Chapter Five

FIVE

On the first day, God created basketball. At least that's how the story would be told in my family's house. Tonight feels like evidence that this version of the story is true.

I'm in the chilly underbelly of the Church, trying to stake out a position outside the locker room. It's difficult because the place is buzzing like a hive, and the worker bees are on all kinds of missions. A trainer darts past with a roll of athletic tape. A manager hunts for a missing jersey. Kyle wanders around looking lost, his tie flapping.

The Tip-Off is Ardwyn's version of a preseason pep rally, and it used to be one of my favorite nights of the year. The band and cheerleaders perform. The players are introduced one by one, running onto the court and debuting gloriously elaborate handshakes before playing a fifteen-minute intrasquad scrimmage. To cap off the event, a C-list singer with only one song anyone recognizes—the most star power the school can afford—performs a short set.

Jess is helping me shoot tonight. I already sent her off to the mouth of the tunnel that feeds onto the court. I'm going to get footage of the team walking out of the locker room, and Jess will catch them as they burst onto the court while thousands of fans scream for them, like babies being born into stardom.

"Excuse me," I say to a university administrator who's here to gawk and has parked himself in front of me, but he doesn't hear me. Too tentative. Eight years ago I would've verbally flicked him out of my way without hesitation. I'm out of practice. "I need you to move, please," I say, louder, and he shuffles to the side.

A few minutes ago, I went up to the court to take a peek. When I was a student, the stands would have been packed with families, locals, and other fans. This year, it's half-full, and I know for a fact the ticket office had to hand out freebies to local middle school teams to fill out the crowd. But the student section is full and rowdy, the kids' buzzes peaking as they take their seats after hustling over from the dorms, swigging the last of the cheap vodka from their water bottles before making their way through the security line. The entire place smells like soft pretzels.

Unlike this part of the building, which has always reeked of floor cleaner and sweat. Someone else fills in the gap created by the administrator, and I groan to myself. I'm briefly distracted by the guy's suit, the way the jacket frames his firm shoulders and the pants hug his ass. It's a nice ass.

And then he turns to the side and—oh, horror of horrors—it's Ben. Ben in a suit, like the coaching staff. Everybody dresses up for game days, and this is like a game day.

I can appreciate high-quality tailoring, and that's all this is. Ben got this suit from somebody who knows what they're doing. At least the hair is awful. He always sweeps it back and to the side in the exact same way, like he keeps a photo of the style he wants to achieve next to his bathroom mirror to copy every morning. It's not a look he should be trying to replicate. Excessively tidy, it looks like it was combed with the stick he has up his ass.

Every time a guy gets that haircut, a paid family leave bill dies in Congress , I texted Kat the other day, when she asked me what it was like to see Ben again. It's not a fair joke. He's a registered Democrat; I looked it up the other day while canvassing the Internet for information to hold against him. The search was a bust. The worst thing I found was a Venmo payment for $69.69 from @JimK-Iggles for fantasy football.

I vow to never, ever tell Kat about the way I accidentally checked out Ben's ass.

"Can you make sure the water and Gatorade are set up upstairs?" he asks Verona. When he notices me, his face turns as cold as a beer at the parking lot tailgate before a January night game. He declines to acknowledge my existence and pivots back to face the locker room door.

How did we get here? An ache fills my stomach, but I brush it off. "Callahan, you're in my shot."

"I'm busy."

"All you're doing is standing there."

He waves a piece of paper in his hand. "I need to grab Coach Thomas as soon as they come out. He needs some info about the charity partners for his speech."

A group of alumni wearing VIP badges stops next to us, reeking of whiskey and laughing too loudly. I ignore them. "Isn't that Kyle's job?" I ask.

"Yes," he says tightly.

If it were anyone other than Ben I'd be sympathetic. Ben bails Kyle out a lot. He also goes out of his way to water Donna's fern when she forgets, give career advice to the managers, and track down the janitor to order candy bars for her daughter's marching band fundraiser. I'd admire his kindness, but I'm the only person exempt from it. Not to mention how his whole golden-boy shtick gives him a leg up with the powers that be.

The boozed-up alumni crowd together to take a photo of themselves with the locker room in the background. The one closest to me takes an oblivious step backward, jostling me with one wild elbow. I backpedal, turning my head to avoid getting whacked in the nose.

"Hey!" Ben barks, swooping in to take the guy by the arm and steer him a few feet away. "Watch where you're going. This space needs to stay clear for employees." He turns to me. "Are you okay?"

This does not count as kindness, for the record. It's basic civil behavior with a sprinkle of showy chivalry.

"Fine," I mumble. "I could've handled that." He retakes his position in the exact spot I need him not to stand. "Please move back a little bit?" I ask. "I need to see them when they walk out, not you."

Ben sighs. "Right, I forgot. The purpose of this entire event is to give you video content."

I step forward so I'm right next to him, my arm nudging his as I try to ensure I have the camera angle I want.

"Are you trying to box me out?" he asks. He doesn't budge. In fact, he leans back into me. I hate the pleasurable zing that shoots through my stomach at the feel of him next to me, warm and solid. I pull away.

Just then the locker room door flies open and the team files out. I'm distracted, still thinking about Ben's proximity, as they walk past us. Thomas leads the way. He's young, only forty-two, and he's the team's first Black head coach. He has a goatee and a quiet intensity, but he's quick to laugh when he's not in coaching mode.

Ben has to lunge forward to shove the page of notes into his hand.

"Smooth," I say.

He sees me fumbling with the camera. "Try pressing the big red button," he responds, and stalks off, closing the top button of his suit jacket.

I miss the first couple players but recover in time to get a good shot. Exhaling, I turn the camera off and grip it tighter to steady myself.

The team huddles up at the entrance to the tunnel. "Everyone in!" someone shouts. One of the seniors grabs every staff member in the vicinity, each person stretching a hand into the center of the circle. He beckons me, and every cell in my body screams no. I wave him off.

"Come on, A-Rad!" he says.

The camera is my shield. I point to it. "I have to film."

Coach Thomas says a few words, which I can't hear. When they break from the huddle, Eric heads my way. He stops in front of me, eyeing my outfit. A fuzzy cream sweater and leather A-line skirt.

"Biker sheep," he says. "All good?"

"What am I doing here? Coming back was a terrible idea."

"It was an excellent idea, and the person who suggested it must be an incredibly handsome genius."

"I don't belong here anymore."

He takes me by the shoulders and spins me around to face the tunnel. "Okay, you can quit tomorrow, but don't you at least want to get up there and see how they like it?"

Holy crap, the preseason hype video. I've been so focused on getting shots for my next video I forgot about the one I already made.

My video is kicking off the event. It introduces every player to the fans and sets the tone for the entire season. Tomorrow it will be posted online, but tonight it's just for Ardwyn.

This is my best opportunity to showcase the effect my work can have.

The perfect hype video is a couple minutes long. It splices game highlights with behind-the-scenes footage from the sidelines, the locker room, the team bus, the weight room. The players look like rock stars. Someone well-known, usually a former player or notable alumnus, narrates the video, reading some soaring dramatic copy. And the whole thing is set to an absolute banger of a song.

Speaking of which, I hear the opening notes of the music I selected and jerk my head toward the tunnel. The video starts with an extravagantly beautiful rendition of the intro to Kurtis Blow's "Basketball," played by the first-chair violinist from the university orchestra, before dropping into a heavily censored Lil Baby song. I spent days poring over playlists the athletes sent me, paying attention to what they listen to while lifting weights, before making a choice. Yes, the audience for the video is the fans in the stands. But the team can hear it too. And if it injects them with a bit of extra adrenaline, it's a success.

I scurry through the line of people, weaving around them until I reach the end, at the corner of the court. Creeping out farther, I look up at the crowd in the section closest to me. I already have every frame memorized. I don't need to see the video. I need to see their faces.

It's not like I ask for much. It just needs to leave people breathless, begging for more, hearts thumping, fingertips electrified, screaming their heads off when it stops and the players run onto the court.

In the video, each player does a bit that shows his personality, mixed with highlights from last year. Team captain and super-genius Jamar Gregg-Edwards solves a complicated equation on a whiteboard while dribbling with his free hand. Ever-stoic Luis Rosario walks along the path to the gym and rescues a cat stuck on a tree branch without breaking stride. It's playful, because basketball is supposed to be fun, but the clips from last season's most exciting moments keep the energy high. The voiceover is simple, a few lines about the team working hard and getting ready.

My heart is pounding and my chest is vibrating from the bass of the music. The arena is dark except for the illumination of the video. The fans are slack-jawed, their eyes glued to the screen.

Finally the last beat of the song rings out and the narrator, senior guard Anthony Gallimore, speaks the final line: "And so it begins." A spotlight hits the corner of the court a few feet away from me, where the real Anthony Gallimore stands holding a basketball.

The screen goes black. The crowd roars much louder than I expected based on all the empty seats. Nobody in the arena can possibly hear a thing except the sound of their love for this team.

I knew the video was good. I hoped I'd get a reaction that would stick it to Ben and Coach Williams. But what I forgot, and what almost knocks me over, was how the fans' reactions would make me feel. Giddy. Moved. Like I'm part of something big. Better yet, like I have the power to remind all these people they're part of something big too. I swallow hard. I've gone a long time without this feeling.

There's a young woman crying in the third row. She's clinging to her friend, jumping up and down. "I fucking love this school!"

I smile. She's probably drunk, but it still counts.

The team jogs onto the court, following Gallimore, shot through with an extra streak of swagger. A rangy teenager with a high-top fade reaches out to me for a high five as he runs by. Quincy Roberts, freshman phenom.

Quincy is one reason everyone is optimistic this season. He's barely eighteen years old but projected to be a first-round draft pick. This may be his only season of college basketball.

I've known Quincy since he was fourteen. He played for Dad, like Eric did. He was Ken Radford's last superstar. Of all the years to be at Ardwyn, I'm glad I'm here for this one, with him.

His section of the video was all his idea. I just made it happen. In it he's playing a video game, and when the camera pans over to show the screen, he's also in the video game, shooting a three-pointer.

"Hell, yes, A-Rad!" he yells as he passes me, a flash of crisp home whites and warm brown skin. "That was fire." The team is doing a lap around the court, but Quincy doubles back to add: "Your dad would've loved this."

"My dad would've hated this," I reply, and Quincy throws his head back, laughing, as he sprints off to catch up with everyone else. We're both right. Dad only cared about the game, not any of the fuss that surrounds it. But I've always liked both, and the fuss is my job, so Dad would've loved this moment for me.

The crowd is still on their feet. My smile grows and I touch my cheeks with trembling hands, like somebody receiving a marriage proposal. I allow myself to bask in it for a minute before attempting to organize my face into a more stoic expression and heading for the bench with my camera.

Ben is holding a clipboard and raking me over with his eyes. "The video was good," he says begrudgingly. My eyebrows shoot up, and his face turns sour. "But you look like a movie villain who just tasted power for the first time."

It's not a compliment but it feels like one, because it means he's jealous. His spreadsheets have never gotten a standing ovation, even if they are genius. Tonight is a point in my column, and I should be ecstatic. I am ecstatic. At the same time, anxiety gnaws at me like a stressed dog chewing its own paw. My relationship with Ben has devolved into something my college self would find unrecognizable. We both have a lot on the line. This would be less stressful if we gave each other a little grace.

Then again, he started it.

I spin slowly in a circle, face lifted toward the fans in the cheap seats who are still on their feet. "Feel that, Callahan?"

"Feel what?"

I hold my arm out. "Goose bumps."

He frowns at me. I smirk at him.

And so it begins.