Page 46 of Lovely War
Taylor: what else do we have?
Taylor: wtf. there aren’t even any alumni birthdays this week! I checked all the rosters going back thirty years
Taylor: cute baby dancing in Ardwyn gear?
Jess: no
Taylor: favorite team sneaker post w/ a poll??
Jess: no
Taylor: history of the soft pretzel????
Jess: hmm, maybe
I put my phone away. While the bus idles, waiting for the team to come out, one of the student managers walks down the aisle passing out sandwiches wrapped in wax paper for the ride to the Indianapolis airport. The clunky mechanics of the door sound as it opens, and Ben jogs up the steps, weaving through the people standing in the aisle, looking for a seat. His suit jacket is off, his shirt rumpled, and his tie loose. He slides in next to me and grabs a sandwich from the box in one motion.
He’s never sat next to me on the bus before. “Friends!” I want to shout, with jazz hands. It’s a universal fact that regardless of age, everyone reverts to middle school behavior on a group bus ride. The players always elbow each other out of the way to claim the last row, and Coach Thomas and Coach Williams once bickered about rights to the window seat all the way down the Blue Route.
Ben is holding a bag of chips. “Where did you get those?” I ask. I lean over him to pick a sandwich, bracing myself on his shoulder.
“You have to know the right people.”
I sit back and put the sandwich on my lap. “I know you, does that count?”
He opens the bag and turns it toward me. “Only one?” I ask. Grumbling something indecipherable, he hands me the bag and leans into the aisle.
“Psst, Verona.” He snaps his fingers. Another bag flies toward him from a few rows ahead and he catches it with one hand.
“Never would’ve pegged him as your dealer,” I say, crunching on a chip. “That fleece vest helps him slide under the radar.”
My phone buzzes again in my bag, and I sigh. It’s time to put Taylor out of her misery. An idea is brewing in my head. Fragments for now. That’s how it always starts, with one image, or a specific line from a song. This time it’s a voice.
We’ve been going to ridiculous lengths on social media to distract from our inability to win a game, and it’s never going to work. I’ve tried getting people to watch my videos despite the fact that we’re losing. It’s time to try getting them to watchbecausewe’re losing.
Dad was never afraid of losing during the regular season. When his most-hyped team ever fell in double overtime, ending a fifteen-game winning streak, he said, “Eh. They needed it. They’ll come to practice hungry tomorrow.”
I turn to Ben. “Callahan, do you know Keith Wesley?” Keith Wesley played for Ardwyn in the eighties. His Wikipedia article is three paragraphs long and talks mainly about one thing: the infamous free throw he missed that lost the team a double-overtime tournament heartbreaker in a year they were supposed to win everything. I hadn’t yet been born when it happened, but repeated YouTube views have stampedit in my brain. The shot went up, and the ball took one full rotation around the entire rim, hung still for a moment, and fell the wrong way to the floor.
Ben is unwrapping his sandwich. He pauses. “Believe it or not, he does our alumni community service event every year. Why do you ask?”
“He’s still involved with the program? That’s even better. I want to talk to him about doing a voice-over this week.”
“I have so many questions, I don’t even know where to start.” His knees nudge my thigh as he turns to face me, his mouth tilting into a curious smile. His shirtsleeves are rolled up. Does he normally wear his sleeves rolled up? My proximity to him is forcing me to pay attention to his forearms. They’re nicely toned, thanks to years of dribbling basketballs and opening jars for little old ladies, probably.
It feels like a private place, the bus’s leather seat for two. Long and narrow and walled in by the tall back of the row ahead, drawing us closer, making me forget we’re not alone. It’s having a strange effect on me, warming my face and weighing down my blood, forcing my heart to beat harder. What the hell? This must be why Mom always insisted on driving me to and from school when I was a teenager. Dangerous things could happen here.
But I can’t dwell on this, and Ben doesn’t have time to ask any of his questions. A funereal hush overtakes the bus, which can only mean that the team has arrived.
“Look,” I say, pointing out the window.
Ben leans over, his shoulder pressing into mine, his breath skating over my ear as he laughs a little. “Not what I was expecting.”
They’re walking out of the building together, athletesfirst, coaches behind them. Usually after a loss they’re subdued, wearing their headphones like a shield and not making eye contact with anyone, hence the respectful silence from everyone else. Not today, though. Their heads are up. Anthony Gallimore is singing to himself and no one is complaining about it. A couple of the guys are dancing along. Even Luis Rosario is bopping his head, and he’s typically as stoic as they come.
Ben hasn’t moved, and I’m hyperaware of every place our bodies are touching. My breathing is too shallow. He’s close enough to notice, if he’s paying attention. That would be humiliating.
Intimacy is a basic human need for most people, and the last time I touched a man was the night of Cassie’s bachelorette party last summer, when I shared one lackluster dirty dance with a stranger. Sex? I still had bangs when my most recent relationship petered out, nine months and three haircuts ago.
