Page 64 of One on One
A bead of sweat runs down his neck and lands in the hollow at the base of his throat. My entire body is scorching hot. “I didn’t know you played shirts versus skins.”
His mouth curls into a smile. “Sorry to disappoint, but wehave pinnies.” He holds up an old mesh practice jersey with peeling lettering.
“I’m not disappointed. I’ve seen all I need to see.”
Something ignites in his eyes that makes my head feel heavy and woozy, like I’m swimming deep underwater. He holds the pinny to his heart. “I’m feeling a little objectified. Are you trying to objectify me?”
Not now. Maybe later.My eyes dart back and forth, trying to gauge whether anyone is paying attention to us. “In your dreams.”
“Yeah,” he says in a low voice.
“Yeah,” I repeat. We stare at each other for what could be ten seconds or ten minutes, until one of the other guys yells to Ben from across the gym to ask if he’s ready to go.
Ben breaks eye contact. “Yeah, one sec,” he responds. “Gotta run.”
“Goodbye, then,” I say to his chest with a forlorn sigh.
He laughs and scrubs his hair with one hand.
“Hey, Callahan?” I call as he heads for the exit, pulling a sweatshirt out of his bag. “You should leave your hair like that all the time.”
A convoy ofbuses ferries the team to a hotel in Midtown. We’re technically “in New York,” but we’re shuttling back and forth between the hotel for meals and sleep and Madison Square Garden for practice and media events, and the only time I stand under the weak blue March sky is when I find fifteen minutes for a brief escape to pick up coffee.
A ninety-four-by-fifty-foot basketball court stands between Ben and me everywhere we go. When we’re at thearena, we’re both working. Sometimes he’s there and I’m back at the hotel, editing in a conference room reserved for the media team.
Everyone sits down to eat together for breakfast and dinner—the signature Ardwyn Family way—but we congregate with our own departments, so Ben is across the room. Something in my body pings his location at all times, so I know when he’s standing at the buffet or sitting at his table. The media team is traveling with us for the rest of the season, so I’m sharing a room with Jess. Ben is stuck with Kyle, like always. The most we get is a few clandestine kisses behind a giant potted palm in a quiet corner of the lobby.
Working on-site during a tournament is different from working in the office. At home the pace isn’t so brutal, and I know what’s on the schedule next. There’s planning involved. But here, there are no days off between games, so it’s a constant scramble. We win our first game on Thursday, but have to wait until almost midnight to learn who we’ll be playing on Friday. Then on Friday, we play the late game, giving us less than twenty-four hours’ rest before Saturday’s finals.
It’s exhausting but freeing, in a way. I sit down at the table in the windowless conference room, and one part of my brain turns off and another part turns on. Hours later I emerge as if from a cave, with a finished product I don’t quite remember making.
That’s why when Cassie shows up on Saturday morning, I’m surprised.
“You’re early,” I say, tearing my eyes from the screen.
Cassie looks perplexed. “I’m an hour late. It’s eleven thirty.”
“No way.” I check the time. Wasn’t it just six in themorning? There’s a crumpled ball of tinfoil next to me. Right, at some point Ben brought me a bagel. I thought that was a dream, but apparently not. Wasn’t Taylor just in here with her laptop? Or was that three hours ago?
“You look like you need sustenance,” Cassie says. She’s right. The bagel was a lifetime ago. The video is done anyway. I played with sound in this one; it’s all heavy bass and menacing synths, and I tried to sync the punchiest parts of the music with visuals of lockers slamming shut, our cheerleaders’ crisp arm movements, and a particularly epic blocked shot. I want people tofeelthe intensity of this one, the way it feels more intense for the team now that the postseason is here. For the last hour, I’ve been watching it back and tinkering with little details. At this point, I can’t make it better but can definitely make it worse, so I send it to Taylor and stretch my arms above my head.
We pick up smoothies and set off on a walk. There’s not enough time to go far, so we stay in Midtown and wind our way through the streets around Rockefeller Center, past tourists taking photos and shoppers scanning window displays insisting thatspring is here!Most days in March, the daffodil-printed dresses and pastel-colored chocolate boxes behind the glass would be lies, but today is one of those warm, sunny days when Mother Nature throws us a bone to tide us over until the real end of winter.
“How’s work?” I ask, shrugging off my coat and tying it around my waist.
Cassie takes a long sip of her smoothie. “That’s why I was late. The managing partner asked me to join the DEI committee and my first meeting is on Monday, so I was prepping some stuff.”
My heart sinks. This is the opposite of what Cassie was supposed to be doing. “You joined a new committee? What happened to saying no?”
She winces. “I know, but it’s important. How could I say no to promoting diversity within the firm? I did tell him something has to give in another area in order for me to do this.”
I make an effort not to sound too skeptical. “And what did he say?”
“He said we’d figure it out.” She sees the look on my face and sighs. “I know. I know that means nothing.”
We walk in silence for a block, past big glass office buildings and a chain steakhouse, until Cassie says, “I’m thinking of leaving and starting my own practice.”
“Seriously?” I stop dead in the middle of the sidewalk and have to apologize to the people behind us. “That’s amazing!”
