I glance at them as I turn toward the massive brick building flanked with the school's flags, causing them to burst into embarrassed laughter. When I first arrived at Astor, I found the Mark Maxwell Arena comical. How could what was essentially a basketball court look so regal? Gifted in the 1960’s by the Maxwell family the arena was built in a more turn of the century style. It was once the school's playhouse but when they realized that sports could easily outsell plays they renovated the insideinto the court it is today. The path to the building’s entrance is lined with cherry blossom trees, begging to bloom toward the end of the season, as if to celebrate the team’s inevitable win.
I feel a breeze prickle the back of my neck, as a feeling of uneasiness washes over me. Is attending tonight’s game a mistake? Am I instigating what will inevitably be a full out brawl between Will and I sometime in the near future? I curl my fingers into fists, a frown tugging at the corners of my mouth.
When we were little I remember teaching Will the basics of the game, sneaking out of our room into the massive family room, stealthily skipping over the creaky floorboards that made up the Tudor style house we stayed in every summer. We'd mute the TV and I’d set up NBA Street on my PS2 while Will snuck into the walk-in pantry stocking up on snacks. I’d whisper to him my thought process making the players move through the plays. The next morning at the crack of dawn Will would shake me awake, his tiny hands clawing into my arm.“Can we practice free-throws?”We both were obsessed, addicted even. We’d play every day from the crack of dawn until the sun started going down in the evening. It was thrilling, a game that was only ours. That was until Daniel Chapman, Will’s dad and my step father, got a hold of how good we were a few summers later. How hard we were willing to work for the game we loved.
When Dan started joining us, coaching us, I noticed the small shifts in Will. One misstep and he’d punish himself, throwing the ball with all his force and Dan would punish him too, laughing at every misstep and always coming in fast with a snide comment.“Ben would’ve made that shot.”He celebrated Will not for working with the team, but instead for moving to always make himself the most valuable player.
God forbid someone stepped on Will’s toes. An innocent game could turn into a death match at the blink of an eye, an accidental foul turning into a fist fight.
“He’s just emotional, he cares,”Dan would say.“You could use some of that passion.”Anytime Will would lash out, whether he was losing or his team mate wasn’t performing each play to perfection, Dan found a way to turn it into a positive.
“Will, your competitive streak has a mind of its own. This fire will always make you the better player,” Dan said, staring at my eight year old brother whose face was caked in dirt and tears after getting kicked out of his third basketball camp of the summer for blowing up on a ref for making a bad call.
Will peered at me. “Even better than Ben?” His smile was mischievous as usual but there was something else in it too, determination.
I take a deep breath as the smell of rubber fills my lungs. I feel my heart jump the way it does when I’m beginning to panic. I start the exercise I learned in therapy, silently naming the different objects around me in my head, trying to remain in the moment. Stepping in through the lobby’s massive wooden doorway, a comfortable warmth wraps around me. I feel at home as I hear the squeak of sneakers in the distance. Feeling my lips flicker with a smile, I push my hands into my jean pockets and step inside.
The arena’s lobby is teeming with impatient fans draped in Astor Hill’s signature crisp white, the navy Lion insignia peppered throughout the crowd. And even if she hadn’t been running through my mind since our encounter, she wouldn’t have been difficult to spot. Using her black sunglasses she pushes back her dark tendrils, readjusting them to the top of her head. She looks lost. The only indicator that she is at a basketball game are the socks that hit above her ankle and the chunky white sneakers that give her an air of sportiness, enhancing her already mile long legs. Even I, the guy who picked this shirt up off the floor, can tell that her style is unparalleled. Her chestshimmers with perspiration as a tiny L dangles beneath her collarbone.
She quickly assesses the crowd, pursing her rose pink lips. She’s obviously looking for someone and I realize that someone is me as her amber flecked eyes zero in. Even though I see her coming, I feel my heart speed up and sweat grip the back of my neck. I avert my gaze, briefly glancing at my classmates who seem to be doing the same. The effect Olivia has is overwhelming, and not just to me. She moves through the crowd fluidly, softly putting her hand on the backs of those in her way. With barely a tap it seems like she could move mountains.
The black strap of her rectangular leather bag hangs off her smooth shoulder, framing her left arm that she digs into the pouch of her purse. When she pulls her hand out, she’s holding a black, glittery spiral notebook. On the other side of the strap her slender neck balances a head draped in thick, chestnut locks that fall in layers around her face as she puts her glasses in the bag.
I take a quiet breath to bring myself back to reality and am immediately met by a sultry, masculine scent. Her scent isn’t the typical floral essence I’m familiar with from my escapades as captain all those years ago. Instead she smells mysterious, like a bonfire that had gone out in a rainstorm. It reels me in, so much so that I don’t even realize how close I’ve let myself stand in front of her.
“I knew I’d find you here,” she says with an assessing smile. Her eyes leave mine and quickly roam the length of my body. I realize my face hasn’t shifted, so I allow myself to meet her gaze.
“Bold of you to assume I’d be here,” I respond, annoyed but excited about the incoming public confrontation.
She extends her right hand, and I notice that while her hands are strong, her fingers are dainty and delicately manicured.
“Olivia Beckett,” she says with a slight eyebrow raise. “My sincerest apologies for telling you to fuck off the other day.”She smiles tightly, obviously straining to make amends for her behavior. “You see, I have an aversion to strange, random men interrupting intimate conversations with my boyfriend. As it turns out, you are neither strange nor random to Will. So. Again, I apologize.”
Wearily, I finally accept her outstretched hand and am not the least bit shocked by the firm handshake she initiates.
“Ben Cabot. I have an aversion to women telling me to ‘fuck off’ when they ran into me in the first place, but for you I’ll make an exception.” I wink and give her a smile that used to work wonders for me during my first years at Astor but as to be expected, Olivia seems wholly unaffected.
“The women I know don’t usually enjoy being manhandled by total strangers.” A cynical smile dances at the corners of her mouth and echoes at the edges of her eyes. “It seems your time away from civilization may have left you worse off when it comes to introductions.”
“I’d hardly say Boston is uncivilized.” She scribbles down what I assume is “Boston” in her notebook. “I wasn’t aware I was on the record.”
I hear her sneakers squeak on the floor behind me as I move toward the arena to find my seat.
“Does Will know you’re talking to me?” I ask abruptly. As much as I’m enjoying the banter, I shouldn’t be.
I spin around, only to be met with a flash of irritation in her eyes, her lashes narrowing her stare into careful slits. Despite her cheeks that rise into high points and a jaw that reveals a strength evident in more than her physicality, there’s a softness. Softness in her spiced brown eyes and the suppleness of her gently curved lips. Freckles scatter across the bridge of her sloped nose that arrives at a perfectly formed point. Her lashes are lush, and her brows are dense above her playful eyes.
“Do I have to ask Will’s permission to get to know his aloof older brother?”
“I don’t know, do you?” Her eyes relax into their natural almond shape and I see her bite the inside of her cheek. Her slender fingers clinch her pen. The only indication that she’s feeling anything is the slight tap against her notepad, but even that only hints at boredom. I notice a slight blush creeping up the side of her neck, suggesting she might be enjoying this introduction as much as I am.
I find my seat in the wooden bleachers only to feel her slide into the spot next to me.
“So Ben, tell me, why come back to Astor Hill if you were living it up in Boston?”
“I wanted to finish school.”
“There are more schools in Boston, no?”
