“Sorry,” said Ben. “I have a postulated rupture of the ulnar collateral ligament. Maybe next time.” He smiled and pointed to his elbow.
“Whoa, that sounds serious,” said the PA, furrowing his brow and backing away.
“Totally. We’ll be out in a jiff!” Ben backed into the room and slammed the door behind them.
“Did you just tell him what I think you told him?”
“That I was pretty sure he was going to rip my arm out at the elbow? Yes.” He laughed. “That kid needed six fewer espressos. But I told you! You’re probably blowing up their socials as we speak.”
“You know I didn’t do it for that reason. Also, I don’t think this is going to be that interesting to people. You overestimate my fan base.” Cris pulled at the knot on his necktie and undid the top button of his shirt. Ben stretched his hand out for the tie and began wrapping it into a tight roll while a series of pings and chimes erupted from Cris’s phone where it lay on the vanity. The entire lock screen was ablaze with notification messages from his brothers, some old teammates, Cinzia, his strength coach, friends from past competitions, some reporters he’d forgotten still had his number—even Violet.
“And you clearly underestimate it. This will be news. Whatever your reasoning was. So what next? I’m guessing you have a phone callto make in case one particular audience member didn’t quite get the message.”
“Let me ask you a question. If I called you after telling the world that I loved you, ignoring the fact that you’re very angry with me for very legitimate reasons, would you answer?” Cris pulled two baby wipes out of a pack on the vanity table and began swiping off makeup while squinting into the mirror.
“You’re right. I would probably not answer.”
“Because you would assume that I was only thinking of my own emotions.” Cris turned around to face him.
“And not considering mine.”
“Because I am a lunkhead athlete, the likes of which have continually ruined your life and betrayed your trust?”
“Something like that.”
“That’s what I thought,” said Cris, throwing the baby wipes into the trash. “You would be sick of public confessions and wary of media influence.”
“I’d be skeptical of your motives,” Ben said, pausing from packing up the garment bag to point at Cris.
“And possibly even more angry with me.” Cris picked up both of their phones and handed Ben’s to him as he opened the door.
“Thank you,” Ben said, sliding the phone into the chest pocket of his blazer. “But you would be able to convince me that your love is stronger than morning TV.”
“I would? I mean, yes. I would.”
“Because you will come up with some way to show me how you feel and explain to me why I can trust you. What you would say to me one-on-one is more important than any of this public display of blah blah.”
“And how, exactly, would I do that?” Cris asked as they walked down the hall toward the studio exit.
“I’m the wrong person to answer that question. My very livelihood depends on grand gestures and over-the-top celebrations. In my mind, every love story should be flashed on a jumbotron, performed live in concert, or flown off the back of an airplane. I don’t really do subtle, you know.” Ben pushed open the exit door and they stepped out directly onto 45th Street and 7th Avenue, otherwise known as Times Square, New York City. “See this?” Ben said, gesturing around toward the glowing lights and crowds of people with a grin. “This is what I do. But I’m not Ellie.”
“I get it,” Cris said, scanning the scene of stories-high LED billboards, honking taxis, and people dressed as cartoon characters. Every bit of it made him want to crawl into a cave. It made sense that she wanted to get away from all of this. She’d been through enough and deserved to move on from the show, New York, or whatever else she wanted to keep in her past. He only hoped that she wouldn’t want to move on from him, too.
“Come in, Dr. Beltrami,” the voice said from the other side of the door. Ellie pushed into the office and tried to ignore the butterflies that flitted in her stomach. She reached out to shake the extended hand belonging to Paula Feldman, head of clinical psychology at the University of Southern California.
“Thank you so much for meeting with me today,” said Ellie. Dr. Feldman had a perfect Anna Wintour bob and rectangular red eyeglasses perched on the bridge of her nose. She nodded and gestured to the seat in front of the desk as she sat back in her leather chair.
“It’s my pleasure. What can I do for you?”
“Well, as I mentioned in my email, I’d like to talk with you about the possibility of my being able to reenter the matching program eventually. I realize that my path is not quite, um, orthodox, as it were, and I, uh—” Ellie broke off. This sounded so much better when she rehearsed her lines to the ceiling at four in the morning. She’d spent so many years thinking this moment would be impossible and now that it had been shoved back into possibility, she couldnotmess it up.
“May I call you Eleonora?” Dr. Feldman cut in.
“Ellie, please,” she said, knowing full well that this woman could call her an artichoke if she liked.
“Ellie, then. I would like to begin with brutal honesty. To me, it’s the path of least resistance. Therefore, I must tell you that although I remember you from NYU and can attest to your intelligence and academic integrity, I also know about your ensuing career and recent difficulties.”
Ellie nodded.
