by P. Dangelico
“I think I’ve got enough.” I wink as I head to Becker’s office.
Ten minutes later, sitting on the other side of his enormous desk, I’m sweating bullets.
“This is excellent work,” he says as he watches the video with undivided attention. I finally exhale the breath I’ve been holding since he pressed play. Fingers crossed he likes it enough to buy it.
“This is what a fully produced product should look like,” I explain. “As you can see it’s really fast-paced and colorful. Lots of action. Geared to appeal to my generation.” The video makes the guys look like action stars. Dallas included. It’s also sexy as all get-out, but I can’t very well tell Coach that.
“Frankly, I only agreed to this arrangement because Reynolds said he’d assume the cost if I didn’t care for it. I’m glad he talked me into it. This is exactly what I need to get an upper hand on UCLA and Stanford. Everything is about optics these days. And as you said, this speaks to a younger generation in their language.”
Coach Becker’s face breaks into a small smile that I would be able to appreciate if I wasn’t currently in shock over the bomb he just dropped in my lap.
Reagan agreed to pay for the film if Becker didn’t like it…
He would’ve forked over two grand and I would’ve been none the wiser…
Even more vexing––I’m so confused. I don’t know whether to be upset or grateful. But business is business, and boyfriend problems are something else. So casting aside by mixed emotions, I start my pitch.
“This is a mockup. I have all the raw material ready for you on a flash drive. You can either hire another production company to put something together. In which case, it will not resemble this one whatsoever. Or you can buy this one and I’ll finish mixing the sound on it. It still needs to be cleaned up a bit.”
Coach shakes his head. “No question, I want to buy it. Send me a bill and I’ll submit it to the head of the athletics department.” Turning off the film, Becker sits back in his chair and examines me closely with what I would describe as a fatherly expression. Under his scrutiny, I start to fidget.
“I’m not guaranteeing anything, mind you, but…If he likes it, he may even hire you to produce one for the other teams.”
At what is undoubtedly a look of barely contained exuberant gratitude on my face, Coach says, “You alright?”
“I’m fine,” I croak. “Better than fine.”
Now all I have to do is figure out how I feel about what Reagan did.
Reagan
The locker room is as quiet as a graveyard, everyone zoned in on what we need to accomplish. There’s no question Stanford is going to be hard to beat. Especially with Dallas and his dislocated shoulder on the bench.
We barely scraped by USC yesterday in the semifinals. My goal put us into overtime and Warner’s won us the match but nobody celebrated. It could’ve gone either way and we got lucky. Luck isn’t going to cut it today.
I glance over and find D smiling at his phone. Something is up with him. He’s been in a strangely good mood considering he’s got no car, no license, and the accident pretty much spelled the end of his water polo career.
This game marks the end of the line for most of us. Even if we manage to win today, no city will be hosting a parade. No rings will be issued. Our water polo careers end here unless we’re lucky enough to be selected for a national team and play in the Olympics. I’ve been doing this most of my life. Countless hours dedicated to it. And the odd thing is, I’m not as upset about it as I imagined I would be.
Maybe I have Alice to thank for that.
“What are you smiling at?”
His blond head snaps up. He shuts off his phone and pockets it. “Nothing.”
Coach walks in. Standing in the middle, he glances around, meeting each and every gaze that stares back at him in eager anticipation of his motivational speech.
“I’m all outta magic, so if you’re waiting for me to turn a turd into a pot of gold, you’ll be waiting a long time.” In the pause, Coach’s chin tips down and his hands get shoved into his pockets. All around me, pensive glances change into frowns. There’s a palpable sense of confusion in the room.
“Our journey here hasn’t been pretty. We’ve dropped a couple of stinkers.”
A bunch of us nod in agreement.
“There have been times I didn’t think we’d even get this far, but I’ll tell you something else…That’s how I judge the cut of a man’s character. Not when the stars align and everything is going right. Not when we get lucky and draw a shit team to play. But when we face adversity––”
“Yeah,” the chorus chants.
“And when we fight like hell to earn the win.”
“Damn straight.” The cheering and clapping starts.
“This year is special because you men earned this one, fought tooth and nail to get it done. Pulled out your best play when this team most needed it. That’s what separates the winners from the losers.
“You don’t have to be the most talented, the fastest, the strongest. What you must do is recognize you can’t do it alone. That when you come up against a brick wall, you’re smart enough to climb over it with the help of the man next to you. That’s what Sharks water polo is.”
Westbrook whistles. Peterman shouts, “Yeah!”
“I’m asking you to do it one last time. To dig deep and give this team all you got. And don’t do it for me. I’ll be here next year and the year after that. Do it because it’s a chance to make history, to be part of something bigger than yourself. Do it for each other.”
The locker room explodes, everyone already riding high on a cresting wave of adrenaline.
“Let’s go kick some Cardinal ass!” Cole shouts.
Grabbing our gear, we head out of the locker room to the indoor arena.
My phone chines. I glance at the screen and smile before shoving it back in my bag.
Jersey: Go get them, Flipper. Three kiss emojis.
I’m pumped, and for the first time all season, feeling good about this game. Knowing the girl I’m crazy about is in the stands makes it even better. I’m not saying it’s going to be easy, but I think we have an honest shot at winning this thing.
By halftime we’re down four goals. I’m not feeling good about this game at all, and I’d never say this to the guys, but we have no shot at winning this thing.
“The fucking Hungarian almost broke my nose.” Warner pushes the tampon up his left nostril.
“That was a love tap,” Quinn says to Warren. “Stop your bitching. Your supermodel nose will survive.” He looks at me. “And you––play faster.”
I flip him off. Warner goes with a death stare.
“I don’t give a shit if you have to foul him,” I tell Brock. “Take Papp out. He’s blown up every one of our power plays.”
The Hungarian is ranked the best player in the league with good reason. He’s big, fast, strong––and has no scruples.
Brock glares at me. “You don’t think I’m trying?”
“Try harder,” I urge. “Because if something doesn’t give, it’s going to get embarrassing.”
“I don’t play dirty, dude. Don’t ask me to.”
Brock and his squeaky-clean morals. “That’s going to be cold comfort when those assholes are hoisting the trophy.”
“Leave it to me. I got this.” Those are Quinn’s words every time someone’s about to get thrown out of the game.
“That’s exactly what I’m worried about.”
And then it dawns on me. Stanford is well coached and well prepared. They’ve studied all the tape there is on us, know each of our individual strengths and weaknesses. They assume we wouldn’t swap the starting lineup in a crucial game. “They haven’t seen Finley play yet, right?” The guys exchange curious glances. “We have to mix it up, throw them off, somehow.”
Finley, a freshman with no actual playing time in a live game––let alone a playoff final––is the fastest swimmer on the team.
The gloom on their faces turns into a spark of hope.
“Can’t hurt,” says Cole.
Quinn nods. “Let’s shake it up.”
The noise level in the house is sure to have the neighbors calling the cops. The guys deserve to celebrate, however. It wasn’t pretty, but a W is a W and that makes us NCAA Champions.
Lil Wayne’s Right Above It comes on and I groan. Not again.
No hard liquor tonight for me. When you’re this tired, one beer will knock out a full-grown man and I want to enjoy this moment since there won’t be another.
After Brock and I talked to Coach, he got on board with our plan fast. Down four goals, we had to at least try. And it worked for a while, an entire quarter. Then they got wise that the kid was easily rattled by size and they double-teamed him.
By then, we’d blitzed them for five goals in the third quarter and added four more in the last. Quinn started shit-talking one of their defensive players. The guy threw a punch, which got him ejected, and a man down, we kept scoring. Three of which were mine.
“Hey, Smith,” I call out. He tears his mouth away from some dude’s neck to glance up at me. “What’d you say to Stenovitch to piss him off like that?”
Not for nothing the guy’s nick name is Steely Sten.
“Only the truth. That his brother’s a lousy fucking lay.”
The room reacts accordingly, roaring in laughter and cheering him on. Next to me, leaning against the wall, Brock shakes his head but he can’t keep the smile off his face.
I tap my beer bottle with his. “You still mad at me?”
“I wasn’t mad at you. I just don’t like to do anything for the wrong reason.”
“I saw the Hungarian take a knee to the thigh. He stopped destroying our power plays, which means you fouled him more than once.”
“Yeah, well, winning this game was the right reason.”
He turns and looks me over. “Everything good with your girl?”
I look across the room, and feeling my eyes on her, Alice stops talking to her friend and looks up. Damn. Someone must’ve hit me with a mallet over the head because I’m seeing stars and hearing trumpets.
An automatic smile takes over my face. “Everything’s great.”
Brock nods. “Did you tell her you love her?”
My smile drops. “Way to kill a good mood. For a guy that never dates, you sure as hell have all the answers.”
“I’ll take that as a no.”
His assumption feels like sandpaper on an open wound. An accusation. In other words, not good. Telling Alice that I love her is a big step I don’t think either of us is ready for. We’re just hitting our stride now.
Things are great as they are. I get to have my best friend and the best sex of my life. Complicating the situation with promises and declarations of love can only put unwarranted pressure on it. It could screw things up big-time and I’ve been trying to avoid screwing things up with her since the day we met.
Besides, she knows how I feel about her.
Alice
“Has he told you he loves you yet?” Zoe queries absently. Her attention has pretty much been glued to Brock Peterman since we got here.
“You’re not at all nosy,” I deadpan with a smirk. I catch Reagan watching me and take out my phone to text him. A couple of kiss emojis. I almost hit the purple heart emoji, but pull back at the last minute and hit Send. Hearts would’ve gone too far.
The team toughed it out, beating Stanford sixteen to thirteen. Rea was magnificent in the fourth quarter, racking up three goals in the last two minutes alone.
“Jesus, Zoe, maybe she doesn’t want to talk about it,” Blake chides.
“Have you told him?” Dora jumps in. I roll my eyes and she smiles back wickedly.
“Proud of you, Red,” Zoe remarks, taking her eyes off Brock for a fleeting moment to wink at Dora.
“No, I haven’t and neither has he,” I finally answer because I know the questions will not stop until Zoe gets what she wants. “I’m not in a rush. Besides, I prefer action over words. I’m good with where we are right now.”
And that’s absolutely true. Reagan does show me every day that he cares about me.
“That’s all good and fine, but I’ve been reading this book––” Zoe starts again.
“No,” I cut her off before she goes any further. “Nuh huh. No, thank you.”
“Just sayin’. I’ve got it. I’m happy to lend it to you. It’s chock-full of great advice. Like don’t become his hump toy.”
“Truth,” Blake chimes in. “I’ve read it. The author makes a lot of good points.”
“Like don’t ever say I love you first.”
“I don’t believe in any of that,” I tell them. “This isn’t a power struggle.”
Zoe tilts her head and smirks. “Isn’t it, though?”
Two days later I’m in the library, studying for finals, when I receive an inauspicious email from Professor Marshall asking me to meet with her. A knot immediately forms in my stomach. Naturally, I answer that I’m available right away. Whatever this is, best to deal with it immediately rather than to have to endure days of anxiety.
Marshall responds that she can see me now in her office located in the film and television building. Fifteen minutes later I find her at her desk, chair tipped back, watching my reel when I walk in. Her gray eyes lift to mine.
“Alice, come in,” she tells me in her usual brisk voice. Marshall has a face that even at rest looks like she’s in a bad mood, but who’s actually funny and sarcastic. She’s not at all as severe as she looks. It’s her accomplishments that intimidated the crap out of me.
I take the chair opposite her desk with more than a little trepidation. She leans forward in her desk and laces her fingers together and I know it’s going to be bad.
“I’ll get right to it. I’m not going to be able to submit your reel for the James Cameron internship. It’s come to my attention that this was produced with outside funds, and as you know, that’s one of the stipulations. We insist it be funded entirely by the students. If we allowed outside funding, it would get out of hand quickly. People would raise money with GoFundMe accounts, private investments, etc. The budgets would skyrocket. It wouldn’t be an even playing field. Frankly, I don’t think it’s one now, but it’s the best we can do.”
I’m stunned. “I…uh, Professor Marshall. This was funded entirely by me. The camera equipment I own outright.”
“This is shot with a Blackmagic. You want me to believe you own this equipment?”
“I’ve spent years saving up to buy this equipment.” An angry, startled burst of laughter escapes me. “I can show you the receipts. And as for the reel, yes, the athletics department is paying for it now. Coach Becker liked it so much he only decided to purchase it after I shot and produced it. So it was all shot on my time, with my equipment. None of it was funded by outside money.”
Marshall’s wide mouth purses. “I’m sorry Alice. One whiff that I accepted work that was purchased by the school, whether they supplied the funds or not,” she adds quickly as I’m about to argue. “will reflect badly on me and the program.”
“So that’s it? I’m being punished because someone decided to purchase my work?”
“You’re not being punished. I need to maintain the integrity of the program…for what it’s worth this is very good work.”
Very good work? That’s cold comfort. My shoulders fall in defeat. I don’t remember being this disappointment in a long time.
“Let me talk to Becker…I’m not promising anything, but I’ll look into it before I make a final decision.”
“Okay,” I mutter as I get to my feet, gather my book bag, and sling it over my shoulder. I make it to the threshold of her door when she says, “There’s always next year.”
&n
bsp; Yes, there is. But right now, I’m devastated.
Chapter 26
Alice
Ever try to buy a plane ticket right before Christmas? Yeah, super expensive.
“I’ll pay for the ticket,” my mother insists. The time on my laptop reads 11 p.m.
“Are you home yet?” My dad always stays up waiting for her when she works a night shift. We live in a pretty safe neighborhood, but my mother works in Newark so the commute takes her through a rough area. We worry.
“No. I just punched out.”
I close my laptop and place it on my nightstand. I’m taking two finals tomorrow, and if I’d stayed at Rea’s, no studying was happening, which is why I’m sleeping in my dorm tonight.
“You always say that and you know how guilty it makes me feel. We knew the next two years were going to be hard when I left. We talked about me not being able to come home.”
“I know, but Thanksgiving was so lousy without you.”
“Trust me, mine was lousier. Those people…brrrr. Scary.”
“That bad?”
“They’re like…” I search for the right description. “The rich villains in a 1950s movie, trying to keep their son away from the girl from the wrong side of the tracks. Except with hip haircuts.”
My mother chuckles.
“I have no idea how Reagan turned out so well-adjusted. If he didn’t look exactly like his father, I would question whether they stole him as a baby. Or bought him from some destitute, single teenage mother whose parents were ultra religious.”
“You do have a vivid imagination.”
“You haven’t met them.”
“Do you think I will? Is this serious?” Mom’s voice gets a little shrilly. Like she can’t decide if she should be excited or alarmed.
“I don’t know…” I feign. “I mean, he’s amazing and sweet and funny and generous and…he’s my best friend.”
