Page 66 of One on One
I rise to my feet. Ominous rainclouds are rolling in, and I’m aching for a power nap before tonight’s game.
A skeptical expression crosses Cassie’s face, but she can’t argue with the facts. Her bottom lip pokes out. “It makes me sad if you guys are a good match and this is all you get.”
“This” gets one step closer to ending that night, when we lose a tight one in the tournament finals. We’ve beaten Saint Mark’s twice this season, but they play a tough, physical game, and our guys are exhausted.
There’s no time to reflect, because March Madness is here. It’s time to find out if we can pull off the near-impossible.
TWENTY
“Why aren’t you wearing theshirt?”
Donna stands in front of me, chin jutting, gesturing at my torso with one scalpel-like fingernail. Damn. She must’ve sensed me violating the rules from across the room, like a shark smelling a paper cut.
I attempt a wide-eyed look of spacey innocence. “I lost it.”
Donna turns her attention to my bag on the floor. A puddle of blue cotton spills out the top.
“It doesn’t fit,” I try.
“We have extras in every size.”
“I’m allergic to cotton. I’m too cold for short sleeves. This is my lucky sweater?”
Donna skewers me with a ferocious stare.
I groan. “I’m the one behind the camera. No one will see that I’m not wearing the shirt.”
“That’s a crock of shit. You’re not behind the other camera.” Donna points.
I don’t have to look. Donna is right. It’s Selection Sunday, and in twenty minutes the championship seedings and matchups will be announced live on television. The network likes to show the reactions of a handful of teams, and this is Ardwyn’s lucky year. There’s a camera bigger and fancier than mine twenty feet away.
It’s a good thing. The athletes get the attention they deserve, and more eyes on them means more money in the bank.
Somebody has decided that everyone at the watch party—the team and staff, their families, the university bigwigs—needs to wear the same blue T-shirt with the school logo. They’ve set up chairs and a projector in the lobby of the Church, and boosters sit at cocktail tables with white tablecloths on the mezzanine above. A ceiling-scraping DNA double helix of balloons flanks each side of the double doors. The only people exempt from the T-shirt requirement are the cheerleaders, who are in uniform. Even the mascot is wearing a custom-sized version.
For the record, I am sort of dressed on-theme. My jeans are blue enough to count, and my cream sweater has gray varsity stripes on the sleeves. I’ve made it through this entire season without wearing team gear, and I hadn’t intended to break the streak now. But if Donna murders me, I’ll never get to eat one of the hot pretzels from the table in the back, so I pass my camera to Jess and head to the bathroom to change.
I’m queasy, looking at the shirt while I’m locked in the stall. I used to own a ton of Ardwyn clothing. The first week of senior year, I lived in a T-shirt like this one, only older and rattier. Oliver had dumped me (for the first time) a few daysbefore, and I spent most of that week marathoningBlack Mirror, lying on the futon with a cup of sangria on the floor next to me, drinking from a swirly straw I got at the dollar store. I had it angled just right, so I could reach my drink without lifting my head. I was wallowing, and it was ugly.
One night Cassie and my other roommates dragged me out to a bar in Philly. It was super swanky, with velvet booths and dim lighting and bronze wallpaper. A bar for grown-ups.
We had each other and fancy cocktails, and at first it was fun, but then I got drunk and weepy. I fell off my barstool, and the bartender kept trying to give me water. I had deleted Oliver’s number from my phone, so I was trying to type it from memory, even though I couldn’t see straight, while my friends figured out how to get me home. They didn’t think I’d be able to handle the train, and Cassie was worried I’d puke in a cab. And then Maynard just…appeared.
He’d been having dinner with friends in the other room and saw us at the bar. It was obvious I was a mess, so he offered us a ride home. Apparently, my response was, “Do you have a puke bucket?” I was too drunk to be embarrassed. Most of the ride was a blur of Cassie trying to make polite conversation and Maynard playing an O.A.R. album. I had to pee badly the whole way.
At one point I said, “Boys suck.” He was nice about it. He said something that seemed fatherly, something like, “They do, they’re boneheads. Whoever he is, he doesn’t deserve you.”
That’s all that happened that night. But it feels like that’s where it started. Maybe I’m wrong, maybe it would’ve happened anyway. I don’t know.
Pushing aside my unease, I remove my sweater and slipthe shirt over my head. As I exit the bathroom I studiously avoid looking at my reflection in the mirror.
I make it back in time to film Coach Thomas addressing the crowd. Jess is shooting on her phone, and Taylor is posting the best clips right away.
“Get a shot of those kids dancing with Gallimore,” Taylor says after the speech.
“I’ve got it under control,” Jess replies.
Taylor cranes her neck. “Oh my god, they brought in Miss Mary.” Miss Mary is a one-hundred-year-old fan who attends every home game. “She’s talking to Coach Thomas! She brought him a scarf in our colors! It looks hand-knit! Jess, get over there.Jess!”
