you feel that way too?" Lauren asks. "Don't think about the other guy. Think about this guy."

Think about Ben. Okay. When I think about Ben, I think about…snack-sized bags of pretzels appearing next to my computer. Laughing in a dark office. Long, unnecessary walks that fly by despite the cold. A painstakingly earnest debrief after every episode of The Beach House. The look on his face as he watches each of my videos for the first time, how fast he talks when he's trying to convince somebody he's right about strategy. The way he holds my body, the way he respects my needs, the way he walked in front of me through the throng of reporters at the Superdome even though he'd been crying more than I had. He owns up to his mistakes. He says what he means. He does what he says he's going to do.

"No," I say. "He makes me feel grounded. More sure. Of him, of us, of everything. Being with him makes the rest of my life better."

"Well, then," Lauren says. "Get your ass on that plane."