The One & Only: A Novel (20 page)

“You and Ryan,” he said, shaking his head, laughing. “Gotta say. That really stings. I mean, did you have to go for such an obvious upgrade? The guy who took my starting spot?” He put his hand over his heart, a gesture that someone would only employ if his heart weren’t the slightest bit hurt.

“We’re just friends,” I said, wondering why I was downplaying our relationship with an outright lie. Was it to spare Miller’s feelings?

Miller laughed. “Yeah, right. Ryan isn’t
friends
with girls. Is he, Coach? Least not hot girls.”

Coach Carr cleared his throat and said, “There are exceptions to every rule.”

Miller slapped his thigh and said, “Oh, man. You used to tell us that in practice!
Flashback!
” Then he changed the subject to an even more awkward topic. “So is the rumor true, Coach? About the NCAA investigating us?” he asked. It was a question I had avoided all evening, somewhat irresponsibly given my new job.

My instinct was proven right as Coach visibly bristled and said, “Where’d you hear that, son?”

“From Nan Buxbaum,” Miller said. By the cocky grin on his face, it was pretty clear in what capacity Miller knew Nan.

“Who?” Coach said.

“A professor in the sociology department,” Miller said, leaving out that she was gorgeous. If Nan didn’t get tenure, lingerie model wasn’t out of the question. “We’ve been hanging out since Shea here dumped me.”

“I didn’t
dump
you,” I said, objecting to the ruthless nature of the verb.

“The hell!” he said as our waitress stopped by and took Miller’s PBR order.

“What did she say?” Coach asked, his expression becoming increasingly agitated.

“She said an investigator is crawling up their asses. You know, since we all major in sociology,” Miller said, still referring to himself as a player. “They seem to be implying that Walker skates athletes through the department. I think that’s the gist. I bet they confiscate Ebert’s computer.”

Professor Ebert, widely known as Easy Ebert, had been around forever. He was a huge football fan, and athletes had always clamored to take his classes. But, to be fair, so had all the regular students. If Ebert was the problem, the NCAA’s case seemed rather flimsy.

“It’s a non-story, Miller,” I said, quoting Coach. “So don’t go spreading rumors.”

“I’m not spreading rumors,” he said. “About the NCAA or you and
Ryan James. I’m just callin’ ’em like I see ’em. Gotta be real. Right, Coach?”

“Right, Miller,” Coach said, abruptly standing. Clearly, he’d had enough. “If you’ll excuse me a moment …”

I watched him walk away from the table and head for the men’s room, then turned back to face Miller. “Look. Coach is clearly upset about this NCAA stuff,” I said. “You might not want to talk about it so … casually.”

“Yeah. My bad,” Miller said, as I tried to think of a tactful way to get rid of him completely. But short of telling him to please go away, I came up empty-handed, and a couple minutes of babble later, Coach rejoined us and announced that it was time for him to go home and hit the hay.

“Shea, I settled up at the bar. So we’re good,” he said, zipping up his fleece jacket.

“Thank you,” I said, my heart sinking.

“You’re welcome,” he replied, holding my gaze. I got the sense that he was as irritated by Miller’s interruption as I was.

“You sure you don’t want to stay? You’re going to miss the end of the game … And I know how much you love the Cowboys …”

“Nah. Ryan’s got this one in the bag,” Coach said.

“Your boyfriend,” Miller said, pointing at me, thoroughly amused with himself.

“Shut up,” I breathed back as we all watched Ryan complete an impossible thirty-yard pass through a forest of red, white, and blue into the end zone. He took off his helmet and thrust one finger up in the air as I read his lips:
Fuck yeah.

Miller happily chortled, clearly not really jealous of
anyone
, as Coach said, “See? I know these things. Game over.”

I laughed. “Would you call it over if you were coaching the Giants?” I said. “There are still three and a half minutes to play.”

“No,” he said. “But I also wouldn’t have put a block on and roughed the kicker with that much time on the clock.”

I nodded, basking in his final brilliant analysis, as he clapped Miller
on the back and said, “All right, then … Good to see you, son. Y’all be safe getting home.”

We promised that we would as he turned to me, hesitating, as if debating whether to give me a handshake or hug or similar backslap. Instead, he put his hand over mine, lowered his voice, and said, “Enjoyed talking football with you, girl.”

I
t was raining when I walked out of the bar, a light mist that would have felt romantic if I were holding someone’s hand, but instead made me feel more wistful and lonesome than I had in a long time. Lonesome enough to text Ryan when I got in my car, congratulating him on a great game. Before I pulled out of my parking spot, he had written back:
Thanks. I think you should come tell me in person.
 ;)

“Done,” I said aloud. And, a few minutes later, I was on I-35, headed toward Dallas, my thoughts jumbled and racing, yet returning, again and again, to Coach. Our conversation, his eyes, the way I felt sitting near him, whether in his office or back in that bar. It was different from the way I felt with anyone else. He gave me butterflies in my stomach, and, although I’d always chalked it up to nervousness from being so close to greatness, I was starting to worry that it was something more than that. As I drove, a queasy feeling overcame me. I was finally calling my own bluff—and I hated that I couldn’t turn it off, shut it down.

I turned up the radio, shook my head, tightened my grip on the steering wheel, and came up with a battery of excuses. I told myself that I was only confusing my love of football and Walker with an attraction to the head of our program. That, sure, Coach was hot—even a male
Sports Illustrated
writer had acknowledged as much—and a beautiful man could fluster any woman, even one in a committed, satisfying relationship. That everyone and her
sister
loved Coach Carr, and I was hardly unique in Walker, Texas. That having a little crush was just the grown-up version of childhood hero worship.

But the more I tried to convince myself, the more the wall of denial crumbled. And this time, there was no stopping the realization that hit me hard in the gut, halfway between Walker and Dallas: I had a thing for Lucy’s dad. A real, undeniable, heart-thudding, romantic
thing.

I drove faster, forcing Coach from my mind, focusing on Ryan. How much I
truly
liked him. How perfect he was. How happy he made me.

I told myself I needed to get a grip—and fast. Coach Carr was the last person in the world I had any business having feelings for. He was too old for me. He had just lost the love of his life. He was my best friend’s
father.
It was insanity.

The rain fell harder, pelting my windshield, my wipers unable to keep up, the road ahead barely visible. I finally gave up and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting, breathing, denying that I was actually
missing
him, doing everything in my power not to think of him. But that strategy backfired, as it always does, and it didn’t help matters when Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” the most exquisitely sad song ever recorded, came on the radio.
Morning will come
,
and I’ll do what’s right …

At some point after the rain had slowed, I got back on the road. And by the time Ryan buzzed me through his iron gate, I had pulled it together. I smiled when I saw him standing in his doorway in slippers and a black robe open at the chest.

“Hello, beautiful,” he said, as I got out of the car.

“Hi, Ryan,” I said, walking to him.

He stepped off his porch, took my hand, and pulled me out of the light rain.

“What’re you doing here?” he said coyly, kissing my neck.

“I came to congratulate you in person.”

“Why, thank you,” he said, wrapping his strong arms around me and kissing me again, this time on my mouth. I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of his lips and tongue and large hands drawing me closer. Then I let him lead me upstairs to his bedroom, where he made slow, passionate love to me.

Just before sunrise, I awoke in Ryan’s arms, wanting him again. I gently untangled myself so that I could watch him sleep, stare at his gorgeous face.

At some point, his eyes fluttered open, and he gave me a half smile before reaching for me. “C’mere,” he whispered, pulling me closer and kissing the top of my head.

“You were really great last night,” I said.

“Well, I can do better,” he said, running his hand along my hip, now fully awake.

“I meant in the game,” I said with a laugh, then described one of his prettiest plays.

“Wait. Wasn’t that the first quarter?” he asked, becoming more alert.

“Yes. It was pretty early on.”

“But I thought you had to work?” he said as he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.

“I did,” I said, then gave him a choppy explanation about watching the game with Coach, in reporter mode. “A journalist can’t turn down that kind of opportunity.”

I moved toward him, putting my cheek on his chest, my right leg and arm clutching him like a koala bear. It was an intimate maneuver, but really had more to do with wanting to escape his eyes.

“Did you tell him about us?” he asked.

“No. Not exactly.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. What would I have told him? That we’re having sex?” I said, trying to be playful, and perhaps fishing a little.

“Jeez. I think it’s a little more than that,” Ryan said, his fingers combing through my hair.

I smiled to myself and asked a shameless follow-up. “Oh? Is it?”

“Yes. You know it is,” Ryan whispered.

After a stretch of silence, he said, “So you watched that whole game with him and never mentioned that we are seeing each other?”

Flustered, I said, “Well … he definitely knows about us.”

“How do you know?”

“Because Miller showed up,” I said. “Of all people. And he told him.”

Ryan bolted upright, one of his many hard body parts clipping my chin as he switched on the light and said, “You saw Miller last night?” His eyes were intense; his whiskers seemed much darker than they’d looked just a few hours before.

I looked up at him, my eyes adjusting to the light as I tried to interpret what was happening, why he seemed to be so upset. Could he actually be bothered that I had seen Miller? Was he jealous? It seemed far-fetched, but because I had no other explanation, I said, “Yeah. He showed up out of the blue. It was actually pretty annoying. Coach and I were having a serious conversation about—”

“How long did he stay? Did Coach leave first?” His voice became strained and loud as he crossed his arms, muscles flexing in his chest and arms. He was definitely pissed.

“Ryan … C’mon. You can’t be jealous of Miller.”

“Of course I’m not
jealous
of Miller,” he snapped. “That guy is a stoner loser.” The indictment sounded so much worse coming from him than from Lucy, and I felt an odd surge of protectiveness.

“That’s harsh,” I said.

“Wow. You’re still sleeping with him,” Ryan said. “Aren’t you?”

“What are you
talking
about?” I asked. “Of
course
I’m not still sleeping with him.”

“Do you still care about him?”

“As a friend. That’s it. Look. I can’t control who walks into the Third Rail … And Coach invited him to sit down. It was no big deal. The three of us sat around watching
you
play. We were all happy for you.
Miller
was happy for you.”

“Yeah,
right.
”

It had been a long time since I had inspired jealousy in anyone, and I found it incredible to believe that Ryan and I were actually having this conversation. It was flattering, but also unsettling.

“It was no big deal. I’m over him. He’s over me. He’s got a girlfriend,” I said, rambling about Nan Buxbaum, then adding a gratuitous footnote. “I bet they get engaged soon.”

Ryan stared at me for a few beats longer. “Okay,” he finally said, turning off the lamp and putting his head back on the pillow. “I’m sorry.”

I told him he had nothing to be sorry for.

After a long beat, he said, “Can you just promise me one thing?”

“Sure. What’s that?” I said, wanting to make him happy.

“Promise me that you won’t see anyone else,” he said. “Because I know I can be old-fashioned … But I believe in monogamy. And I want you all to myself.”

“I promise,” I said, surprised by how quickly things were moving.

“I promise, too,” he said, then sealed our pact with a long, intense kiss—the kind that always leads to more.