Page 97 of One on One
I swallow. “I miss Dad.”
Mom squeezes me closer. “Me too. Always.”
“It’s weird,” I say. “I didn’t go to a single basketball game from the day Dad died until the day this season started. I was afraid it would make me miss him too much. But I’ve realized it does the opposite. When I’m at a basketball game, for a little while, he’sthere.Not in a religious way, obviously, and I know Kat’s full of crap when she tries to convince us there’s a ghost in your attic—”
“Rude!” Kat objects.
“—but it feels like, if I turn around, he’ll be standing behind me. Just…the sound of dribbling, the smell of popcorn and pretzels, the rhythm of the game. It’s what he was made of. It makes me feel so close to him.”
Mom smiles. “Basketball connected the two of you for your whole life. Why would it be any different now?”
We watch TV in a comfortable silence until Cassie shouts from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready!”
The three of us exchange puzzled looks.
“You should not have cooked,” I say when I enter the kitchen. “I’m surprised the fire department isn’t here. You should have gone to bed instead.”
“Relax,” Cassie says, depositing a pan in the sink. “Even in my current state I can handle this.”
I follow her gaze to the four grilled cheese sandwiches laid out on the table.
“I wanted to make something better, but when I opened the fridge I rested my head on the orange juice carton for a minute and almost fell asleep. I decided not to push it.”
“This is amazing,” Kat says, busting into the kitchen.
“It’s perfect,” I agree.
When we’re all sitting around the table, Cassie picks a gooey string of cheese off the edge of her sandwich and turns to Mom. “How are you liking New Orleans, Mrs. Radford?”
“I love it here. I’ve never been any place like this. I don’t think thereisany other place like this,” she says. “I took some photos this morning.” She pulls out her phone and puts on her reading glasses. “Let’s see. Tons of beautiful buildings in the French Quarter. Oh, here’s the one with the weirdo selfie guy. He was actually pretty cute.”
“Ooh-la-la, Mother,” Kat says. “Let’s see him.”
She flips the phone around and the three of us lean in.Holy shit.Cassie shrieks and her chair tips forward. She barely catches herself on the table. I laugh, and Kat sits back with a bemused smile.
I rip the phone from Mom’s hands to get a better look. “Mom, he wasn’t a weirdo! People probably ask for photos with him all the time. He misunderstood what you wanted.”
“What? Why would they ask for photos with him all the time?”
Now Cassie grabs the phone. “Because,” she gasps. “That’s Logan. FromThe Beach House.”
I go tothe game. Probably I always intended to go to the game, if I’m being honest. But sometimes it’s easier to say you don’t want something when someone else controls whether you get it or not. When I board the bus, I half expect a stranger in a suit to rip my access pass from around my neck and shove me out the door.
It doesn’t happen.
Another thing that doesn’t happen, despite my wishes: Arizona Tech suspending Maynard for the finals. They release a gutless statement about how they take the allegations seriously and will conduct and release the results of a thorough investigation in due course. Blah, blah. They want to squeeze in a national title before dealing with any consequences.
“Glad you’re here,” Eric says during shoot-around.
“Me too,” I agree. Last night I asked him to tell people not to say a word to me about the article, and so far they’ve all obeyed. Except Taylor, who checks on me every five minutes and keeps offering me snacks. It helps that the team has the biggest game of their lives to focus on.
Ben shuffles past with his hands in his pockets and does a weird eyebrow-raise-chin-jerk-acknowledgment-thing. “You okay?” he croaks, not quite making eye contact. I didn’t know my stomach could sink any lower, but somehow it does.
I look for Maynard as soon as his team files onto the court. Better to get it over with. When my eyes settle on him,the shrill wail of a danger alarm jolts to life in my head. I want to limit myself to a quick glance, but I can’t look away.
His hair is starting to gray. He still wears his jacket too long in the sleeves and wide in the shoulders, like he’s trying to look disarming. Despite the last twenty-four hours, he’s carrying himself like he belongs here, with complete ease, even in front of all these people.
I won’t have to speak to him. I’ve planned out how to do my job tonight while giving him a wide berth, and if he approaches me there are a dozen people here who will body-slam him to the ground, starting with Taylor.
