Page 77 of Lovely War
He signals to an imaginary server. “Check, please.”
“Don’t you want to hear the good news first?” I ask, leaning forward. “That was emergency lasagna. We made it lastminute. The real thing is a hundred times better. And it takes, like, eight fucking hours.”
“And how might one get the opportunity to try the real thing? To confirm that it is, in fact, better than the emergency lasagna.”
I pick up my utensils. “Unfortunately for you, I only make it when I’m super stressed or upset about something. On a related note”—I pause to sever a carrot—“I made it a lot during the first half of this season. This guy at work was being extremely unpleasant. Big-time lasagna material.”
“I’m sorry to hear that. Sounds like a jerk. But, um, since you made so much of it, did you happen to freeze any?”
I chuck a sliver of potato at him.
While I clean up in the kitchen, Ben cracks open his laptop. His dishcloths are the same blue and taupe colors as his living room décor. I still can’t get over the excessive matching, simultaneously precious and dorky; I want to razz him about it but also go to war with anyone else who tries to do the same.
“Their ball control is solid,” Ben says when I turn off the faucet. He’s talking about our next opponent, Tennessee. “I can’t get over this assist-to-turnover ratio. It’s just…” He trails off with an aching sigh.
“Turning you on a little?” I finish the sentence.
“Absolutely. It’s over one point six.”
I start the dishwasher. “Now I know what kind of dirty talk you like.”
His eyes flick to mine over the top of the computer. “Pretty sure you’ve already got a handle on that.”
My cheeks grow warm and I press my hands to them. Helaughs at my sudden shyness and then he’s closing the laptop and dragging me out of the kitchen and I’m following him to his bedroom. The whole way there I chant, “One point six, one point six,” until I’m lying over him on the blue comforter, his hair dark against the taupe pillowcase under his head.
After, when he’s in the bathroom, I ask, “When you’re a coach, are you going to miss analytics?”
He climbs back into bed. “All coaches have different strengths. It’ll always be a tool I use, but I can’t wait to do other stuff too. Work directly with the players, especially. I want to do for them what my coaches did for me. Hopefully in four years.”
“You don’t have to wait four years.” I intertwine my cold feet with his warm ones. “You can do it next season.”
He nudges me with his toes. “Still trying to get rid of me. Ruthless as ever.” Turning to face me, he plants his elbow on his pillow. “A while ago you told me you came back to Ardwyn because you had no choice, but it seems like you’re happy here now. Aren’t you?”
I scoff, but it’s weak. “I guess,” I admit. Out loud, for the first time. He smiles, satisfied, as if I saidAbsolutely, yes, with all my heart.In a way it feels like I did.
But then his brow furrows. “I still don’t understand why you stopped working in basketball to begin with.”
I pause, swallow. “I always liked the actual work, but there were other aspects of the job I couldn’t handle. The whole swearing-your-undying-loyalty, taking-the-blood-oath, loving-the-team-like-your-own-mother thing. This isn’t a family, no matter how many times people say it is. It’s a business. And college sports are a mess.”
“How do you mean?” he asks.
“Where do I start?” I shake my head. “Shitty medical coverage for athletes, including football players who get whacked repeatedly in the cranium. Racial disparities in graduation rates. With NIL, I’m glad they get paid now, but it’s total chaos. There’s so much money and power on the line. It’s hard for things to change.”
Senior year, when the season started, Maynard asked me to sit in his hotel room and take notes while he watched film on road trips. He made the request in front of other people, certain coaches and staff members he was close to. They didn’t say a word, so how could it be inappropriate? Who would allow it to happen if it was inappropriate? Those people looked the other way for him. I saw their presence as a sign of my safety, but they were there to keephimsafe. Their careers depended on him.
He didn’t do anything weird the first couple times. Never said anything he wasn’t supposed to, just watched film and told me what to write down. There were always snacks.
Sometime in mid-November he was on the phone when I knocked on the door. He let me in, pointed to the couch, and walked into the bedroom. He left the door open a crack, so I couldn’t avoid hearing his end of the conversation. “I don’t know what to tell you,” he was saying. “It’s already stressful. Please don’t make it worse.”
When he walked back into the room he said, “Sorry about that. Kelly doesn’t want to go to this hospital banquet.” He let out a big, dramatic sigh. “I should bring you,” he said, “but everyone would say you’re too young for me.” And then he laughed, like of course it was a joke.
I said, “I hope everything is okay.” What I meant was:Iwant you to be happy with your wife, because if you’re happy with your wife then this is probably all in my head.He was giving me this look, and I was so uncomfortable, so I put my head down and pretended to start taking notes, even though he hadn’t started the tape yet. He said, “Ah, married life,” and left it at that.
A few nights later, when I came into the room, he sat down on the couch and immediately said, “Sorry I’m in a mood.” I hadn’t been there long enough to notice his mood. Then he said, “Kelly is pissed at me again for missing a family thing last night. I’ve been coaching for fifteen years, you know? She knew what she signed up for.” His arm was over the back of the couch, behind me but not touching me.
I said, “Sorry to hear that.” I was sweating. I couldn’t stop thinking about his arm. I was wearing the biggest, baggiest Ardwyn sweatshirt I could find, like that would protect me.
He looked down at his wedding ring, twisted it. “She doesn’t understand me. You’d be out recruiting with me.” And then he laughed again. There was always a laugh, for plausible deniability.
