Page 15 of Lovely War
I’m in the chilly underbelly of the Church, trying to stake out a position outside the locker room. It’s difficult because the place is buzzing like a hive, and the worker bees are on all kinds of missions. A trainer darts past with a roll of athletic tape. A manager hunts for a missing jersey. Kyle wanders around looking lost, his tie flapping.
The Tip-Off is Ardwyn’s version of a preseason pep rally, and it used to be one of my favorite nights of the year. The band and cheerleaders perform. The players are introduced one by one, running onto the court and debuting gloriously elaborate handshakes before playing a fifteen-minute intrasquad scrimmage. To cap off the event, a C-list singer with only one song anyone recognizes—the most star power the school can afford—performs a short set.
Jess is helping me shoot tonight. I already sent her off to the mouth of the tunnel that feeds onto the court. I’m going to get footage of the team walking out of the locker room, and Jess will catch them as they burst onto the court while thousands of fans scream for them, like babies being born into stardom.
“Excuse me,” I say to a university administrator who’s here to gawk and has parked himself in front of me, but he doesn’t hear me. Too tentative. Eight years ago I would’ve verbally flicked him out of my way without hesitation. I’m out of practice. “I need you to move, please,” I say, louder, and he shuffles to the side.
A few minutes ago, I went up to the court to take a peek. When I was a student, the stands would have been packed with families, locals, and other fans. This year, it’s half-full, and I know for a fact the ticket office had to hand out freebies to local middle school teams to fill out the crowd. But the student section is full and rowdy, the kids’ buzzes peaking as they take their seats after hustling over from the dorms, swigging the last of the cheap vodka from their water bottles before making their way through the security line. The entire place smells like soft pretzels.
Unlike this part of the building, which has always reeked of floor cleaner and sweat. Someone else fills in the gap created by the administrator, and I groan to myself. I’m briefly distracted by the guy’s suit, the way the jacket frames his firm shoulders and the pants hug his ass. It’s a nice ass.
And then he turns to the side and—oh, horror of horrors—it’sBen.Ben in a suit, like the coaching staff. Everybody dresses up for game days, and this is like a game day.
I can appreciate high-quality tailoring, and that’s all thisis. Ben got this suit from somebody who knows what they’re doing. At least the hair is awful. He always sweeps it back and to the side in the exact same way, like he keeps a photo of the style he wants to achieve next to his bathroom mirror to copy every morning. It’s not a look he should be trying to replicate. Excessively tidy, it looks like it was combed with the stick he has up his ass.
Every time a guy gets that haircut, a paid family leave bill dies in Congress, I texted Kat the other day, when she asked me what it was like to see Ben again. It’s not a fair joke. He’s a registered Democrat; I looked it up the other day while canvassing the Internet for information to hold against him. The search was a bust. The worst thing I found was a Venmo payment for $69.69 from @JimK-Iggles for fantasy football.
I vow to never, ever tell Kat about the way I accidentally checked out Ben’s ass.
“Can you make sure the water and Gatorade are set up upstairs?” he asks Verona. When he notices me, his face turns as cold as a beer at the parking lot tailgate before a January night game. He declines to acknowledge my existence and pivots back to face the locker room door.
How did we get here?An ache fills my stomach, but I brush it off. “Callahan, you’re in my shot.”
“I’m busy.”
“All you’re doing is standing there.”
He waves a piece of paper in his hand. “I need to grab Coach Thomas as soon as they come out. He needs some info about the charity partners for his speech.”
A group of alumni wearing VIP badges stops next to us,reeking of whiskey and laughing too loudly. I ignore them. “Isn’t that Kyle’s job?” I ask.
“Yes,” he says tightly.
If it were anyone other than Ben I’d be sympathetic. Ben bails Kyle out a lot. He also goes out of his way to water Donna’s fern when she forgets, give career advice to the managers, and track down the janitor to order candy bars for her daughter’s marching band fundraiser. I’d admire his kindness, but I’m the only person exempt from it. Not to mention how his whole golden-boy shtick gives him a leg up with the powers that be.
The boozed-up alumni crowd together to take a photo of themselves with the locker room in the background. The one closest to me takes an oblivious step backward, jostling me with one wild elbow. I backpedal, turning my head to avoid getting whacked in the nose.
“Hey!” Ben barks, swooping in to take the guy by the arm and steer him a few feet away. “Watch where you’re going. This space needs to stay clear for employees.” He turns to me. “Are you okay?”
This does not count as kindness, for the record. It’s basic civil behavior with a sprinkle of showy chivalry.
“Fine,” I mumble. “I could’ve handled that.” He retakes his position in the exact spot I need him not to stand. “Please move back a little bit?” I ask. “I need to see them when they walk out, not you.”
Ben sighs. “Right, I forgot. The purpose of this entire event is to give you video content.”
I step forward so I’m right next to him, my arm nudging his as I try to ensure I have the camera angle I want.
“Are you trying to box me out?” he asks. He doesn’t budge. In fact, he leans back into me. I hate the pleasurable zing that shoots through my stomach at the feel of him next to me, warm and solid. I pull away.
Just then the locker room door flies open and the team files out. I’m distracted, still thinking about Ben’s proximity, as they walk past us. Thomas leads the way. He’s young, only forty-two, and he’s the team’s first Black head coach. He has a goatee and a quiet intensity, but he’s quick to laugh when he’s not in coaching mode.
Ben has to lunge forward to shove the page of notes into his hand.
“Smooth,” I say.
He sees me fumbling with the camera. “Try pressing the big red button,” he responds, and stalks off, closing the top button of his suit jacket.
I miss the first couple players but recover in time to get a good shot. Exhaling, I turn the camera off and grip it tighter to steady myself.
