One on One: A Novel - Softcover

Harrow, Jamie

 
9780593474822: One on One: A Novel
Softcover
ISBN 10: 0593474821 ISBN 13: 9780593474822
Verlag: Penguin Publishing Group, 2024

Inhaltsangabe

“Move over, hockey romance fans.  There’s a new game in town.  Jamie Harrow’s debut novel sails through the net with the perfect blend of romance, spice, and a healthy dollop of a serious issue that bears addressing.”—Jodi Picoult, #1 New York Times bestselling author

They call it March Madness for a reason: Anything can happen on the way to a national championship.

Eight years after graduation, Annie Radford is not happy to be back at her alma mater in her old job with the Ardwyn Tigers’ basketball team. Worse, her coworker from back in college, Ben Callahan, is still on the Tigers staff, and he’s annoyingly wholesome, hot, and clinging to a grudge against Annie for abandoning him and the team their senior year.

But as Ardwyn becomes the season’s Cinderella Story, things start heating up between Annie and Ben, too. And while neither of them can deny this could be something special, Annie’s afraid to tell Ben the truth about why she left basketball—the thing she loves most—in the first place. She’ll have to learn to trust him if they have a shot at being together.

In addition to being funny, romantic, and sexy, One on One examines the pressure put on college athletes, challenges the sexism in the world of sports, and exposes the dangers in whole communities idolizing the big men on campus.

For readers of The Hating Game and The Ex Talk, a workplace, enemies-to-lovers debut for anyone yearning for a courtside romance, perfect for anyone who can’t get enough sports rom-coms.

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Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Jamie Harrow grew up on the sidelines of a basketball court since, like her protagonist, her father was a longtime coach. She wrote a sports column for The Villanovan, the student paper at her basketball-obsessed college. She is a graduate of Harvard Law School and lives in New Jersey with her family.

Auszug. © Genehmigter Nachdruck. Alle Rechte vorbehalten.

ONE



I USED TO BE A SUCKER FOR A CINEMATIC MOMENT.

When the woman with the dark bob and Skechers perches next to me on the bench and says, “It’s like something out of a movie,” I get it. I understand why she’s whipping out her phone, trying to figure out how to take a panoramic photo.

It’s one of those perfect October mornings when there’s a bite in the air, the kind that always makes my lungs crave more. Everything is dripping with caramelized sunlight. Ardwyn University students stroll through the quad toward a cluster of old stone liberal arts buildings, the field green like tuition dollars and mown with precision. I breathe in the smell of fallen leaves and, inexplicably, apple cider donuts.

“It’s something,” I mutter in response, eyeing the bro‑ chure sticking out of her colorful paisley shoulder bag. A Bright Future, it says at the top.

There was a time in my life when I would’ve eaten this shit up with a spoon. Now, Ardwyn seems suspiciously like Disney World: too perfect, like it must’ve been synthesized through a series of focus groups to feel like college, and all these young people in their chunky sweaters are going back‑ stage for a cigarette break as soon as they’re out of my field of vision.


“Beautiful day,” the woman declares.

My anxious brain does not have the bandwidth for small talk right now. I try to get away with a noncommittal mm‑ hmm, but she snares me with eye contact and sticks out her hand. I shake it a beat too late, offering a perfunctory smile.

She tells me her name, and I forget it immediately.

“I’m Annie,” I reply.

“Oh, there they are!” She waves to a man in a windbreaker and a teenager twirling a bucket hat in her hands, both walking toward us from the student center. “My husband and daughter. They went to a find a restroom.”

I rise. “Let me make room for them to sit with you.” I can’t stay still, anyway. My jaw aches from clenching, I’m tapping my foot, and I picked the cuticle off my right thumb‑ nail before she sat down.

She protests, but I wave her off. As I back up, a student walking behind me says, “Excuse me,” so I step off the path into the dappled shade of a heinously majestic oak tree to let him pass. He’s dressed in what must be all the Ardwyn gear his parents bought him at the bookstore on move‑in day: Ardwyn hat, Ardwyn lanyard holding his Ardwyn student ID card, Ardwyn Tigers T‑shirt featuring the mascot hold‑ ing a basketball.

At the sight of the basketball, my stomach churns like the quaint old waterwheel behind the library.

Another student pops up in front of me, a perky, red‑faced kid in a polo and khakis. “Hi! Are you here for the tour? It’ll be a few more minutes.”


For the first time I notice a handful of other families mill‑ ing around behind the bench. Prospective students and their parents, chatting and waiting and peering around.

“No!” I respond too quickly. “I’m not. I don’t. Um, no. Thank you.”

I shouldn’t be allowed within a ten‑foot radius of this tour group. Eight years ago, I graduated and swore I’d never set foot on this campus again. For eight years I kept that prom‑ ise to myself. Yet now, thanks to wedding‑induced nostalgia, Home Appliance Magazine, and Ben Fucking Callahan, here I am.

My new friend leans toward me. “I was wondering!” she says. “Are you a graduate student?”

I shake my head. “I . . . work here.” The words feel all wrong coming out of my mouth. “Today is my first day.” Which is why my eyes snapped open before sunrise and now I’m loitering outside, forty minutes before my first meeting.

“Which department?” she asks. “Madison is debating between biology and computer science.”

“I’ll actually be working for the basketball team.”

Some of the other parents and kids swivel in my direction, and one of them oohs.

“So lucky,” says a mom in a cable‑knit sweater, lifting her sunglasses. “You must be excited to be here.”

I’m here because I have no other options. But if I say that, the tour guide will probably haul me off with a hook and lock me in whatever cell they’re using to hide the creepy frat boys and the protesters pressuring the school to divest its endowment from fossil fuels.

Her husband sidles up to me, hands on his hips. “Basketball, huh? I’m a big fan.”

“Of Ardwyn?”

He laughs like my question is a joke. “No, I’m a Duke guy. Cool job, though. You guys have been so‑so the last few years, so keep your expectations low and you’ll probably have fun. Shame that old coach of yours didn’t stick around, though. I always said he could’ve done something special here.”

I shrug like I don’t know exactly who he’s talking about: Coach Brent Maynard, everyone’s favorite Ardwyn icon. I swear, if I turn a corner and run into a bronze statue of that man, I will drag the thing to the Schuylkill River and drown it. The tour guide won’t be able to stop me.

It’s still early, but this is my cue to exit. “It was nice meeting you,” I say to the mom on the bench as I make my escape.

She beams. “Have a great first day, Annie!”

I drift down a weathered flagstone path past the dorms, gawking at the scenery. It’s familiar and foreign at the same time. I snap a quick photo of the ornate arched entryway of Cloughley Hall, where Cassie and I shared a room freshman year, and send it to her. I can practically smell the mold from here, I add.

Aww, memories! Cassie responds immediately.

I’m about to drop my phone back into my bottomless pit of a tote bag when it vibrates again. This time, Cassie is calling.

“Hi, Cass.”

“Hi! Did you drink the tea this morning?”

Ugh, the tea. It’s some kind of calming‑yet‑invigorating herbal blend Cassie dropped off at my new apartment last night as a supportive gesture. It could’ve been worse. I half expected her to show up this morning to escort me to work like it’s kindergarten orientation day. Luckily, Ardwyn is on the Main Line, in the idyllic suburbs outside Philadelphia, and Cassie had to be at her office in Center City by eight o’clock.


“I had an Irish coffee instead,” I say. “Great for the nerves.” Ah, there’s the source of the apple cider donut smell: A group of sorority sisters is hawking them at a table in front of the dining hall, with a handmade sign touting a fundraiser for a local animal shelter.

“Yeah?” Cassie asks, like she’s pretty sure it’s a joke, but not one hundred percent sure. I can picture her face, her tawny brown skin, a wrinkle forming between her eyebrows, her cloud of curly hair falling to the side as she tilts her head in concern.

“I drank the tea,” I lie.

“Good,” Cassie replies, satisfied. A faint male voice filters in from her end of the call. “Hold on a sec,” she orders me. “Don’t hang up!”

“Is that your boss? I want to talk to him for a minute,” I say. “Give. Cassie. A raise!” The partners at Cassie’s firm...

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Verlag
Penguin Publishing Group
Erscheinungsdatum
2024
Sprache
Englisch
ISBN 10 
0593474821
ISBN 13 
9780593474822
Einband
Taschenbuch
Anzahl der Seiten
400
Kontakt zum Hersteller
Nicht verfügbar
Verantwortliche Person
Nicht verfügbar

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