Page 28 of One on One
I don’t know if anything I’m doing at Ardwyn this year is making a difference. But at least I can make sure Ben understands that I’m here, and I’m not going away, at least not yet.
“Look, I know you think your job is way more important than my job.” I wheel around, ranting before I’m even back in his doorway. “You won’t let me forget it, that you don’t have time for me, that my work is insignificant and I don’t deserve to be here, that you matter more than I do. This didn’t have to be a fucking competition. You don’t have to sabotage me. You’re being a jerk. I don’t know how you became this person, but you need to get your head out of your ass, because I’m sick of it.”
He looks stunned. “I’m—”
“No.” I hold up a finger. “Whatever you’re about to say, I don’t want to hear it. Just no. Meet me on the court at seven. We’re doing the interview then.” I turn on my heel without waiting for an answer.
Back at my desk, my computer pings with a new message. An icon with Ben’s face and name appears. A first for us.
Ben: Sorry. I’ll see you at 7.
NINE
I go down to thecourt to set up and distance myself from Ben. My fingertips are still tingling from the adrenaline rush of unleashing my frustration, but now my stomach is roiling too. My outburst was pure emotion. I didn’t think about the mechanics of how I would manage filming afterward. It’s not ideal for rapport building to berate someone immediately before you interview them.
This video series was Coach Thomas’s idea. He likes seeing his people get recognition, and he’s sought me out to comment on each profile I’ve done so far. This is important to him. I can’t allow it to suck.
Ben shows up five minutes early with the demeanor of a pallbearer. He’s changed his shirt, combed his hair, and found a razor to clean up his stubble.
“Thanks for coming,” I say tentatively.
He sits in the obvious spot, the single illuminated chair in the vast darkness, surrounded by thousands of empty seats.I check the microphone and make a few adjustments to the camera. When I step into the light to turn his chair by a few degrees, we make miserable eye contact. There’s nothing else to look at in this lighting, unless you want to stare into the void. We’re like a pair of kidneys on an operating table.
Up close, his immovable stone eyes are laced with seams of gold, a detail I’ve never noticed before. My heart does a traitorous pancake flip.
Christ.
He swallows audibly. “Again, I’m sorry.”
“We’re doing it now, no harm done.” I steadfastly avoid eye contact, studying the rest of him to make sure he’s camera-ready. One side of his collar needs to be straightened. “Can I?” I point.
He nods.
I fix it gingerly with my fingertips and back away. “All done.”
He shifts in his seat and rubs his arm. “Should I have done anything to prepare? I don’t want to look like an idiot.”
“It won’t be that bad.” It’s a lie. If he looks this wretched in the video, people will think he’s a hostage, and all the incoming recruits will decommit. “I’m not a journalist. I’ll ask easy questions. And besides, I can edit it however I need to later.”
“Is that supposed to be comforting?”
“I’m planning to use the puppy filter, but if you act like a diva, I’ve got two words for you.Talking. Potato.”
He laughs a little.More of that.I need him to loosen up.
“Hey, what if we play a game?” I say.
“What kind of game?”
“I’ll shoot free throws. If I make a shot, I get to ask you aquestion. If I miss, you can ask me a question. You can collect embarrassing information to use against me in the future.”
Nothing truly embarrassing, obviously, but enough for him to relax and give me decent footage to work with.
He considers. “How old were you when you stopped playing basketball?”
“I did one year of rec. Third grade. I got stuffed by Emily Chou in the first quarter of our first game and cried. I told everyone I had to go to the bathroom and hid in the stall the rest of the game. My parents made me stick it out until the season was over.”
He snorts, then pauses, probably trying to calculate the average free throw percentage of an unathletic string cheese thief who’s been retired from the sport for twenty years. “Okay, fine.”
