Chapter Six

SIX

The Friday before Thanksgiving week, I meet Taylor and Jess at the student center for coffee. Taylor sent an Outlook invite calling it a "meeting," but we spend the whole "meeting" talking about Taylor's childhood horse and Jess's recent breakup with the assistant cheerleading coach.

My cup is nearly empty when I spot game highlights playing on the TV in the corner. The screen shows Coach Thomas standing stock-still in front of the bench, his face neutral as he watches Gallimore shoot free throws. It's the same expression he wears whether we're winning by twenty, losing by ten, or tied with a minute to go in the second half.

I swallow my last bite of blueberry muffin. "He's the most composed coach I've ever seen. It's incredible."

"He never moves! He doesn't even put his hands in his pockets," Jess says.

Taylor motions for me to hand her my plate so she can add it to the neat stack of trash in front of her. "I heard Brent Maynard was the opposite," she says. "Did he have a temper?"

My fork slides off the plate and clatters to the table. "Um." My mouth is dry. "He used to flail a lot. Sometimes he needed an assistant to hold him back by the jacket so he didn't tackle a referee."

The camera pans out to show the rest of the bench. Every game they sit in the same order: coaches, players, Ben, and a few other staff members. A collared priest sits at the end of the bench like a decorative finial, a reminder from the university that this too is the Lord's house, and the Lord cheers for the Ardwyn Tigers.

Taylor throws away our garbage, and Jess and I follow her outside. It's a crisp, cloudy November day. Ahead of us a professor in rumpled tweed trousers and a pair of students chat in French, walking toward the library. We turn the opposite way, toward the Church.

"Three and oh," Jess says. "Not a bad start."

"And Quincy's already the conference player of the week!" Taylor adds.

The conference anointed Quincy Player of the Week the first chance it got. He played well enough to contend for it, but that's irrelevant. They've been dying to tie his name to theirs since he committed to Ardwyn, for the same reason celebrities end up with a lot of godchildren.

They talk about Quincy a lot on TV. There's a familiar story they like to tell, and they fit him into it, omitting the bits that don't work like the slivers of dough that hang over the edges of a cookie cutter. It's all "instincts" and "natural athleticism." "Knowledge of the game" and "hard work" are nowhere to be found. They throw in the quirky fact of his video game livestream hobby, which they'll surely use against him when he plays poorly ("lack of discipline" and "distracted," not "blowing off steam").

Then their voices get solemn and they use their most practiced newscaster intonations to talk about the Serious Subject of his childhood. There's the "unlikely journey," and his mom's barely criminal record, and they tell and retell this one story about a worn-out pair of sneakers with duct tape patching a hole.

Tragedy porn, but it's okay, everyone, because he's going to be rich soon, as long as he doesn't blow a knee first.

After the season, Quincy will need to decide whether to go pro or return to Ardwyn. His family is pretty grounded, thankfully. But ever since his talent became obvious, there have been plenty of other people hovering around, calling themselves "friends" and "advisors," telling him to hurry up and get to the NBA, where he can make the most money.

For some players that is the right choice, but for many it's not. I'm dying to know which way he's leaning, and hoping he can block out the noise of the hangers-on angling for a slice of the pie. It's only beginning. I can't help worrying about him.

"Annie?" Taylor waves a hand in front of my face. I must've zoned out completely, because we've already arrived at the building.

"Hm? Sorry." I shake my head.

"I asked if you want to come down to the court with us while we take pictures of the mascot with a guy in a turkey costume."

I take out my ID to scan us into the building. "As much as I'd love to see that magic moment, I need to do some editing before this video goes up."

"You're hard-core," Jess says. "It's already great. I don't know what more you can do."

But I'm itching to get back to my computer. It needs to be better than great. It needs to capture the way things feel right now: the team starting on a hot streak, the air in the arena vibrating with promise. I want to keep cranking up our follower count. I want to remind Coach Thomas why he hired me. I want the people in the finance office to get the message that they need to slow down, wait to make any final decisions, because big things are happening here.

Taylor and Jess stop in front of the stairwell. "Same time next week?" Taylor asks.

"Yes," I say quickly, already looking forward to it. As a rule, I try to avoid real friendship with coworkers. But a weekly coffee break is harmless, and other than Eric and Cassie, all my friends and family are back in New Jersey. My social life has been dead since I got here.

I could try dating, but I don't have the energy for my usual diet of uninspiring three-month relationships and mediocre hookups. It's been a long time since my last breakup with Oliver, but I still feel like I need to ascend to the next plane of adulthood before I'm ready for something serious, and I have no clue how to get there.

Taylor and Jess head to the court, and I climb the stairs to the office. When I turn down the corridor, a familiar dark-haired jerk with a tragically well-sculpted ass hovers suspiciously at the other end, wearing yet another uninspired half-zip. When he sees me coming, he darts back into his office and slams the door.

He was standing near the thermostat.

"No fucking way," I growl.

I should've known. My office is freezing. I learned quickly to wear layers and keep a blanket on the back of my chair. Earlier in the week I tried bringing in a space heater, but Donna sent it packing—something about the fire inspector. I adjust the temperature several times a day but still have a tab on my browser open to an Amazon search for fingerless gloves.

Every time I turn the heat up, somebody else turns it back down. At first I thought it was a maintenance person. But of course it's Ben. He's the only one who sits as close to the thermostat as I do, and the only one irritated by my very presence in the building.

I check the temperature. Sixty-two degrees. "Son of a bitch. "

He's trying to refrigerate me into quitting. Well, the joke's on him, because now I'm a seething volcano. I charge into the kitchen, fling open the fridge, and grab his string cheese. He brings one every day for his afternoon snack. Well, not today, mister. I don't even peel it, just eat it in three bites like a monster.

We've mostly attempted to avoid each other in a way that looks effortless but requires a lot of choreography. One morning I pretended not to see him behind me as I walked into the building and let the door slam in his face. Another time he noticed me struggling to replace the water cooler in the kitchen and walked right past instead of offering to help.

He's terrible at being mean, even when he wants to be, which is why when we're face-to-face he mostly looks constipated. I don't think anyone has noticed the tension, but who knows what he's saying behind my back? In a weak moment last week, I signed him up for a contest on a sketchy website, a chance to win a free trip to Antigua that undoubtedly doesn't exist. It took only twenty-four hours for the scammers to sell his cell phone number to a million telemarketers.

I felt a twinge of guilt when I heard the incessant buzzing of his phone and his nonstop grumbling about it. And the string cheese incident is a little embarrassing. I should be focused on work, and I am about ninety-eight percent of the time. I make no excuses for the other two percent. There is a petty beast inside me, and sometimes she needs to let off steam.

That night, Ben is working late, as usual. I've been doing the same, needing the extra hours to experiment and fine-tune and perfect. I can't see him, but it's easy to tell what he's doing after everyone else goes home and the building gets quiet.

Tonight, he's mostly been sitting at his computer, typing. Occasionally a desk drawer opens and closes. The tip of his tongue is probably sticking out of the side of his mouth a little bit. It always happens when he's concentrating deeply. It's extremely dorky and not at all attractive, so I have to check to see if he's doing it every time I walk past. Every so often a ball thwacks against the backboard of the miniature hoop on his door.

I tune him out when he takes a phone call, walking somebody through a calculus problem. If I remember correctly from college, he has a much younger sister.

My coffee date with Taylor and Jess has me thinking. I need to get out more, to take a break from fixating on my work problems. I curl up in my desk chair, sitting on one foot and hugging the opposite knee, and pick up the phone to call my own sister.

"I'm at the end of a climb," Kat says when she answers, panting heavily.

"Don't slack off on my account," I reply. "I'll be quick."

Kat spends a lot of time on her stationary bike. The athlete of the family, she played college basketball herself and still sticks to an intense workout regimen, on top of her job and her hobby posting hair tutorials online.

"You and Mom should visit tomorrow," I say. "We can go shopping. And you should stay with me for the night after Mom leaves. You can take the train home." When I was in college, we went to the King of Prussia Mall every time Mom and Kat visited.

She's only listening halfway, and her voice is strained as she huffs out her words. "That…sounds like a lot of public transportation…just to spend a night sitting…on…your…couch."

I straighten a row of pens on my desk. "What if we go out?"

Kat releases a big breath and her voice regulates, climb complete. "Out, out? Like to a bar, at night?" Now she's paying attention.

"Sure."

"You never want to go out with me."

"I never had to go out with you when we lived together because you brought a bar's worth of people to our apartment. Now I live by myself. I'm bored all the time."

"Are you depressed?"

"No. Come on, it'll be fun. I'll buy you a cheesesteak on the way home."

"Fine, but to be honest, you had me at ‘out.'?"

I hang up and log off my computer. A Friday night alone won't be so bad now that I've got plans for Saturday. Tonight I'll go to the gym, take a hot shower, yell at strangers online about climate change, and watch ASMR videos in bed until I doze off and drop my phone on my face.

I toss my phone into my tote bag and scan the room to make sure I'm not forgetting anything.

"Her offensive rating was incredible the year they won the conference."

Ben's voice startles me. I forgot he was there. Is he still on the phone? No, he must be talking to me, because Kat's offensive rating was incredible the year her college team won the Big Ten.

I try to remember what else I said to Kat. "Are you obsessed with my sister? She posted a super cute topknot tutorial yesterday, in case you haven't checked it out yet."

I don't really think he's obsessed, even though Kat's college basketball career ended four years ago. This is just how he is. People used to quiz him on obscure, decades-old basketball statistics like it was a party trick. It was sort of cute.

"You're bored here?" The words are soaked in disgust.

I rub my forehead with the heels of my palms. "No. I can probably get you a lock of her hair this weekend, if you want it. She has beautiful hair."

He releases a high-and-mighty sigh, as if he's the only adult in the building. It's impossible to resist antagonizing him further.

I spin from side to side in my chair. "More of a toenail clippings guy? I'll see what I can do."

A stifled choking sound escapes his mouth. It might be a laugh. He's probably covering his mouth, trying to stuff it back in. He clears his throat. "Pretty sure you said you were bored all the time. Sorry to hear we're not keeping you entertained here."

"Thanks for eavesdropping. I'd have been less bored this week if someone didn't leave me off the email chain about happy hour last night."

I was home cooking a single chicken breast when Eric texted me from the bar asking why I wasn't there. The chicken was curling at the edges like it was frowning at me. If Ben did it to hurt my feelings, it worked. I ended up taking a long, brooding walk around campus in the dark, listening to the old emo music I used to play in high school when I sulked about boys.

I wouldn't have gone to a work happy hour, anyway. Like I didn't go to bowling night or the Phillies game outing. Regardless, being excluded sucks. It reminds me of the times Maynard's assistant coaches let Ben sit in on meetings because they all happened to be yakking about Deflategate or whatever outside the conference room beforehand. He'd come back with a rueful grimace and a message they'd asked him to pass along, like he was my boss.

"I didn't—" I hear Ben's mouse clicking as he checks whether I'm right, or pretends to. He's probably tapping random icons on his desktop. Maybe karma will intervene and he'll accidentally delete something important. "Oh. I did. Sorry about that. I didn't do it on purpose."

"Sure." I pick at my cuticle. The cold, dry air has been rough on my hands.

"I swear. Donna was supposed to add you to the staff contact group in Outlook. She must've forgotten. But I should've double-checked."

Of course he manages to pin it on someone else while acting like he's accepting responsibility. "Bold move, blaming Donna. You better hope she doesn't find out you threw her under the bus."

He doesn't say anything for a minute, but then: "The Devil Wears Prardwyn."

A smile blooms on my face and I leap up, I can't help it, and cross the hall to his doorway. "You remember that?"

I once used cinema classic The Devil Wears Prada as inspiration for a preseason spoof video. Donna played the terrifying boss, ordering Maynard to style a team uniform with accessories and bring her coffee while dribbling a basketball down the hallway. He was always game for my most ridiculous ideas, and Donna was delighted to have the opportunity to shine.

Back then, nobody in the athletic department paid attention to the weird little videos being posted by the basketball team. I could never get away with making anything like that today.

He assesses me with wary eyes. "Hard to forget the humiliation of my walk down the runway." That's right. There was a fashion show montage, and I conscripted some of the players.

I press my lips together to restrain a smile. It's flattering, I can't deny it. Almost—touching? It's annoying, actually, because it means the bar is so low it's in hell. All he's said is he remembers something I made once. He didn't even say it was good.

"I have a question for you," he says cautiously.

I brace myself. He knows about the string cheese. He can smell my shame.

"Did you spend the entire morning showing Lufton how you edit hype videos?"

Not the question I expected. But instead of relief, irritation spikes inside me. The nerve he has. Like I needed to clear it with him first. That's not how this works. But heaven forbid I interact with the student managers, and they (gasp!) grow to like me. "Yeah," I say. "He's been asking me about it for weeks. But I promise, he still loves you more than me."

His forehead wrinkles. "Uh, okay. I wanted to say…that was cool. You made his day."

I'm dumbfounded. "Thanks," I say slowly. "These kids work hard and don't get paid. I want them to learn something."

He rubs his chin. "I want that too." He's looking at me thoughtfully, his expression less guarded than usual, and I let him. We used to be those kids. We should agree on this. We should agree on a lot of things.

The faint smell of his soap lingers in the air. Sometimes he goes to the gym around five, showers, and comes back to the office to do more work. It's a nice, clean scent, I'll admit it. Everything smells good after spending half the day in an old gym surrounded by sweaty athletes.

I resist the impulse to step farther into his office. Even being this close gives me an electric-fence feeling. The boundary is invisible, but it's there. My eyes land on a framed photo on his desk in the spouse-and-kids spot, a college-age Ben standing at center court with Maynard. It looks like senior night. I wasn't there, so I can't say for sure.

My tongue is stuck in my throat. "Nice picture," I can't help saying, as I fold my arms and squeeze them against my body.

"Thanks."

"Do you still talk to him?"

His eyes flick to mine. "You don't?"

"I don't know why I would."

He sits back in his chair, the wheels rolling a little. He makes a self-chastising face, like he shouldn't have asked. We both look at the photo. "I talk to him pretty regularly," he says. "See him every summer. He still has the beach house in Bethany. Does a big Memorial Day weekend thing every year."

A shiver runs through me. "You still see him?" I ask. "You talk regularly ? Like, how often?"

He gives me a baffled look. "I don't know, every few weeks? We text, mostly."

"Every few weeks ?" The pitch of my voice rises.

"Yeah, that's too much," Ben says dryly. "It's not like I owe my entire career to him or anything."

I shouldn't be surprised by this, by Ben's unwavering loyalty. The night Maynard invited us to dinner at his house to tell us we were candidates for the Sixers internship, Ben headed for the kitchen after our plates were cleared and picked up a sponge. "Wow, playing dirty," I teased.

A wounded huff escaped his mouth and his cheeks turned pink. "I always help Kelly with the dishes!" Like dinner with the Maynards was a regular thing, like he was part of the family.

Maynard was ordinary-looking, a little nerdy, with an unremarkable face. He wore his blazers too big, like a child. But he walked in a beam of light. When he entered a room, people looked at him, sensing that he was somebody, even if they didn't know who. And the light landed on you if you got close enough. When he talked to you, even in a crowded gym, it was like you were the only other person there.

"You really think you owe him everything?"

He shrugs. "I do, yeah."

"He helped you get your foot in the door. That was a long time ago. Pretty sure at this point the only person you have to thank for the fact that you're in here playing with numbers on a Friday night is you."

He shakes his head. "I don't get it. Is it that hard to be grateful for the opportunities he gave you?"

My face goes hot and cold at the same time, and my hand flies to my necklace, coiling it between my fingers. I'm going to have to allow Ben to add this to the list of things he's holding against me, because I can't pretend to have fond feelings for Maynard.

We're never going to resolve our differences. We can't have this conversation without dredging up the past, and that's a risk I can't take, because the past is full of dangerous land mines.

Time is so thin here. My college years feel so close. The same plaques rest undisturbed in the same places on the same walls; they've been here all along, even when I wasn't. The sound of Donna's voice carrying down the hall, the work getting under my skin, the way the autumn air hits me when I leave the building at night. It's as if I could reach out and slip through whatever separates now from then with almost no effort at all. Sometimes it seems like I am doing that, like now, in this conversation. The earlier part, the friendly bit between Ben and me, that's the kind of thing that happened back then. The second part, about the photo on the desk, reminds me there's pain here, and where to find it.

The pain is in my memories of the man who treated me like a daughter for three years, and then spent the fourth sending me creepy text messages and propositioning me in hotel rooms.

Ben wants to talk about opportunities? Maynard gave me the opportunity to develop my skills, to begin building a career, to make connections in our field. And then he attempted to give me the opportunity to sleep with him.

Behind Ben I see the two of us reflected on the window. Me, casual in the doorway in a long open sweater, him, slouching unarmed in his chair. We look like two people making small talk. We could be talking about Thanksgiving dinner, or how early it gets dark now. But not about this. Any second now the girl in the window is going to laugh, teeth gleaming on the glass.