Not the game I play
Reasons I am currently sitting in a basketball gym in Philadelphia on a Friday night:
Professional development.
Athlete relations.
Scouting.
I said all three of those to Jenny this afternoon. Jenny looked at me for eleven full seconds and said, “Liar.” Then. “Drive safe.”
I’ll be honest, I don’t make the most reasonable decisions at times. I hate driving and some of my choices are simply made because my soul screaming at me through my skull, Oh. Fuck yes.
Hagan Arena is smaller than I expected and completely full. Forty-two hundred people in a building from 1949, all of them sitting close enough to the floor that I can hear individual sentences.
Apparently Princeton and Saint Joseph's have been doing this to each other for decades and everybody in this gym has an opinion about it. The seats go almost straight up. The noise has nowhere to escape to.
I got the ticket at the door cause I’m playing with fate tonight. General admission means I sit wherever there’s a gap and I may or may not be sitting next to destiny, which I will never say no to.
Honestly though, I don’t really care.
Because I find Will in about four seconds after I sit down.
Speaking of Will, shouldn’t I get friends-and-family tickets to these games? I am friend. And since I live with him, and two other guys who are in the same uniform, who is about to run after that orange ball, I am family.
Nevermind.
I can accept the democracy of a GA ticket tonight. I have to. Clearly, that guy on the bench needs emotional support. And frankly, there is nobody in this building who is more qualified than I am. I am a Psych student from Princeton.
Will is at the end of the bench in a Princeton quarter-zip and sweats with his ankle wrapped, both forearms on his knees.
I want to kiss him again.
But this is not an emotional problem. I have an actual logistical problem. Because three other people are also home. All the fucking time, especially Nate.
He has been hovering around like his one class in biology from three years ago qualifies him to touch Will’s ankle, constantly. Which is how we have somehow played Monopoly four nights this week like a family in a cereal commercial.
I would like to point out that I am excellent at Monopoly. I beat everybody, everywhere. The only person who consistently beats me is Logan, my eldest brother, who is an actual property investor and certainly should be disqualified from the game.
This week, however, I have lost twice. Nate has become unbearably whiny when he loses too many times in a row. And I can sacrifice Boardwalk if it buys me another three hours beside Will on the couch, his knee against mine while I reach across him for money I absolutely do not need.
Maybe occasionally, my hand finds his thigh, entirely to communicate my disgust over DJ and Lizzie’s constant public affection. Like kissing is their exclusive rights on game nights. Which is technically true but also ew.
My attention goes back to Will while putting on lip balm. Clear one. I am not going to be a person who puts on a tinted lip balm for a guy on a bench.
He looks like a very serious healthy guy who has been told to sit in a chair and dislike every single second of it.
“Is anybody—”
I look up to find a woman in a beautiful camel coat and very specifically blown-dried brunette hair standing next to the empty seat on my right.
“No.” I shake my head. “You can sit.”
Grey coming through the front of her hair on purpose. That’s a choice. This is a woman who has decided the world can deal with it.
“You’re here for Princeton?” She leans in to ask me.
Tom Ford. I know this perfume. Soleil line. Although I can’t tell if it’s the light one or the new one that they just released.
“These are the Princeton seats, right?” I ask her, scanning the seat to make sure I see the correct banners.
“Oh. Thank God.” She exhales a chuckle. “I’m here for Princeton too.”
She takes her coat off and folds it neatly over her knees, then all the illusion of a spectacular woman with expensive hair falls away. She leans back casually on her chair, cool and almost unbothered.
“You looked at the bench and not the court?”
Oh. She’s good.
I press my lips together. “You can tell?”
She nods at me in the most charming golden smile.
Five minutes later, I already know her name is Claudia. She’s in from Los Angeles for three days. She has meetings since eight in the morning, and she tells me in the specific energy of a woman who has fired someone this week and thinks it’s a necessary call.
I am going to be her one day.
I am also going to steal that coat.
For now, I only hand her half of my pretzel, because I do not share food with people I intend to keep at a distance.
Claudia is different.
“Which one's yours?” I ask right before the game starts.
She flicks a hand at the bench, entirely vague. “He isn't playing today.”
“Same.” I beam in shared excitement.
We look at each other.
“So we've both driven a considerable distance,” Claudia says, “to watch a guy sit down.”
“Well, mine looks excellent sitting down so clearly, I’m winning.” I glance back to the bench.
Claudia laughs so loudly that a man in front of us turns around.
Here is my complete understanding of basketball after six weeks of living with three players and dating none of them.
Somebody shoots. It goes in, or it doesn't. If it goes in, you scream. Sometimes a whistle happens and everybody around me knows why and I do not.
There are five of ours and five of theirs and the tall one in the middle is generally the problem.
Claudia's understanding is worse than mine, which is a gift at this point and I find it deeply comforting.
“Why did that stop?”
“I think somebody stepped on a line.”
“Which line?”
“Claudia, there are a lot of lines.”
“There are far too many lines,” she agrees. “It's a rectangle. How many lines does a rectangle need?”
“Four,” I tell her. “Four lines. Anything above that is showing off.”
Then I start counting. For absolutely no reason at all other than I’m now committed to understanding basketball.
There is a man in a bird costume at the end of the court who has not stopped flapping since we sat down.
“Claudia.”
“I've been watching him for eleven minutes.” She points at the bird-man without even looking at me.
“Is he allowed to stop?” I ask in real concern.
“I don't believe he is.”
“That's a person. Under there. That's somebody's son.” I gasp openly.
“He'll be flapping in his sleep,” Claudia says, with enormous respect.
By the end of the first half we have developed a shared system. Leon is the fast one. Mason is the one who thinks about it too much. DJ is the quiet menace. Nate is simply Nate.
I think his family secretly owns Marriotts, which he denies the three times I asked, so I already clocked in my head that he’s the secret heir.
Nate finds us from the court and pointed at me with both hands like he’s about to propose. I wink back at him. Again, it’s Nate. Public affection is required before he starts throwing roses.
“The tall one doing things with his hands.” Claudia points to the court.
“That must be some play or strategy signalling,” I tell her like I was raised in basketball.
“Very strategic.”
“No, it really is. The whole thing looks like boys chasing a ball and shoot but there’s the whole plan behind it and everyone needs to learn hand movements.” I gesture vaguely while Nate shoots a ball straight through the hoop mid-court.
“YES! Score!” I cheer. “That’s my housemate, by the way. He’s super sweet.”
“Oh. I can see that. Aren’t you gonna blow him a kiss?” Claudia teases me.
“No.” I make a face in protest. “Nobody should encourage Nate. He’s one kiss away from having five wives.”
Claudia doesn’t hold back from her laugh this time.
The man in front of us has stopped turning around and has started sighing instead.
That’s my whole point. Nothing good comes from private suffering.
Will doesn’t do that.
Or at least, he doesn’t just sit on that bench.
He is up on the edge of it every possession, one hand out, calling something at Rory that Rory absolutely cannot hear over four thousand people.
Will points. He gestures a shape in the air with both hands. He grabs Mason's arm on the way past and says something into the side of his head for four straight seconds.
Will hates the bench and makes sure everybody knows it.
Including Coach, who turns around once and tells him to sit back. That doesn’t turn out very well for either of them.
Will sits back for approximately ninety seconds.
Coach turns around again. His brows do something scary and points to the bench once more.
Claudia makes a small noise beside me. When I look over she's watching the bench with an expression I don't get to read for long, because she scrunches her nose at something and turns it into a smile.
Familiar. That's a familiar thing, somehow. I have absolutely no idea why.
I open my chat thread with Will and text him instead.
Maddy: ur ankle looks fine
Maddy: ur being dramatic
Maddy: wave at me
Maddy: WAVE
Maddy: ok not waving is also a choice
He cannot touch his phone during a game. He has told me twice. That is, if anything, the whole reason why I’m still texting him.
Maddy: the tall hawks one keeps looking at leon weirdly
Maddy: should I say smth
Maddy: I'm going to say smth
Maddy: willy
And then, somewhere in the eleventh minute, he looks up.
Straight into the stands. Straight at me. And stops.
He goes completely, entirely still for about two seconds, gives me a little squint of an eye.
I wave with both hands like an idiot. He looks away so fast it should be offensive to my bloodline. Nobody looks away that fast from a Fairfax.
Although. That was a squint. Boys do not squint at problems, they squint at things they want to see better.
Confirmed. Moving on.
At some point in the second half a Saint Joseph’s player puts a forearm into Leon's back and Leon goes down. And nothing happens.
Nothing.
Not one whistle in the entire building.
“THAT'S A FOUL.” I am on my feet before I consult with the better side of judgement from my Fairfax bloodline.