Page 86 of Lovely War
“No,” he says. His eyes, wild and pleading, lock onto mine. “If there’s a chance Williams is leaving…” He exhales an unsteady breath and pauses, clearly turning words over in his mind, trying to figure out which ones he wants to say, which ones he’s allowed to say. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but I don’t want to cut this off if we both think it could go somewhere. And I really want it to go somewhere.”
I cover my face with cupped hands and groan. My heart is soaking up his words like a stale cookie in a glass of milk, but damn. There is so much we need to discuss before he makes proclamations like this, and no way we can talk about those things now. My nerves are already shredded, knowing Maynard is in this building as we speak. And practice starts in about ninety seconds.
“Why is that a bad thing?” he cries. A group of reporters exits the locker room, and he waits for it to pass out of earshot. “Do you think in a week I’m going to completely change my mind? I’m notOliver.I’m not a twenty-one-year-old asshole who doesn’t understand commitment. And I’m not some guy fucking around on reality TV. This gets more real for me every day. Even if that’s not how it is for you. I can’t keep trying to guess how you’re feeling and what you’re thinking about the future, especially when I’m standing here telling you I’ve been asked to make a decision by tomorrow.”
A spiky lump rises in my throat, and I twist the chain ofmy necklace around my fingertip. “What are you—do you want me to say okay, you’re threatening me so let’s do it your way?”
His voice shakes and his cheeks turn red. “I’m not threatening you. This isn’t me trying to manipulate anything. I sleep next to you every night at home, and I’m not even allowed to say Ilikeyou. But I’ve done it, because you said you needed that boundary, and I respected that. Now I’m telling you whatIneed, and I need you to respect that. Either you want this or you don’t. I can’t wait in limbo anymore. I can’t.”
The look on his face is fragile glass, transparent and vulnerable, and I’m terrified of shattering it.
Ben has had enough people waver on whether they want to be part of his life. He deserves someone who can tell him to his face that they’re committed to him, and for it to be true.
I need to be that person. There’s a throbbing ache in my chest, and the realization flattens me: I already feel all the things I’ve been trying to hold at bay.
Willful ignorance strikes again. At first, I told myself the flirting was enough, until it wasn’t. Then I told myself the kissing was enough, until it wasn’t. Finally, I told myself I could have everything except the words, and that would be enough to protect me. But it wasn’t. Turns out you don’t have to say anything out loud to make a promise. You don’t have to name a feeling to experience it. I was trying to control something that couldn’t be controlled. It was like trying to catch a wave with a shot glass, and it knocked me on my ass.
Sarcasm, denial, deflection. I’ve got a lot of well-honed tools in my arsenal for moments like this one. But if there’sone thing I’ve learned during this magnificent, beautiful season of the greatest game ever played, it’s that building a shell around myself for the last eight years wasn’t an effective way to avoid getting hurt. It was just another way of getting hurt, only with a duller weapon.
Ben is good. He’s so good. Inside or outside the snow globe, it doesn’t matter. He’s trustworthy, and this thing between us is special. What if instead of retreating like always, I…don’t?
The army inside me drops its defenses, and I catch his hands with mine. “We have a lot to talk about,” I say, my voice thick. “Not here.”
He nods quickly. “I know, and—”
The locker room door flies open, and the team streams out. We release each other’s hands. Williams emerges from the group, looking around, and pivots when he sees Ben. “Callahan,” he barks. “With me. Let’s review matchups in the paint.”
Ben gives me a helpless look.
“Later,” I assure him. “We’ll make time. I promise.”
He disappears with Williams, and I rejoin Taylor and Jess, going through the motions of normal conversation while I’m reeling inside. On our way to the court, we cross paths with some of the North Carolina staff. Coach Thomas and his Tar Heels counterpart greet each other with a firm handshake and an embrace punctuated by a single back slap. Thomas says something in the other coach’s ear, and they both laugh.
Work. Right, I should do my job. My equipment is snug in the camera case, so I dig around for my phone. Better than nothing.
“Excuse me,” someone says when I’m done recording, a guy with a crew cut and a powder blue polo shirt. “Are you the one who makes the hype videos?”
He introduces himself as Scott something, from the media office in UNC’s athletic department. “We’ve been watching your stuff all season,” he says. I’m not sure whoweis. He asks if I have a team or work alone, and what my process is like. I reciprocate with polite questions about his department. I’d rather walk barefoot down Bourbon Street than network, but the guy is being especially gracious, and I can’t leave anyway.
He glances around as if to gauge how private our conversation is. We’re surrounded by coworkers, but he must conclude it doesn’t matter, because he offers me his business card anyway. “If you’re ever looking to make a move.” He walks off with a wave. I stare at the card, then unzip the interior pocket in my bag and slip it inside.
I promised Benwe’d talk later, but it’s easier said than done. The rest of the day is scheduled to the millisecond, like a royal wedding. I can barely find a minute to pee, let alone meet him somewhere private for one of the most important conversations of my life.
The team sits down to an early dinner in one of the smaller hotel ballrooms, with a dark carpet patterned to hide all sins and a large chandelier with gold detailing. The buffet is the same everywhere we go: chicken, steak, pasta, vegetables. Only the most basic sauces and seasonings, to avoid upset stomachs from unfamiliar ingredients. No athlete wants to mainline Pepto-Bismol during warm-ups.
As soon as I sit down with my plate, I realize I forgot utensils. My table was the last to get our food, so the buffet is empty, save for Quincy surveying the row of metal tins on the white tablecloth. He’s already back for seconds, piling his plate with a Jenga tower of lean proteins.
“How are you doing?” I ask.
“Just ready to play,” he says, looking up from the grilled chicken breast. “Getting antsy.”
“You’re as prepared as you can possibly be. You’ll be great.” I pluck a fork and knife from the basket. “I’ll see you later.”
“Hey, one second,” he says. He puts his plate down on the buffet table. “I want you to be one of the first to know. I’m coming back next season.”
“What?” I screech, wrapping my arms around as much of him as I can and squeezing hard. “For real?”
He laughs, hugging me back. “For real. I’m not making any promises beyond next year—I’ll never be an astrochemical engineer or whatever like JGE—but it’s what I want. I want to be a player who can lead, and Ardwyn is helping me become that person. I also want to thank you.”
