Page 26 of Lovely War
A guilty chuckle escapes his mouth. “It’s not like that! I summoned you here so you can teachmehow to do laundry.”
I sniff the clothes from a safe distance. The smell is…ripe. “How have you survived all semester without learning how to wash your clothes?”
“I have an NIL deal with Tommy John, so I get a lot of free underwear.” He looks away, sheepish. “And, uh, Andreatti’s girlfriend and her roommates usually do it for us. But they went home for Christmas already.”
“Wow. Laundry serviceandyou literally get paid to put on your underpants in the morning? I’d say the life of a college athlete is all glamour, but I saw the Sharpie dick on the door of the cinder block closet you live in.”
“I think they let stuff grow in the showers to keep us humble.” He opens the detergent and pours it into the washing machine. And keeps pouring.
“Stop!” I cry. “That’s more than enough.”
“I don’t use the whole thing?” His expression is guileless. Jesus, I think he’s serious.
After an introductory lesson in measuring by the capful and choosing a water temperature, I hop onto an empty dryer while Quincy sorts his clothes according to my instructions.
“An NIL deal for undies,” I muse. The NCAA rules changed a few years ago, so now players can profit off their name, image, and likeness without losing eligibility. It’s only right, given how much money the schools, sponsors, and advertisers make off them. “Are you leaning toward declaring for the draft?”
He shrugs, pulling the whites out of the pile. “I’ve been talking to a few agents. They think it’s a good idea. If I go pro after this year, I’ll maximize my earning potential.”
“What does Coach Thomas think?” I don’t know the right path for Quincy, but he’s so young. It would be a tough decision for anyone. I’m sure he’s considering every factor like a weight on the scale: the way college ball is honing his game, the risk to his body, the value of a degree as a backup plan. And money, like gravity, pulling each side up or down.
“Of course he thinks I should stay,” Quincy scoffs. “It’s better for the team if I do.”
“Put everyone else’s opinions aside. What doyouwant to do?” I ask.
He stares pensively at the T-shirt in his hands. “I don’t know. It doesn’t matter. It’s not up to me.”
That night, whenthe hallway is dark except for rectangles of light thrown onto the carpet from Ben’s office and mine, a young woman walks past my door.
I pull off my headphones and toss them onto the desk in a dramatic gesture visible to no one.Come on.It’s the third time this week. The girl is a student. Her ID dangles around her neck, and she has a part-time job in the academic support office, tutoring athletes.
When she visits Ben in his office it’s always at night, and they always close the door. Their voices are muffled, and sometimes they laugh. She stays for thirty minutes or so.
I don’t know what’s happening. Nobody’s moaning or anything, but it seems inappropriate. This girl is young and a student, and Ben is senior to her, if only in an indirect way. She tutors basketball players. In theory he has the power to say something to somebody that might affect her future employment prospects. I never would’ve picked him out as someone who would exploit a nineteen-year-old, but the ones people don’t expect are often the most dangerous. Except maybe the ones people call dangerous repeatedly for years to no effect.
Enough is enough. I have a legitimate need to speak to Ben tonight, anyway. I get up and approach his office, hovering for a moment with my ear turned toward the door. They’re talking, but I can’t discern anything specific.
I brace myself and open the door without knocking. I’m not sure what I expected to see. Skin, maybe. Or Ben giving the girl a back rub while commanding her in a whisper: “Write Andreatti’s history essay.”
Andreatti is on the cusp of academic ineligibility. He really does need to nail his history essay.
Instead, Ben is sitting in his desk chair and the girl is across from him. There is an unbreachable barrier of computing devices between them, her laptop and his desktopand somebody’s tablet and a literal calculator, plus the desk itself. She’s got an open notebook in her lap. Nobody is giving anyone a back rub. Relief floods my body.
Ben and the girl turn to me in unison. His hands still on his keyboard, he tilts his head, face blank. The girl smiles, not knowing this isn’t normal.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you were with someone,” I say breezily. “I need to talk to you.”
“I’m busy.” His palm falls open toward the girl.
I take it as an invitation. “Hi, I’m Annie.” I reach out my hand.
“I’m Kendall. I love your videos!” Her handshake is like a newborn baby’s, her voice bashful as she delivers the compliment. Up close she has round adolescent cheeks full of potential and a constellation of pimples on her chin.
Gosh, I used to be that young. When I was her age, I thought thirty-year-olds were people who had just finished the decade where they made all their important life decisions and were now embarking on a lifetime of living with the consequences.
I’m still not sure that perception was wrong.
