Page 93 of One on One
They know. They know, and they’re going to write about it. My pulse picks up, like the world’s most twisted slow clap accelerating in my veins. This is frightening and unfair, and I feel so exposed, especially here.
Despite all that, there’s also this: I’m going to exit the stadium today and leave my story with these reporters and theirreaders. It’s no longer trapped inside me, and for the next few hours at least, I’m walking away from it completely. In that sense, I’m free.
Meanwhile, Ben looks like he wants to lie down on the floor and tell me to go on without him. My heart hurts, seeing him like this. How many emotions can one person possibly feel at once? I’m at, like, seven, and it seems like too many.
I didn’t make the decision to participate in the story on impulse. For once I thought through the pros and cons first, consulting Cassie and Kat and Mom and my therapist. I had valid reasons for saying no, of course. The pain of reliving my worst memories; the disappointment, if he weasels his way out of any consequences; the risk of doxxing and harassment from angry Arizona Tech fans and garden-variety misogynists. The million ways the Internet might grasp onto the truth, twist it into something unrecognizable, and run with it screaming, like a streaker zigzagging across a football field with his hair on fire and the wordsFlat Earthpainted on his ass.
But the reasons for saying yes won out. Yes, because maybe he’ll lose his job. Yes, because there’s a woman out there he’s going to hurt next, and maybe this article will stop him. But I can’t count on either of those things happening. So yes, most of all, for a more selfish reason: because he never fucking listened.
What I said to him never mattered. What I wanted was irrelevant. He never listened, but he’ll be forced to hear me now. Over these past few months, I’ve finally accepted that by leaving basketball, I lost something good for a long time. A dormant red rage crackled to life inside me and I hadnowhere to put it, until I poured it into the article like molten steel. Inner peace, acceptance, healing: all well and good. Maybe a smidge overrated. Anger, though. Sometimes anger is the best you’ve got. I don’t know if I have the power to change anything, but I’m sure as hell pissed enough to try.
Like Dad always said:Don’t be afraid to take up space in the paint.
Maybe Maynard will stick his fingers in his ears, close his eyes, and shout denials. Even so, my words will be there. His friends and family, his employees, his players and recruits, his bosses—they’ll hear them. The uncontrollable beast of the Internet will absorb them and pass them on. And my voice will be louder and stronger because it won’t be alone. It’ll be joined with the voices of many brave women from Arizona Tech. Maybe he’ll emerge with minimal damage, but these women won’t make it easy for him. Our words will chase him, stick to him, haunt him everywhere he goes.
Boo, motherfucker.
“Let me think about how we’re going to do this,” Ben says. In one direction are the reporters. In the other direction a tall metal security gate looms, stretching across the width of the concourse.
Reality crashes in. I have to walk past all those people, and they knoweverything.My bravado crumbles. I blink away tears and hug myself, pulling the cuffs of my sweater down over my thumbs.
“Hey.” Ben squeezes my shoulders. “It’s going to be okay. We’ll walk fast, heads down, stick close to the wall. I know it seems like everyone will be paying attention to us, but they won’t. I’ll walk in front of you.”
His eyes are red and his cheeks are splotchy. Not exactlyinconspicuous himself. But he doesn’t seem to care about that.
I make a hideous, wet sniffling sound. “Okay. Let’s get this over with.”
We inch through the crowd along the wall. My nose is touching his spine.
I hold on to his belt loop with one hand and thrust the other into my bag, casting around for my sunglasses so I can cover my puffy eyes. They must be all the way at the bottom. I dig in farther.
It’s a sturdy tote, but not a miracle worker. With one strap in the crook of my elbow and the other dangling free, the mouth of the bag opens too wide and the heaviest item inside topples to the floor: my water bottle. The lid detaches with a loud popping sound. The bottle’s contents spill everywhere.
“Shit!”
“So much water,” Ben says, dumbfounded. Eight hours’ worth, to be precise.
People are staring now, and not just in my imagination. They’re coming over with napkins, and someone’s looking for a janitor.
Somehow, across the throng I make eye contact with Quincy. I’m lucky this is basketball, because he can see me over everyone’s heads. He’s standing with Coach Thomas and Coach Williams next to a pair of golf carts, the ones that are supposed to ferry them off to the locker room in time for shoot-around. His eyes scan my tragic face and the commotion around me.
Quincy raises his hands in the air. “Attention, everyone!” His voice reverberates, and the crowd stills. The guys with the napkins turn away from the puddle.
Out of nowhere, Eric is there, picking up my water bottle. “You okay?”
I stuff it back into my bag. “Peachy.”
“I have a major announcement to make!” Quincy says.
“Time to go,” I say. But then through the open doors of the interview room, I see—“Wait, my camera.”
“I’ll tell Jess to take care of it,” Eric says. “Go.”
“The announcement is about my future after tomorrow’s game!” Quincy shouts.
“Come on,” Ben says, tugging me gently by the wrist.
On the other side of the crowd, Thomas and Williams wait with one of the golf carts. “You take it,” Thomas says. “This is James. He’ll get you out of here.” The man behind the wheel raises a hand in acknowledgment.
