Page 89 of One on One
Halfway through, JGE and Quincy join him at the table.How do you prepare for a game like this? Have you had a chance to enjoy yourselves here in New Orleans or have you been entirely focused on basketball? What makes this team special? What does it mean to you to be here? What does it mean to your families, who’ve sacrificed so much? What would it mean to win?
What does it mean?
What does it mean?
Honestly, once I start recording and make sure everything looks good, I let the camera roll and zone out. I force myselfto pay attention to the questions in case somebody asks something interesting, but during the answers I daydream about the audio track. My phone vibrates in my pocket: three or four text messages, then a phone call, then another. At this point Taylor is just rubbing it in. She knows I’m stuck in here. I turn my phone from vibrate to silent.
JGE wraps up a response with two minutes left. The moderator scans the raised hands in the room. This must be the last question, right? Time to get a move on. I tap my foot against the floor.
“In the back, on the left,” the moderator says.
The guy recites his name and the name of the publication he works for, and then he asks his question. “Coach, what can you say about the story that broke on ESPN a few minutes ago about Arizona Tech coach Brent Maynard?”
My head goes staticky. No. No, no, not now.
Ben is here, I suddenly remember. Fuck. He’s looking at the reporter, his eyebrows furrowed.
Thomas looks mildly irritated. “I’ve been sitting here with you for thirty minutes, so you know I can’t say anything since I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“ESPN is reporting the results of an investigation…”
This is not supposed to be happening. Not now. A sickening panic floods my entire body, and the room tilts on its axis. I move away from the camera and grab the back of a chair.
“…pattern of alleged sexual misconduct…”
Get the fuck out of here,my body orders, even though I’m not sure where my feet are. I duck my head and charge down the row. It’s possible I bump into a chair, but I’m not sure. It’s like walking through a fun house full of strobe lights.
“…at least seven junior female employees and student volunteers…”
Seven. That comes through with zinging clarity, like a sucker punch. I had an idea, from my conversations with Lily, but not the exact number. I can’t breathe, and I need to get out of here, but I also need to hear this. I hover near the exit.
“Most of the accusers are at Arizona Tech, but at least one has made allegations dating back to Maynard’s time as your predecessor at Ardwyn.”
A brief silence, and then the room explodes into mayhem. Reporters shout over each other as Thomas holds up his hands. Someone from the university PR department darts into the fray. The moderator says something, but nobody listens. It’s all part of the out-of-focus background of a portrait. All I see is Ben.
He looks at the spot I occupied a minute ago. Searches the room when he realizes I’m not there. Finally his eyes, wild and confused, lock onto mine.
I can’t even guess what my own face looks like, or if he needs to see my expression to know. But everything clicks into place for him pretty quickly. I can see it happen from all the way over here, his realization that this is not just a story about Maynard. It’s also a story about me.
Undiluted devastation.
TWENTY-EIGHT
This is probably the worstpossible way this could have happened. I should be angry. I should be afraid. Instead, I’m numb.
Ben takes a step toward me. He has to get around the crowd. I run my hand along the wall behind me until I find the push bar on the door and slip out of the room. Without consciously picking a direction, I just walk, out of the interview room, past the mechanical closet, beyond the restrooms. Away.
“Annie.”
The story isn’t supposed to come out now. What the hell? A couple weeks after the end of the season, that was the plan. I’m supposed to tell Ben tonight, on my own terms. He’s supposed to have plenty of time to absorb it before it goes public.
“Annie!”
I’m still walking. But I can’t walk all the way back to thehotel, or to Philadelphia, and at some point he’ll catch up. He’s in better shape than I am. When I reach a door labeledvip loungeI take a chance and try it. Unlocked, and nobody’s inside.
Finally I turn around, resigned. “In here.”
The room looks like the inside of a bottle of scotch, all wood paneling and leather club chairs. Ben collapses into one. His face is raw, gutted. His body crumples in on itself, his back curved, his elbows barely propped up on his knees. He looks like an open wound. “Tell me.”
