Page 75 of Lovely War
I nod, my mouth dry like paper.
“Your fear is, what? That I’ll say nice things and you won’t be able to believe me?”
“No,” I say. I swallow thickly. “I’m afraid you’ll say nice things and Iwillbelieve you. You can’t trust anything you think you feel right now. Not until things are back to normal and we know what’s going to happen.”
He might think we can rise above the fallout once Coach Thomas chooses between us, if it comes to that, but I’m more skeptical. Regardless, he doesn’t do any of the things Oliver would have done. He doesn’t sigh and get moody and passive-aggressive. He doesn’t argue about why my feelings are wrong. He just sits there with his hand on my knee, thinks about it for a minute, and says, “Okay.”
It feels too easy. “Okay?”
“If this is what you need, sure. Until the season is over, right?”
“It might be over tomorrow,” I offer.
He arches an eyebrow. Yes, it’s March Madness. Anyone can beat anyone on a given day.That’s why they play the game,Dad always says.
We both know the season won’t be over tomorrow.
I amend my statement: “Not until the last piece of confetti hits the ground after the ticker tape parade.”
Then he can tell me anything he wants. And I’ll do the same.
TWENTY-THREE
Sometimes a team comes outflat. Flat means all the hunger vaporizes somewhere between the locker room and the court, and everybody plays like they have cement blocks for feet, glue for brains, and no heart whatsoever. This can happen even when the game is important. Even when the team is good and its opponent is much weaker—maybe especially then.
This is how the Monmouth game starts, our team playing sloppy and listless through an excruciating first half. It’s the most delicate thing. It can be over, just like that.
Luckily, it’s not. At halftime we find whatever we were missing, and after that we play loose and fiery, building an unassailable lead that holds firm through the final buzzer. In the second round we’ll play Indiana.
I stay up late Thursday night working on the hype video, until my body tells me to stop with a tension headache like a thumbprint burrowing between my eyebrows straight intomy skull. Ben stays up even later. He studies film until it’s so late I don’t remember him slipping into bed next to me, just find him curled around me the next morning.
The pundits are hyped for the matchup, because Ardwyn and Indiana both experienced championship glory decades ago, grew accustomed to the lifestyle, and have won a big fat nothing ever since. The parallels have people salivating. But the buildup promptly deflates, because we run right over the Hoosiers.
It’s an early game and the flight back to Philly takes only ninety minutes, so we’re home in time for dinner. I go to my apartment to do laundry and pick up clean clothes before heading to Ben’s. When I check the scores, I see that Arizona Tech has moved on to the Sweet Sixteen too.
Taylor calls to talk about the voice-over for next week’s hype video. Lately celebrities have been reaching out to us to ask for the gig instead of the other way around, and it’s way better than making lists of people to beg. Last week we had Pink, a Bucks County native. For the next game, we’ve locked down the Phillies’ star first baseman.
During the dryer cycle, I wait in the laundry room and text Kat about the games, the videos, the flight. And the nights in the hotel, within reason.
Annie: and on top of all that…he told me he LIKES me
Kat: No fucking way. You and Rold Gold are hooking up and spending every night together and baring your souls, and you’re trying to tell me he likes you? Sounds like a bit of a stretch
Annie: hate you
Annie: anyway I made him agree not to discuss such unseemly matters as “feelings” and “the relationship” until the season is over. no point in getting attached if this is just march madness-induced infatuation
Kat: So you’re going to *continue* hooking up and spending every night together and baring your souls but since you’re not talking about it, you won’t get attached?
Kat: That sounds like a thing that’s going to work. For sure
Kat: In other news, the day has finally come, batten down the hatches: mom bought a book about enneagram types
Practice is lighton Monday. I sit in the second row with Taylor and Jess, my feet propped up on the chair in front of me. The players are warmed up and waiting for Coach Thomas. Unfortunately, he’s at the other end of the court, deep in conversation with Ted Horvath. Every once in a while he tries to retreat, only to get sucked back in for another round of semi-relevant chatter and hearty laughs.
Quincy stands near half-court, lunging sideways to stretch his inner thighs. “That Horvath dude is always smiling.”
“It’s creepy,” Andreatti says.
