One on One

ONE



I USED TO BE A SUCKER FOR A CINEMATIC MOMENT.

When the woman with the dark bob and Skechers perches next to me on the bench and says, “It’s like something out of a movie,” I get it. I understand why she’s whipping out her phone, trying to figure out how to take a panoramic photo.

It’s one of those perfect October mornings when there’s a bite in the air, the kind that always makes my lungs crave more. Everything is dripping with caramelized sunlight. Ardwyn University students stroll through the quad toward a cluster of old stone liberal arts buildings, the field green like tuition dollars and mown with precision. I breathe in the smell of fallen leaves and, inexplicably, apple cider donuts.

“It’s something,” I mutter in response, eyeing the bro‑ chure sticking out of her colorful paisley shoulder bag. A Bright Future, it says at the top.

There was a time in my life when I would’ve eaten this shit up with a spoon. Now, Ardwyn seems suspiciously like Disney World: too perfect, like it must’ve been synthesized through a series of focus groups to feel like college, and all these young people in their chunky sweaters are going back‑ stage for a cigarette break as soon as they’re out of my field of vision.


“Beautiful day,” the woman declares.

My anxious brain does not have the bandwidth for small talk right now. I try to get away with a noncommittal mm‑ hmm, but she snares me with eye contact and sticks out her hand. I shake it a beat too late, offering a perfunctory smile.

She tells me her name, and I forget it immediately.

“I’m Annie,” I reply.

“Oh, there they are!” She waves to a man in a windbreaker and a teenager twirling a bucket hat in her hands, both walking toward us from the student center. “My husband and daughter. They went to a find a restroom.”

I rise. “Let me make room for them to sit with you.” I can’t stay still, anyway. My jaw aches from clenching, I’m tapping my foot, and I picked the cuticle off my right thumb‑ nail before she sat down.

She protests, but I wave her off. As I back up, a student walking behind me says, “Excuse me,” so I step off the path into the dappled shade of a heinously majestic oak tree to let him pass. He’s dressed in what must be all the Ardwyn gear his parents bought him at the bookstore on move‑in day: Ardwyn hat, Ardwyn lanyard holding his Ardwyn student ID card, Ardwyn Tigers T‑shirt featuring the mascot hold‑ ing a basketball.

At the sight of the basketball, my stomach churns like the quaint old waterwheel behind the library.

Another student pops up in front of me, a perky, red‑faced kid in a polo and khakis. “Hi! Are you here for the tour? It’ll be a few more minutes.”


For the first time I notice a handful of other families mill‑ ing around behind the bench. Prospective students and their parents, chatting and waiting and peering around.

“No!” I respond too quickly. “I’m not. I don’t. Um, no. Thank you.”

I shouldn’t be allowed within a ten‑foot radius of this tour group. Eight years ago, I graduated and swore I’d never set foot on this campus again. For eight years I kept that prom‑ ise to myself. Yet now, thanks to wedding‑induced nostalgia, Home Appliance Magazine, and Ben Fucking Callahan, here I am.

My new friend leans toward me. “I was wondering!” she says. “Are you a graduate student?”

I shake my head. “I . . . work here.” The words feel all wrong coming out of my mouth. “Today is my first day.” Which is why my eyes snapped open before sunrise and now I’m loitering outside, forty minutes before my first meeting.

“Which department?” she asks. “Madison is debating between biology and computer science.”

“I’ll actually be working for the basketball team.”

Some of the other parents and kids swivel in my direction, and one of them oohs.

“So lucky,” says a mom in a cable‑knit sweater, lifting her sunglasses. “You must be excited to be here.”

I’m here because I have no other options. But if I say that, the tour guide will probably haul me off with a hook and lock me in whatever cell they’re using to hide the creepy frat boys and the protesters pressuring the school to divest its endowment from fossil fuels.

Her husband sidles up to me, hands on his hips. “Basketball, huh? I’m a big fan.”

“Of Ardwyn?”

He laughs like my question is a joke. “No, I’m a Duke guy. Cool job, though. You guys have been so‑so the last few years, so keep your expectations low and you’ll probably have fun. Shame that old coach of yours didn’t stick around, though. I always said he could’ve done something special here.”

I shrug like I don’t know exactly who he’s talking about: Coach Brent Maynard, everyone’s favorite Ardwyn icon. I swear, if I turn a corner and run into a bronze statue of that man, I will drag the thing to the Schuylkill River and drown it. The tour guide won’t be able to stop me.

It’s still early, but this is my cue to exit. “It was nice meeting you,” I say to the mom on the bench as I make my escape.

She beams. “Have a great first day, Annie!”

I drift down a weathered flagstone path past the dorms, gawking at the scenery. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. I snap a quick photo of the ornate arched entryway of Cloughley Hall, where Cassie and I shared a room freshman year, and send it to her. I can practically smell the mold from here, I add.

Aww, memories! Cassie responds immediately.

I’m about to drop my phone back into my bottomless pit of a tote bag when it vibrates again. This time, Cassie is calling.

“Hi, Cass.”

“Hi! Did you drink the tea this morning?”

Ugh, the tea. It’s some kind of calming‑yet‑invigorating herbal blend Cassie dropped off at my new apartment last night as a supportive gesture. It could’ve been worse. I half expected her to show up this morning to escort me to work like it’s kindergarten orientation day. Luckily, Ardwyn is on the Main Line, in the idyllic suburbs outside Philadelphia, and Cassie had to be at her office in Center City by eight o’clock.


“I had an Irish coffee instead,” I say. “Great for the nerves.” Ah, there’s the source of the apple cider donut smell: A group of sorority sisters is hawking them at a table in front of the dining hall, with a handmade sign touting a fundraiser for a local animal shelter.

“Yeah?” Cassie asks, like she’s pretty sure it’s a joke, but not one hundred percent sure. I can picture her face, her tawny brown skin, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, her cloud of curly hair falling to the side as she tilts her head in concern.

“I drank the tea,” I lie.

“Good,” Cassie replies, satisfied. A faint male voice filters in from her end of the call. “Hold on a sec,” she orders me. “Don’t hang up!”

“Is that your boss? I want to talk to him for a minute,” I say. “Give. Cassie. A raise!” The partners at Cassie’s firm call her a “rock star,” which basically means they wouldn’t be able to function without her but still don’t pay her enough.

Cassie stifles a laugh. “Shush!” There’s a rustling sound, and then a muffled conversation with some guy on the other side of the glass ceiling.

It’s partly her fault I’m here. I was drugged up on sentimentality at her and Eric’s wedding this summer. It’s not every day your best friends marry each other. As the after‑ party wound down, the three of us sat around a fire pit in a courtyard full of greenery, perfectly tipsy and content. Eric, an assistant coach at Ardwyn, caught me off guard when he turned serious. “Come back and work for us,” he said. “We’re shaking things up. Coach wants to revamp the video program.”


He made some good arguments. And I was desperate. It had been forty‑two days since I’d impulse‑quit my latest soul‑sucking job, a gig creating instructional content for a refrigerator company, after making Home Appliance Maga‑ zine’s 35 Under 35 List. Which had been as embarrassing as a Jumbotron proposal from someone you don’t want to marry. My health insurance coverage was about to lapse, I was running out of money, and for the first time ever, I was struggling to find work.

Apparently, the Internet knows what it’s talking about when it says job‑hopping is a “résumé red flag.” Despite seven jobs in eight years, I’d always managed to bullshit my way through questions about my history during interviews, until this time. Flaky? one HR person scrawled at the top of my résumé, the question legible across the conference table. I didn’t get a callback.

Despite all that, I hesitated. Part of me thought I might be better off calling time on my video career and moving on to whatever happens after you accept that you’ve utterly failed to live up to your potential.

“Sorry, I’m back,” Cassie says. “Anyway. How’s campus?”

“Weird,” I say. “I didn’t anticipate how strange it was going to be to come back.” My voice gets stuck on the last word, and I clear my throat.

A pause. “Annie. Are you sure this is what you want?”

I grit my teeth. “Do I ever do anything without thinking it all the way through first?”

Cassie says nothing. She’s taken enough depositions to know not to answer the question.

I was on the fence when Eric offered me the job, until somewhere in his fervent speech, he mentioned Ben. “He just won a big ESPN award,” Eric said offhand. “Young Front Office Leaders, or something.”

Ben Callahan, team data whiz. We worked side by side for the Tigers in college, leading the crew of student managers that kept the whole operation running. Until, for me, it all fell apart.

That could’ve been me. I felt something hot in my chest I didn’t recognize, and the words flew out of my mouth: “I’ll do it.”

Three years of penance, then get the hell out. Three years is long enough, I think, to prove to other employers that I can be reliable. I know I’m lucky to have a friend who can give me this opportunity. And I swear on Home Appliance Magazine I’ll try my best to build something more perma‑ nent once I’m done here.

The peals of the campus church bells ring out from across the quad, snapping me out of my thoughts. It’s too loud to talk over the noise, so I say, “Hang on,” into the phone and hope Cassie hears it.

While I wait, I finally allow my eyes to settle on the Church. Not to be confused with the actual church with the bells. The Church is the nickname for the Simon B. Curry Arena, where the Tigers play. Towering over the treetops, it’s a giant, crumbling pile of red bricks with a pointed roof that makes it look like a cathedral.

I swallow hard. Basketball was my first great love, and nothing else has come close, not even my ex Oliver. I never really played, but I grew up courtside and adored everything about it: squeaking shoes and sweat, the arc of a perfect shot sailing toward its inevitable destination, the camaraderie among the players and staff. The dopamine rush of winning.

I haven’t seen Ardwyn play since I graduated, and I haven’t watched a basketball game at all since Dad died two years ago.

The bells ring out again and again, marking the time. Then the noise fades, and it’s nine o’clock. Time to go.


I let out a theatrical sigh. I pause. And then in my gravest voice, I proclaim, “They toll for me.”

Cassie groans. “I knew you were going to say that.”

Okay, maybe I’m still a little bit of a sucker for a cinematic moment.

..........
 
ON THE WAY to my introductory meeting in the athletic department office, I pass the gym and library, congratulating myself on remembering where everything is located. But when I reach the building and pull the door handle, it doesn’t budge.

A passing student glances at me, and my cheeks heat. I peer through the glass. This door is clearly not the entrance anymore. Inside is nothing but an abandoned vestibule.

Right. Don’t mind me. I totally know what I’m doing here.

I wander tentatively for a couple minutes, drawing the at‑ tention of a security guard. “They remodeled the building five years ago,” he explains. “The back is the front now.”

In the interest of laziness, I walk behind the building along a long row of bushes and cut through the grass, instead of going back the way I came. When I emerge on the other side, there’s no gap in the landscaping to use as an exit. I squeeze through two massive rhododendrons, batting branches out of the way, and pop out onto the pavement.


A pair of guys stand a few feet in front of me, holding paper coffee cups. “Can you get us tickets to the opener?” one is asking. Their heads swivel toward me simultaneously as their conversation stops. I don’t know the first guy, but the other is Ben.

“Annie Radford,” he says neutrally, without blinking, as if he’s been expecting the shrubbery to spit me out at his feet all morning.

Junior year, when he and I competed for the Philadelphia 76ers internship, I used to say to Cassie: “Ben Fucking Callahan, my nemesis.” And then we’d dissolve into a fit of laughter. Not because I wasn’t afraid he’d beat me—I was. But because the idea of him being anyone’s nemesis was ab‑ surd, because Ben is—ugh—a good person.

I’m instantly dizzy at the sight of his face, maybe because it’s the first familiar one I’ve seen since arriving. Or maybe because, whew, it’s not exactly the same face.

Ben was always good‑looking in a wholesome way, if you’re into that sort of thing. Earnest brown eyes, white teeth, excellent posture. Six foot two on the roster when he played, which means six feet flat in reality.

I still remember what one of the upperclassmen said dur‑ ing the freshman roast: “Ben Callahan is here tonight, folks. He’s accompanied by the little flock of birdies that follow him around chirping wherever he goes because he’s such a cutie.”
 
Hilarious, but not applicable anymore. The geometry of his face has evolved, and sparks slingshot through my nervous system at the overall effect of his jawline and cheekbones. A few intriguing fine lines and a darker, magnetic look in his eye, some neatly groomed stubble. His deep brown hair is styled meticulously, like an uptight newscaster’s. If you ignore the hair, he’s almost . . . is it possible he’s . . . hot now? I check for a wedding ring, because I am extremely thirty years old. Nope. Surprising.

He’s sizing me up too. His eyes scan me rotely from head to toe and back again. His face is impassive, his mouth turned up so tepidly at the corners it doesn’t qualify as a smile. These are not his usual facial expressions. Where’s the eager grin? The warm hug?

Oops, it’s my turn to say something. The silence has gone on too long. “Ben, hi!” Despite my nerves, I force some en‑ thusiasm and a smile that probably looks as stiff as it feels. As I tuck my hair behind my ears, a leaf comes untangled and flutters to the ground. We all pretend not to notice.

I brace myself for a bunch of friendly questions, but Ben offers none, and it takes me a minute to realize why. My entrance interrupted this other guy’s request for tickets. That’s why Ben is standing there with the burdened expression of someone who’s been asked the same question for the mil‑ lionth time: Can you hook me up?

My wrist stings, and I rub it with the opposite hand. My fingers find a scrape that’s puffing up around the edges, courtesy of the bushes.

Right. They’re probably wondering why I materialized out of the foliage like an overly friendly squirrel. “I got lost,” I explain. “The door moved.”
 
Ben glances at the entrance. “Yeah, they did that a long time ago,” he says in a flat voice. “You haven’t been here in a while.”

I’m not standing close enough to speak at a normal conver‑ sational volume, so I take two steps forward to avoid having to shout. “How are you?” I ask.

“I’m fine.”

“Good, good. I heard about the ESPN award,” I say, giving myself an internal pat on the back for being so gracious. Miss Congeniality right here. “That’s awesome. Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” He shifts his coffee cup from one hand to the other, studying thelid. I fidget with the scratch on my wrist. Ticket Guy coughs. Is Ben waiting for him to leave?

But Ticket Guy isn’t getting the hint. “How do you two know each other?” he asks politely.

“We go way back,” I explain.

“She used to work here,” Ben says at the same time.

“I once puked on Ben’s shoes on a flight back from Chicago. Worst turbulence I’ve ever experienced,” I say. We were stuck in our seats for another forty‑five minutes, which made cleanup tricky. Ben waved off my apologies and spent more time digging around for a water bottle so I could rinse out my mouth than trying to clean himself up. “That kind of bond lasts forever.”

It’s a joke, but Ben barely raises his eyebrows in acknowledgment, and an awkward silence follows. A prickle of embarrassment runs through me. Am I being overfamiliar here? My four years at Ardwyn were the most significant of my life, and Ben and I spent more time with each other than with our friends and families. But a long time has passed.

I stand there for a minute, trying to gather the composure to say a casual goodbye and walk away looking unperturbed. Or maybe I should take the most direct escape route and withdraw into the bushes. It was more comfortable there anyway.

Ticket Guy beats me to it. “Callahan, I gotta run. We’ll catch up later,” he says, backing away. He offers me the slightest jerk of his head.

“Sure,” Ben says, his tone suddenly cheery. “And the tickets are no problem, as always.”

Then we’re alone. He looks down at his half‑zip and brushes an invisible crumb off the Ardwyn logo. Pulls up the zipper an inch.

I press onward. “Some things don’t change.”

A line appears on his forehead. “What do you mean?”

“You know.” I gesture at Ticket Guy in the distance. “Everybody wanting you to hook them up.”

“Ah,” he says. “Nah. He’s a friend.” He clears his throat. “I was sorry to hear about your dad.”

“Thanks.” Briefly I wonder if all this awkwardness is because he’s uncomfortable acknowledging Dad’s death. Some people are afraid to say the wrong thing, so they say nothing at all. At least Ben said something.

“I’m excited to be back,” I say, steering the conversation toward a lighter subject. “Eric says you guys want to focus on video strategy this season.”

His nostrils flare a little. “As long as we also focus on playing good basketball.” Spotting an older woman wheeling her bike to the rack outside the building, he waves, his face brightening. “Hey, Cindy, how are you?”

My stomach sinks, unease curdling inside it. If I didn’t know better, I’d think this was more than aloofness or fumbling for the right thing to say. I’d think Ben was actively unhappy to see me.


That wouldn’t make sense. Ben is one of the most considerate people I’ve ever met. Junior year, when we were stressed over the internship, he was unfailingly kind. There was no secret sabotage, no pistols at dawn. He combed through old game footage with me when I needed help, and asked my opinion sincerely when he wrote up scouting reports.

It was inconvenient. Sometimes I was jealous, because everything came easily to Ben, and he was so close to Coach Maynard. Ben had played basketball. His connection with Maynard was natural and immediate. After two years sitting the Ardwyn bench as a walk‑on, he retired and became a manager to prepare for a coaching career, just like Maynard. Forget mothers and babies; there’s no bond as powerful as the one between a man and another man who reminds him of himself.

I had to work furiously to get to the same point. I got there eventually—a perfect illustration of be careful what you wish for—but it took a lot of effort. I could never hold it against Ben, though, because he was so nice.

Unlike now. My patience turns brittle and snaps, and I cross my arms tightly. “Is everything okay?”

He stiffens, caught. A flicker of guilt crosses his face. “Yeah, of course.” His tone is suddenly chummier, but it’s forced.

I narrow my eyes. “Not feeling well?”

“I’m fine.”

“Somebody screwed up your coffee order?”

The cup is halfway to his lips when I ask the question. He takes a long sip. “All good.”
 
“Didn’t sleep?”

“I sleep great at night.”

I press my lips together. “Well, if it’s not you, it must be me, then.”

He smooths his hair with one hand, squinting at me, his jaw set stubbornly. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” His upper lip jerks, like he’s trying to force a friendly expression but can’t quite bear it. “Anyway, I have to run. Busy day.” He starts to walk away but turns back as a gentle breeze sends leaves skittering across the path. Banners stamped with the university crest billow gracefully on the light posts behind him. He raises his cup to me, as if to prove that everything is fine and he’s still the nicest guy around. “And hey, it’s good to see you. Welcome back.” But it doesn’t sound welcoming at all.