For the concept, Will
“The scouts don’t just watch how you play, kids. And that’s why they linger behind games to watch how you handle losses.” Coach tells us at the end of practice today, while twenty Princeton basketball players stand around him looking like survivors of a minor natural disaster.
Rory is lying flat on his back.
Mason has stopped pretending he isn’t dying.
DJ looks exactly the same as he always does. DJ is DJ.
Nate looks worse of all. He has discovered religion.
Well, we all needed that last prep talk. Princeton got our first loss this season and I’d be lying to every one on this fucking planet if I said I wasn’t furious about it.
“Mercer, put that face away.” Coach points at me.
I do not have a face.
“I’m breathing, Coach.” I stand with my hands on my hips, glance up at Coach.
“That I'm-about-to-line-everyone-up-and-make-them-shoot-until-their-arms-fall-off face.” Coach claps my shoulder and squeezes it. “My office after you shower.”
Oh. That face. I thought I had the calm, stable captain face.
“Sure, Coach,” I answer him politely.
“We’re not doing that line up and shoot again.” Leon protests violently with his arm, already walking off court.
“No. We’re not.” Coach releases his hand on my shoulder and walks off towards his office too.
Everyone else follows Leon off court, though nobody really looks like they believe Coach’s words.
Reasonable. Coach once said light recovery session and then made us run suicides until Nate threw up beside a Gatorade cooler.
Trust has consequences.
Fifteen minutes later, I reluctantly walk out of the locker room with my hair still wet and the gym bag tight around my shoulder. When Coach says Let’s talk, my shower automatically loses five minutes, and that leaves no time left to dry my hair.
I don’t make it to the office. Coach is already talking to Mason and DJ a few feet outside. He sends them towards the locker room, then crooks two fingers at me.
“How’s your thesis going?”
“On track.”
“That's not an answer, Mercer.”
Coach waits. Fine.
“It's on track, Coach.”
“ECO 498 now, ECO 499 in spring. Stay eligible, Mercer. I know the timing's brutal.”
What an understatement of the century.
Every Princeton Economics concentrator since 1926 writes a year-long thesis, split across two courses.
Well, at least the ones being archived at Mudd Library anyway.
Any thesis written before that was suffered in silence, read by no one but the Econ student themselves and the professor, and changed nothing about the world.
The draft is due to my advisor in the same week as our last home game. The thesis itself lands three weeks after the championship, assuming we get there, and we are fucking getting there.
Princeton has also been kind enough to state upfront that there will be no, let me rephrase, there are never any extensions given for any reason.
Championship? No.
Injury? Do it from the ambulance.
Act of God? God should have checked the academic calendar.
Which means I need the paper basically finished before April while also being very fucking good at basketball.
There is no chance in hell I can put an orange ball through a hoop while thinking about twelve hundred missing words on market structures.
I’m not a God. Yet.
“You can’t play all five positions at once, Will.” Coach tells me when the guys disappear into the locker room. His arms fold in front of his chest.
“Is that why you think we lost the game?” I clench my teeth, then realise I do it so I unclench it immediately.
“Partly.” Coach glances down the corridor after Mason. “I’m telling you privately because I saw it after you changed the set with about eight minutes left.”
I shake my head, avoiding Coach’s eyes. That was the bad move and I have replayed that every single hour in my head since the loss.
Mason had stopped trusting Leon with the ball.
Leon responded by forcing shots. Instead of calling timeout and bringing Coach into it, I did the calculations in my head and changed the set myself.
The idea was simple: keep Mason engaged and Leon contained, preferably without needing couples counselling after the game.
It didn’t.
“I know.” My voice comes out even. “I thought I needed Mason to actually be playing instead of acting like he’s going for MVP of the season.”
Coach gives me a look.
“That’s the problem, Mercer. You saw everyone losing their heads and decided you had to manage all five of them.”
“I was trying to settle them.”
“I know what you were trying to do.” Coach points at me. “I need you to communicate. With me. With the guys. Not manage. Understood?”
“Understood.” I nod, too fast.
“Will, I made you captain because you’re calm under pressure and you think on your feet. That doesn’t mean every problem you spot first is the problem for you to solve alone.”
Coach is right. I hate it that Coach is right. That last game change came at the last minute and hell, with a touch of desperation. That’s exactly why it was a mistake.
“So,” Coach reminds me. “Communicate. Think out loud. Don’t panic privately and then start making decisions for everybody. Got it?”
“Got it,” I answer politely.
He gives my shoulder one last squeeze and walks away. I wait until he disappears around the corner to fish out my phone and shoot Leon a text.
Will: one more joke abt Fairfax and I’ll make u run until u puke. Got it?
Communicate. Coach said. Done.
I shove my phone away and walk out of the athletic centre, shoulder up high. I have a class to attend.
The building for my International Relations lecture is about twenty minutes walk away and I want that twenty minutes because despite Coach’s words, the game keeps replaying in my head.
So did Leon’s text from last night in the group chat asking if anyone had sedatives. And for absolutely no good reason— Maddy standing in front of the TV, conducting Pirates credits with both arms swinging and her entirely delighted face.
I shake my head violently as I walk, chasing the image away and tugging my hands deeper into my pocket.
“What’s got you smiling, handsome?”
I turn to my side to find the redhead from the party a week ago already matching my pace.
“Nothing.” My eyes find her as I tug my smile away.
“That’s not nothing.” She narrows her eyes.
Girls are so perceptive, that is not even mildly surprising anymore. I’m surprised she’s even talking to me after I rejected her with the lamest excuse in college and left abruptly with Nate.
But then again, girls are also very forgiving and that’s probably why they still talk to me after the shit I pulled in my first three years at Princeton.
“We’ve got another party Saturday.” She walks closer. “You coming?”
“You’re trying to get me to break my rule?” I give her a charming smile.
“Rule is yours to keep, Mercer. I’m simply available when it breaks.” She bumps her shoulder against mine. “Besides, we don’t have to hook up. We can just see where the night goes.”
There’s only one place the night could go. And it does not involve any clothes, if I have any say in it.
“I can’t go to another party,” I tell her.
“Miss my hands yet?” She ignores me and speaks with her palm landing flat on my chest as we walk.
After that practice? Yes. After three days of mentally replaying one loss until I could identify the exact angle of Leon’s stupid pass in my sleep? Absolutely fucking yes.
My stride slows, I look to her hand.
“Cause my hands missed this.” Her palm moves down my chest, then over my stomach.
It misses her hand too.
“Oh.” Her voice dips. “You feel different after practice.” Her eyes travel from my chest to my still-wet hair.
I swallow and catch her wrist. “We’re in the middle of campus.”
“So?” Her gaze drops towards my jeans. “You didn’t seem to care. You’ve got a semi by the way.”
I don’t. But I’m about to if redhead keeps touching me like this. Her hand shifts on my tense muscles. It feels fucking incredible. I could hear my dick’s objection loudly in my head.
I remove her hand. “Sorry, sweetheart. Class.” I catch her wrist before she can try again.
“Well, you know how to find me. You already have my number from last year.” She pats my chest lightly then retreats her hand this time.
“Sure do.” I tilt my head, give her another easy smile and pick up my pace toward the building, leaving her behind.
I sure don’t. I don’t know if I have her number. I don’t remember getting it either. But one does not say that out loud unless one wants to get slapped under Princeton's aggressively picturesque trees.
So I keep walking, fast.
“WILLY!”
I close my eyes. Of course.
There is only one person on campus who would shout that name loudly enough for three tour groups to hear.
Maddy is walking towards me with Nate beside her.
Three weeks in and I have a nickname that follows me beyond the house.
“Oh.” Nate looks delighted. “Willy now, are we?”
I nod in greeting to both of them.
Maddy reaches me wearing an enormous smile. “Let’s go to the shops. I need snacks.”
She looks like she has won the lottery.
Actually, no. Maddy doesn’t need to win the lottery to look like this. She looked exactly this happy at breakfast because Nate made her scrambled eggs.
“I don’t want to,” I tell her flat.
“He wants to be alone to be miserable in private.” Nate announces for both of us. “And he's also avoiding anything that might give him an orgasm.” Nate nods subtly behind us towards the redhead.
“Nate.” I hiss a warning. “I’m busy.”
Maddy grabs my arm and pulls me towards the parking lot instead of the building I’m heading towards.
“Come on. Shops are five minutes away. We leave the groceries in your car and then you go to class. Excellent plan.”
“How do you know I’m walking to class?” I ask her in amusement.
“You’re walking toward JRR.” Maddy points vaguely ahead, then flicks a glance over my shoulder at the redhead. Her mouth twitches. “What? You’re meeting a girl in JRR now?”
Nate whistles. “Baby girl, we don’t take girls to academic buildings. Have some faith in us.”
“Let’s go.” My voice cuts in firm.
Fine. Class isn't for another forty-five minutes anyway.
My body follows Maddy toward the car. Nate falls into step beside us and sends the redhead behind me an absolutely shameless wink.
About thirty feet later, I notice Maddy has changed the giant blue handbag from one arm to the other.
“Give it to me.” My hand already reaches out.
“I'm fine.” Immediate high-pitch protest, because she’s a gremlin.
I sigh. “You’re struggling. Just give me the blue thing.”
Maddy swaps arms again. She looks mildly offended. “It’s cornflower. They made it especially for me.”
“They made blue especially for you?” I stare at it.
“It’s cornflower.” Another high-pitch protest.
Two minutes later, she hands over the limited edition cornflower, and my entire shoulder drops half an inch.
Jesus Christ.
“Maddy.” My eyes widen without my consent. “What's in here?”
“A book.” Maddy keeps walking.
I wait.
She looks at me. “It’s a big book.”
I take a sneak peek inside. There’s also a small iPad, a pair of headphones, lip balm and an entire additional weight of nothing whatsoever. The contents explain maybe forty percent of what is happening to my arm.
“There's a lock on it.” I turn to her.
I need to understand why a cornflower handbag needs a lock.
“Yes.” Maddy gives me a cheeky grin. “And?”
“Why?”
She glances at me. “Why what?”
“Why is there a lock on your bag?”
“Because there is.” She skips, pulling me ahead.
“For the book?” I catch up.
She looks at me like I have asked why doors exist. "For the concept, Will.”
What the fuck does that mean? What concept?
I look down again. Apparently we’re not done. Hanging off the handle, there is another tiny leather object.
Same blue. Sorry. Cornflower. Roughly the size of a plum. There are keys in it.
A bag. For the keys. To the lock. On the bag.
“Maddy. There’s a little bag.” I hold up the little plum.
“That’s the clochette.”
“The what.” I raise my eyebrows.
"The clochette,” she repeats, in the tone of a girl telling me the time.
I lift the plum in my two fingers. “There are two keys in here. For one lock.”
Maddy keeps walking.
“Maddy. Why does one padlock need two keys?” I hold up both keys.
She does not answer me. Not now, and as it turns out, not ever.
I look at Nate for help.
Nate meets my eyes, shakes his head about a centimetre, and says absolutely nothing, which for Nate is a physical achievement. And that's when I work out that Nate knows exactly what this is, has known the whole time, and has made the mature decision to abandon his ride-or-die friend.
Thirty minutes later, I’m still carrying Maddy’s cornflower bag as she raids the snack aisles. She is preparing for winter.
Then at the checkout she puts a bag of oranges straight into it. Yep. Into the bag that is currently in my hand, while I am standing there holding it. After she pats my bicep like it’s a pet and calls it strong.
This is becoming a second workout.
“Maddy—” I grit my teeth.
She adds gummy bears.
“For fuck’s sake. Can’t you hold on to the oranges? Why are you putting all this into a bag that has a padlock?”
“Because a bag holds things, Will.” She tries to fit a bottle of soy milk into the bag. It doesn’t fit. “It would be a crime against a Birkin for it to just sit prettily inside a closet, don’t you think?”
Behind us, Nate is busy charming the girl at the register and appears to have abandoned all remaining loyalty to me. He could stay there for an hour and I know because he has started pulling out the jokes.
So I carry my housemate’s padlocked cornflower whatever-it-is back to the car without Nate, now considerably heavier and full of oranges.
Maddy skips ahead of me with gummy bears in one hand.
I’ve changed my arms twice. And my International Relations lecture started nine minutes ago.
Fuck me.