As soon as Finley and Allison drop me at my townhouse, I call Denise Schwartz. Judging from her text messages, she is taking the recent developments hard. She was the one who recruited me when I was coaching at Grace Consolidated. She’s been my biggest supporter since I got there. She sounds like she’s holding back tears when she answers the phone.
“So what does Crisham say?” I ask as I walk upstairs to my bedroom, eager for a shower after my overnight stay in Cook County Jail.
She lets out a loud sigh. “The chancellor’s meeting with the Board of Regents this week. He didn’t tell me what he’ll recommend. All he told me is to ask you to voluntarily stay away from the team until they’ve made a decision. He asked you to meet with him next Monday.”
I figured it would be something like that. “I’ve talked to Alan already. He’ll keep everything humming until we sort this out.”
“I reminded Crisham that in this country, there’s a presumption of innocence,” she says. “I also reminded him that you turned our baseball team from a laughingstock to a powerhouse, and your boys have the highest team grade point average of any sport at the school.”
“Including the chess team?” She doesn’t think I’m funny. “You’re agood egg, Denise. Don’t get yourself fired over this. Let’s take it a step at a time.”
I take a near-scalding shower to remove any trace of my night in jail. The doorbell rings as I’m finger-combing my hair into some semblance of order.
I open the door to Trinity, feeling the familiar rush every time I lay eyes on her. I’ve been taken with this woman since the moment I met her, when she blew past me at the finish of the Chicago Marathon last October, finding me afterward to apologize, her long ponytail swinging behind her. The sun-drenched sheen of her skin highlighted her features: high cheekbones, eyes the color of copper, a smile that sparked even when she was exhausted. When she approached me after the race, I could hardly speak.
“Hey.” Trinity drops her periwinkle bag holding her periwinkle laptop—she likes periwinkle—and rushes in, wrapping her arms around me. “I was so afraid they’d keep you locked up until trial.”
“You and me both.”
“How bad was it?”
“The food was outstanding. I recommend the bologna. The white bread was just stale enough to add that needed crunch.”
She leans back from me, hands on my shoulders. “Don’t make light. It must have been awful.” Trinity knows a thing or two about incarceration from Max, who served nearly two years in prison after his second conviction for dealing Oxy.
We sit in my living room. I have no sense of decor and little interest in it; in that way I am a prototypical confirmed bachelor. What passes for style is courtesy of Allison, who picked out a couch-and-chair set of neutral tones and a large glass coffee table. In the corner, still unhung, is a framed copy of theNew York Timesarticle from last summer, also courtesy of Allison, the titleFrom the Ashes of Tragedy, a Promising Player Becomes an Elite Coach.
“Listen, Allison will try to talk to you,” I tell her. “I told her not to, but she’ll do what she wants, as always. Just refuse. Don’t talk to her. And tell Max the same thing.”
Trinity, dressed in workout gear—she must be teaching a class today at her studio—nods along, but her nerves are obvious. “And you’re sure I can do that? Just refuse?”
“I’m sure. When she was a prosecutor, Allison used to tell me how defense lawyers would complain that witnesses wouldn’t talk to them. They had to wait until trial, when they’re subpoenaed.”
“So at your trial, she can question me. And Max. Under oath.”
“It’ll never come to that,” I say. “But one step at a time. Don’t talk to Allison. Don’t talk to the cops. I won’t let you get burned. Okay? Trust me.”
“I know, I know,” she says. “All together now: ‘Prepare the plan. Execute the plan. Trust the plan.’ ”
I pat her leg. “There’s hope for you yet, Trin,” I say.
14
Allison
I’m thinking of Trinity Casto and Luke’s case while I finish cooking dinner. I dollop avocado oil on the aluminum foil. Sprinkle parmesan cheese, then oregano, into the spots of oil. Slice pieces of raw broccoli into halves and smash them down into the oil and seasonings, using a mason jar. Drizzle more avocado oil on top of the broccoli, reapply the parm and oregano, and slide the sheet of broccoli into the oven. I’ll bake them to a crisp, so they will taste more like parmesan chips than anything else. It’s the only way I’ve ever been able to get Luke, who’s coming for dinner tonight, to eat vegetables.
I hear Finley in the mudroom adjoining the garage, dropping his gym bag and kicking off his shoes, before he trudges up the stairs. When he walks into the kitchen, he is freshly showered, wearing a long-sleeved running shirt and athletic pants.
“Smells good,” he says lightly, like we’re still us. “Haven’t seen you go all out like this in a while.” His words hang there, casual but too aware. He’s trying to read me, his tone careful, eyes soft.
When Gray was still living here, I hustled home every night to make a home-cooked meal. Once he was off to college, I kept the tradition alive for my husband. But after that night I saw him enter our condo with his mistress, freezing as I stared across Lake Shore Drive with apair of binoculars, I finally came to my senses. I’ve missed dinner every night since, using work as an excuse. Cold cuts and frozen dinners for Fin.
“It’s for Luke,” I say, sharper than I intend.
He pauses, leans against the counter. “Ah. Right. The superstar’s gracing us.”
Finley hasn’t handled Luke’s success as a coach any better than he’s handled mine as a lawyer. It was hard enough for his ego, after he lost his sales job during the pandemic, watching my career take off, my salary jumping exponentially. But Luke returning home eight years ago and turning Grace Consolidated High School into a perennial baseball champion, and then doing much the same with Mortimer College, only rubbed salt in the wound.
