Chapter Thirty-Three

THIRTY-THREE

When Ben opens the door and I set my eyes on his familiar face and his familiar body in his familiar joggers and familiar gray T-shirt, I want to launch myself into his arms. But it's not the moment for that, so I resist. He must have the same impulse, because he leans in but aborts and sticks a hand in his hair instead. His face does go from blank to Christmas-light-bright when he sees me, which is so nice I'd like to bottle the feeling and hoard it in bulk in a doomsday bunker. I smile back, just as goofily.

"Hey."

"Hey."

Poets, the two of us.

"It's good to see you," I say. My heart is bouncing off the walls of my chest. I thought it was beating at top speed on the walk over to his apartment, but apparently that was just the warm-up.

"You too." He leans against the doorframe and looks down at me with dark, curious eyes. "What's in the bag?"

The duffel bag at my feet that I lugged here, set on the step next to me, and promptly forgot. "Right," I say. I pull out a covered baking dish and thrust it at him. "This is for you."

He peels back the foil slowly and scans the contents. "Uh-oh."

"It's not stress lasagna," I assure him. "I swear. It's regular lasagna. You haven't had it yet, so."

"Thanks." He puts the foil back in place and rubs the back of his head. "Do you want to come in?"

I bite my lip. I could say yes and do this the straightforward way. But I create narratives for a living, and I'm a sucker for a cinematic moment. I can do better than the straightforward way. Which means there's something else burning a hole in my bag.

"I have a better idea." I reach down and pull out the basketball. "Let's play a game."

The park near Ben's apartment is most popular with the toddler set, for whom the primary attraction is the new, state-of-the-art jungle gym. But next to that is a green field dotted with picnic tables, and behind it is an old basketball court that's rarely in use, the lines sun-bleached and the nets frayed.

"You remember the rules?" I shift the ball from one hand to the other and back again. "If I make a shot, I get to ask you a question. If I miss, you can ask me something."

"Oh, I remember," he says. "I remember you shooting eighty percent from the free throw line. But please, go right ahead." He leans back against the chain-link fence, folding his hands in front of him, and watches me expectantly.

After I make the first shot, I turn to find him standing near the three-point line in the corner. The sun is behind him; I squint and lift a hand so I can see his face.

"How are you?" I ask.

"Pretty good." He drags a toe across the line on the court. "I've missed you."

I may never get used to the way he's unafraid to be straight with me. Honest. It's like jumping into the ocean the first week of summer, when the water is bracing cold. Unable to resist, I jog to him, give him one quick crushing hug, and sprint back before I'm too tempted to abandon the game. He laughs.

"Is Williams taking the Meagher job?" I ask after the second shot.

"Yes. He leaves next week."

The third one sails right through the net, easy. "What about you? Are you applying for the open coaching job here, then?"

His hands rest on his hips. "Depends on how this conversation goes. If I apply, I may not get it. Kyle wants it too, and I'm sure they'll consider outsiders."

I snort. "Kyle will be lucky if he doesn't get demoted to water boy. It'll be you."

I get set in my position again, take my usual dribbles, square up to shoot. The ball starts off arcing toward the basket like it should. But then out of nowhere a hand appears, flicking the ball off course, redirecting its trajectory to send it sailing sideways until it clangs against the fence.

"Hey!" He's standing in front of me now. How did he even move so fast? "It's like you used to be a basketball player or something," I say.

"You never said I wasn't allowed to play defense."

"That's goaltending. It's different."

"Yeah, yeah. How was your trip?" He ambles toward the sideline to grab the ball.

"Cathartic," I say. "I went to Arizona."

"I heard. I'm glad you got to do that."

I reach to take the ball from him, but he pulls it back. "Nope, my shot." He nudges me out of the way at the free throw line. Even the brief contact with his elbow makes my stomach flip. The shot goes up and in, his form textbook. "Are you staying at Ardwyn?" he asks.

"Yes," I say. "Tentatively, but optimistically. I want to see how the investigation goes and what happens when the dust settles. JJ did reach out to me a couple days ago about a potential opportunity at ESPN, so that's my backup plan, but I want to work here if I can."

I can't promise that I'll want to stay forever. I don't even know if I'll want to stay past next year. It won't be the same. Williams is leaving, JGE and Gallimore are graduating. There are rumors that Thomas has had NBA offers, although I don't think he'll take one—at least not yet. Even Eric's name is starting to circulate on lists for head coaching candidates at smaller schools.

I got a perfect season, and I'll always have that. Even if next year is different, even if it's never as good as this.

"ESPN. I knew it," he says.

"It's in Connecticut. That's two hundred miles away."

"Numbers aren't real, Annie," Ben says. He gestures between the two of us. "But this is."

Before I can respond, he raises the ball, and I hold up my arms, jumping up and down to defend the shot. He dribbles, backs up a couple steps, and makes a tidy basket from the three-point line.

"Show-off," I grumble.

"Okay," he says. "While I thoroughly enjoy trying to keep up with you while you put on a clinic out here, let's hear it, because I'm dying a little. What's it going to be?"

He's been patient for long enough. The little shrieks of toddlers float over from the playground. I draw in a breath, and the fresh air smells like warm grass.

"Well," I start. "The first time I saw myself falling for you was Valentine's Day, when you wrote a thesis about a reality show on a napkin and gave me the best hug of my life. Then, I saw your throw pillows for the first time, and I actually started to fall for you."

His head tilts. "You like my throw pillows?"

"No."

He breathes out half a laugh.

I go on. "I fell for you, for sure, on Selection Sunday."

"Great night," he says softly.

My teeth find my bottom lip, worrying it between them. "I knew I was falling in love with you when I had to decide whether to do the story, and I realized how shattered I'd be if you hated me for it. It only took hundreds of hours of working together and walking together and staying up late talking in bed for me to appreciate that you're the best person I've ever known. For me to make it through every stage of the Beach House flow chart."

His mouth edges up at the corner. "All of them?"

"All of them," I confirm. "I don't know what's next, but now we're here, and I don't want to be anywhere else. Because I love you."

His smile cracks wide open. "Wow," he says. "The whole journey, and you're speaking my language." He presses his fingertips to his eyes for a breath. When he looks at me, his eyes are shining. "That settles it. If I don't get the coaching job, I'll stay in my current position for another year. My sources in the finance office have only good things to say about the budget."

His current position. My heart sinks. "What? Ben, no. You need to be coaching. I'm sure you have a ton of options right now."

His face is serene. "One year," he says. "And then we'll figure it out together. You had to wait long enough to get what you deserved. I can wait a year."

Guilt pricks at my conscience. "I was supposed to be encouraging you to put yourself first more."

"It's not entirely unselfish," he says, collecting the ball from where it's settled behind the basket. "I'll get to see Natalie's meets. And what I want most is to be with you. I love you so much."

His smile is obnoxiously moony, and I can't get enough of it. I'm at risk of turning as mushy as an environmentally friendly straw right here if I don't put a stop to this.

"Enough of that, Callahan," I bark. "You can't undress me with your eyes within fifty yards of a public playground."

He shakes his head and shoots the ball. "Are we having that lasagna for dinner or do you want to go out?"

My smile feels like it's going to break my face. "Are we still playing this game?"

"I'm sorry, that's a question. You'll have to earn my answer." He tosses me the ball.

I shake my head, reposition myself, make the shot. The ball rolls toward him and he picks it up.

"Will you get over here, already?" I ask.

He walks toward me, chucking the ball over his shoulder. I follow it up with my eyes. I can't help it; it's instinct. But the sun is too bright and I lose it in the glare. I look back at him, at his messy hair haloed by light and his brilliant smile with the lazy corners. The closer he gets, the easier it becomes to see every detail of his face, the way he can already see me. And then his arms are solid around me and my eyes are closing and all I hear is the sound of the ball landing, bouncing, a sound that feels so natural and right to me that it might as well be the sound of my own heart.