How’s your face
Maddy Fairfax is trying to destroy my life.
There is no other reasonable explanation for why she arrives at the game with Jenny, Mike and three other football players and behaves exactly like herself, which is currently the most unhinged thing she could possibly do.
She walks down to her seat laughing at something Mike has said, her face tipped towards him, one hand wrapped around an iced drink and the other moving through the air because Maddy cannot tell a story without physically performing at least half of it.
The football guys are all large enough to obstruct several rows behind them, but she moves between them like a small radioactive ball of sunshine, touching one arm, stealing something from another person’s packet of chips and smiling at everybody she passes as though she has personally decided they deserve a good evening.
Every time I see her in our house, it feels like she is competing directly with the sun over which one of them can shine more aggressively.
The sun has several billion years of experience.
Maddy is still winning.
She spots me during warm-ups. Her smile changes immediately. It turns slow and knowing before she lifts one covered hand and gives me the smallest wave imaginable while her eyes move from my face to the ball beneath my hand, then down the length of my body.
I stare back.
Gremlin.
Then Mike leans close to say something in her ear, and Maddy turns towards him laughing again.
I turn towards the basket and put the next shot cleanly through the hoop. Jealousy is not especially complicated. It is irritation with an erection.
Fortunately, I have a game to play.
Unfortunately, Mason chooses that moment to discover the starting lineup.
He catches the rebound and passes it back harder than necessary. “You’re fucking serious?”
I catch the ball against my chest. “I usually am.”
He glances towards Leon, who is stretching beside the scorer’s table. Coach has decided Leon will take the first shooting guard rotation tonight instead of Mason.
Coach continues talking to one of the assistants without looking over. He has already had this discussion with Mason, which means Mason has correctly identified me as the person more likely to engage.
“I’ve started every home game this season.” Mason hisses another curse at me.
Fair. The suggestion came from me during film review yesterday afternoon.
“And tonight you’re coming in against their second unit.” I shoot another into the net.
“Why?”
And that is why Mason isn't starting. I'm not discussing the game plan during warm-ups.
“Leon is faster,” I tell him simply.
“Bullshit.”
The basketball justification is sound. Rutgers’s guards attack early, and Mason has been hesitating whenever the offence changes direction. Leon is less reliable offensively, but he moves his feet faster and does not become personally offended whenever somebody suggests he should pass.
That is the reason Leon is starting.
It is not the only reason I recommended him.
Three nights ago, Mason wrote three laughing emojis and a request for Rory to confirm whether a very specific blowjob rumour was accurate.
I told him to stop using her name.
He replied with a salute.
Coach believes the tactical explanation. God, assuming he wastes any portion of eternity monitoring Princeton basketball, knows both.
Mason holds my gaze for another second before jogging towards the bench. “You’re punishing me.”
I catch his arm before he can leave. “If I were punishing you, you’d know. You come in ready, we use you.”
His eyes drop briefly to my hand, then return to my face.
“We need this game,” I tell him. “Whatever you think this is, leave it here.”
For a second, I expect him to pull away and make the situation worse. Then his shoulders lower. “I’m always ready.”
Coach blows his whistle. “Bring it in!”
I release Mason’s arm. “Good.”
Coach walks through the opening sets while we gather around him. Leon nods when his name is called. Mason keeps his jaw tight and says nothing. I know he is still angry with me.
He can hate me after we win.
What I cannot have is him entering the game angry at Leon, refusing the extra pass or trying to prove his value through a series of contested shots. Five basketball players can perform individual acts of stupidity and still force the consequences onto everybody wearing the same uniform.
When Coach handed me the captaincy, I did not admit how badly I wanted to prove him right.
I acted as though it made sense. I had started for two seasons, knew every play, MVP in my sophomore year, arrived early and had enough authority in my voice that people usually stopped talking when I used it properly.
Internally, I made a different promise.
I would not waste it.
I want us to win enough that nobody can call the year disappointing with a sympathetic expression. I want the younger players to know how to recover when a play collapses instead of looking towards me as though I can personally reverse time.
My gaze briefly finds the stands again.
Maddy is now sitting between Mike and another football player, her knees tucked beneath an oversized Princeton sweatshirt. Mike has one arm stretched along the back of the seats behind her.
Maddy catches me looking. She points two fingers at Mike's arm and mouths something I can't hear.
I narrow my eyes. She smiles sweetly and turns back towards the court.
Radioactive gremlin.
The whistle calls us in. That is the useful thing about basketball. The moment the ball is live, the world becomes smaller and more honest. There is the clock. There is the score. There is the guy in front of me and the space he believes he can defend. Everything else is noise.
Rutgers opens exactly as expected, trapping high and trying to force the ball out of my hands before I reach the lane. Leon handles the switches better than Mason would have.
He stays tight through the first screen, recovers when their point guard cuts back and forces a bad pass towards the corner. DJ takes it.
I am already moving before the turnover is complete. He sends the ball ahead. I catch it just past half-court, take two steps and finish before their centre reaches me.
The gym erupts.
Somewhere in the noise, I hear Maddy scream my name. She is already standing, cupping both hands around her mouth. “Willy!”
I point towards the opposite end as we run back on defence, partly to reset the team and partly because acknowledging her would encourage continued public humiliation. It somehow encourages her anyway.
By the first timeout, we are ahead by eight.
By halftime, twelve.
Mason enters with five minutes left in the first half and plays like he has something to prove, which is useful as long as what he proves involves disciplined defence. He hits a three from the corner, forces a turnover and passes to Rory on the break instead of taking the shot himself.
When we reach the bench, I knock my fist against his shoulder. “Good read.”
He gives me a look that says he has not forgiven anything, then he sits.
I do not require forgiveness from my shooting guard.
I require the extra pass.
The game is physical from the beginning, but Calebrie makes it personal midway through the second half.
Grant Calebrie has been Rutgers’s best defensive player for two seasons, which would be more impressive if he did not treat each possession like a referendum on his masculinity. He is strong, fast and deeply committed to making normal contact last half a second longer.
He catches me across the chest after I release a pass. The official misses it.
“Still taking things that aren’t yours?” he asks beneath the crowd noise.
That explains the first elbow.
“You’ll have to narrow that down.” I don’t look at him.
Except, I know exactly what he’s talking about. The knowledge involved his fist and the sentence, We were not on a break, asshole. I thought I was helping a girl get her rebound sex. Calebrie thought I was helping her make him jealous, which he clearly was.
His mouth curves without humour. “How’s the face?”
“Still better than yours.”
In my defence, his face remains worse.
Calebrie speaks quietly enough that nobody else hears. “Try not to land badly tonight.”
“You’ve had a year to improve your threats.” I walk away before he converts the conversation into another punch and Coach asks why I am fighting an opposing guard instead of winning the game.
I can handle Calebrie without the messy explanation why a Rutgers player might hold a personal grudge against me. That decision feels entirely reasonable for approximately eight minutes.
Calebrie bumps me away from the ball on the first possession. Common enough.
His forearm catches my ribs during the next screen. Hard, but basketball.
Then he drives one shoulder into my chest after the whistle and smiles when I take a step backwards.
The official warns both of us. Both. Hell, as if my ribcage has contributed equally to the dispute.
“Walk away,” DJ mutters when he passes.
“I am walking.”
“You’re staring at him like you’re planning a body disposal.”
I score through contact on the next possession and look directly at Calebrie as I run back.
By the time five minutes remain, we are ahead by fourteen.
The game is ours unless somebody becomes spectacularly incompetent. Coach signals for us to slow the pace.
Today’s win has been earned.
If scouts are watching, good.
If a man carrying a clipboard changes how hard I play, then I do not deserve whatever he might offer. One unusually good performance does not create a professional player, just as one bad performance should not erase four years of work.
I have to be good when people are watching.
I have to be good when nobody is.
Tonight, we are very fucking good.
Rutgers misses from the corner.
Nate gets a hand on the rebound, and the ball comes loose towards me.
I take it up the right side. Rutgers’s defence is already retreating.
The sensible play is to slow down. We are ahead. The half is nearly over. Coach will begin emptying the bench soon.