Page 17 of One on One
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. Iamecstatic. 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.
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 canadd 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 “naturalathleticism.” “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 asI’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.”
