Page 19 of One on One
“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 ratingwasincredible 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 alaugh. 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 ifsomeonedidn’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 allhappenedto 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 staffcontact 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 classicThe Devil Wears Pradaas 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 theentire morningshowing Lufton how you edit hype videos?”
Not the question I expected. But instead of relief, irritation spikes inside me. Thenervehe 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.”
