Page 81 of Lovely War
“It’s my bad,” he says. “Honestly, I was telling you all those golf stories to try to buy time. My colleague is supposed to meet us, but she’s running late. Her flight from New York this morning was delayed. She’s the one who wants to talk to you.” His face is serious in a way I’ve never seen before. “Annie, there’s no story about hype videos. That’s not why we wanted to meet with you.”
Oh. Ben was right, after all.
“Who’s your colleague?” I ask. If ESPN really wants to offer me a position, it must be someone on the video production side.
“Her name is Lily Sachdev.”
My stomach boards an elevator and the cable snaps.
This may not be about hype videos, but it’s not a job interview either.Lily Sachdevwants to talk to me. Lily Sachdev, who writes about abuses of power in sports, about corruption and misconduct. Who writes about sexual harassment.
She wants to talk to me. There’s only one possible reason for that.
I always wondered if this day would come.What would I do if a journalist came knocking?I asked myself again andagain over the years. Even lately, I’ve asked myself the question. Other stories like mine have been in the news a lot. Sometimes I thought that if it ever happened, I’d sayNo, absolutely not, leave me alone.Other times I fantasized about it. I knew exactly what I’d say. I practiced in my head.
But now. Now what?
I give him a pained smile. “I don’t mind waiting for her.”
“Holy shit,” Bensays when I walk into the hotel conference room a couple hours later. He’s standing by the window, holding his hands to his head. I break into a sweat at the sight of him. He should be getting ready for practice, so I expected the room to be empty.
“I feel like a spy,” he continues. “He didn’t notice anything, right?”
I set my bag next to my computer and sit down. “Right.” My chest is tight and the taste of stale coffee sticks in my mouth. Water. I need water, so I stand back up.
“That was wild.” He shakes his head. “Not the smartest decision Williams has ever made. He shouldn’t have been there. Is it weird that I’m having an adrenaline rush?”
“Yeah. No,” I say, half listening. I open my bag but can’t remember what I’m looking for, so I put it back down.
Ben crosses to the table and perches on the edge. I back away, needing time, space to think. He’s not supposed to be here.
Lily Sachdev’s flight did make it to Atlanta after all. JJ and I met her at her hotel, near the coffee shop. Her handshake was firm, and after she invited me to sit, she thanked me for coming, looked me straight in the eyes, and said, “I’mworking on a story about sexual harassment in college basketball. Specifically about Brent Maynard.”
Lily let that information hang in the air for a minute, watching me through no-nonsense glasses.
“I heard you talking about him after the last game,” JJ explained. “I wondered if maybe you’d want to speak to Lily.”
I toyed with the little hotel notepad in front of me, folding the top piece of paper in half and then in half again. “I see,” I said quietly.
“You don’t look surprised,” Lily observed.
I looked up. “I’m not.”
Lily’s immaculate red lips curved compassionately and she gave me a brisk nod. “My piece will probably be published shortly after the season is over, regardless of whether you choose to participate. There are some risks, which we can talk about. Take the weekend to think about it, and if you decide to move forward, I’ll come to Philly next week to meet with you.”
I want to scream. It’s not fair that I have to make this choice now.
“I have nothing against him for exploring his options,” Ben is saying. “That’s how this works. Although he’s been with Coach Thomas so long, I thought he’d stay forever. I just can’t believe how sloppy he was. He should’ve waited until after the season is over, or at least met him somewhere private.”
“You’re right,” I say.
Ben studies me. “You’re quiet.”
I shake my head like I’m clearing out the cobwebs and force a smile. “Sorry. Long morning.” The water, I remember. That’s what I wanted from my bag. I don’t have myusual bottle with me, so I take a plastic one from the ice bucket on the sideboard.
“It was a different kind of interview, wasn’t it.” Less a question, more a statement.
My blood freezes in my veins. “What?”
