Page 3 of One on One
The bells ring out again and again, marking the time. Then the noise fades, and it’s nine o’clock. Time to go.
I let out a theatrical sigh. I pause. And then in my gravest voice, I proclaim, “They toll for me.”
Cassie groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”
Okay, maybe I’m still alittlebit of a sucker for a cinematic moment.
On the wayto my introductory meeting in the athletic department office, I pass the gym and library, congratulating myself on remembering where everything is located. But when I reach the building and pull the door handle, it doesn’t budge.
A passing student glances at me, and my cheeks heat. I peer through the glass. This door is clearly not the entrance anymore. Inside is nothing but an abandoned vestibule.
Right. Don’t mind me. I totally know what I’m doing here.
I wander tentatively for a couple minutes, drawing the attention of a security guard. “They remodeled the building five years ago,” he explains. “The back is the front now.”
In the interest of laziness, I walk behind the building along a long row of bushes and cut through the grass, insteadof going back the way I came. When I emerge on the other side, there’s no gap in the landscaping to use as an exit. I squeeze through two massive rhododendrons, batting away branches, and pop out onto the pavement.
A pair of guys stand a few feet in front of me, holding paper coffee cups. “Can you get us tickets to the opener?” one is asking. Their heads swivel toward me simultaneously as their conversation stops. I don’t know the first guy, but the other is Ben.
“Annie Radford,” he says neutrally, without blinking, as if he’s been expecting the shrubbery to spit me out at his feet all morning.
Junior year, when he and I competed for the Philadelphia 76ers internship, I used to say to Cassie: “Ben Fucking Callahan, my nemesis.” And then we’d dissolve into a fit of laughter. Not because I wasn’t afraid he’d beat me—I was. But because the idea of him being anyone’s nemesis was absurd, because Ben is—ugh—a good person.
I’m instantly dizzy at the sight of his face, maybe because it’s the first familiar one I’ve seen since arriving. Or maybe because,whew,it’s not exactly the same face.
Ben was always good-looking in a wholesome way, if you’re into that sort of thing. Earnest brown eyes, white teeth, excellent posture. Six foot two on the roster when he played, which means six feet flat in reality.
I still remember what one of the upperclassmen said during the freshman roast: “Ben Callahan is here tonight, folks. He’s accompanied by the little flock of birdies that follow him around chirping wherever he goes because he’s such a cutie.”
Hilarious, but not applicable anymore. The geometry of his face has evolved, and sparks slingshot through my nervous system at the overall effect of his jawline and cheekbones. A few intriguing fine lines and a darker, magnetic look in his eye, some neatly groomed stubble. His deep brown hair is styled meticulously, like an uptight newscaster’s. If you ignore the hair, he’s almost…is it possible he’s…hot now? I check for a wedding ring, because I amextremelythirty years old. Nope. Surprising.
He’s sizing me up too. His eyes scan me rotely from head to toe and back again. His face is impassive, his mouth turned up so tepidly at the corners it doesn’t qualify as a smile. These are not his usual facial expressions. Where’s the eager grin? The warm hug?
Oops, it’s my turn to say something. The silence has gone on too long. “Ben, hi!” Despite my nerves, I force some enthusiasm and a smile that probably looks as stiff as it feels. As I tuck my hair behind my ears, a leaf comes untangled and flutters to the ground. We all pretend not to notice.
I brace myself for a bunch of friendly questions, but Ben offers none, and it takes me a minute to realize why. My entrance interrupted this other guy’s request for tickets. That’s why Ben is standing there with the burdened expression of someone who’s been asked the same question for the millionth time:Can you hook me up?
My wrist stings, and I rub it with the opposite hand. My fingers find a scrape that’s puffing up around the edges, courtesy of the bushes.
Right. They’re probably wondering why I materialized out of the foliage like an overly friendly squirrel. “I got lost,” I explain. “The door moved.”
Ben glances at the entrance. “Yeah, they did that a long time ago,” he says in a flat voice. “You haven’t been here in a while.”
I’m not standing close enough to speak at a normal conversational volume, so I take two steps forward to avoid having to shout. “How are you?” I ask.
“I’m fine.”
“Good, good. I heard about the ESPN award,” I say, giving myself an internal pat on the back for being so gracious. Miss Congeniality right here. “That’s awesome. Congratulations.”
“Thanks.” He shifts his coffee cup from one hand to the other, studying the lid. I fidget with the scratch on my wrist. Ticket Guy coughs. Is Ben waiting for him to leave?
But Ticket Guy isn’t getting the hint. “How do you two know each other?” he asks politely.
“We go way back,” I explain.
“She used to work here,” Ben says at the same time.
“I once puked on Ben’s shoes on a flight back from Chicago. Worst turbulence I’ve ever experienced,” I say. We were stuck in our seats for another forty-five minutes, which made cleanup tricky. Ben waved off my apologies and spent more time digging around for a water bottle so I could rinse out my mouth than trying to clean himself up. “That kind of bond lasts forever.”
