The One & Only: A Novel (47 page)

“Because we did,” he whispered into my hair. “We lost because of poor coaching. Bad leadership. This is my fault. I take full responsibility.”

I didn’t debate his statement, believing it to be true. I blamed him for where we were. I blamed him for not reporting the incident. Not
doing more. But I still let him lean in and kiss me, softly, then more urgently. His whiskers were rough against my chin, but I kissed him back as hard and frantically as I could, holding on to his neck, clawing at his chest and back, slipping my hand down the back of his jeans. I tried to keep my mind as blank as I could, focusing only on the physical, the sound of his voice murmuring my name. And for a few seconds, it worked. His kisses erased every thought I had, until I heard myself say, “I want you.
All
of you.”

He kept kissing me, his hands on my back and hips, stomach and breasts, as I made my request again, more clearly. “Make love to me,” I said.

“Tonight?” he said, before moving on to my neck, his breath warm in my ear.

“Yes. Right now,” I said, pulling him from the foyer to the hallway.

We made it a few steps before he said, “Shea … Wait. Slow down.”

“No.
Now
,” I said, still walking backwards, pulling him toward his bedroom, then changing my mind and guiding him toward the upstairs guest room.

“What’s the rush?” he asked, grabbing my arms, stopping me.

“This might be our only chance.”

He stared into my eyes, then nodded, as if he got it. Because everyone who loves sports knows that sometimes you only have one shot. Sometimes you don’t have the luxury to think or wait or plan. Sometimes you have to reach out and seize your moment. Your best, last, or only chance. And maybe this was ours. If I couldn’t get over what happened years before. If Lucy couldn’t get over what was happening now. This thing could be over before it ever really began.

I think he understood all of this, but he still shook his head and said no.

“Why not?” I asked, filled with a range of emotions. Disappointment and confusion and guilt.
Always
guilt. “Because of Lucy?” I glanced down the hallway toward his bedroom. “Or Connie?”

“No. Because of
you.
Because of
us.
Because we have some things to work through. We have to be disciplined. We have to be patient.”

“And what if we can’t work through them?” I asked.

“We will,” he said.

“How do you know?” I searched for answers in his eyes and the lines around them. He was every bit as rugged and sexy as he always was, but he looked older than he usually did. He looked his age.
Too old for me
, I thought for the first time.

“I don’t
know.
But I’m hopeful that we can.”

“Oh, you’re
hopeful
?” I said, a caustic edge in my voice that scared me.

“Yes.”

“Well, I’m
angry
,” I said, finally acknowledging the emotion I’d been suppressing.

“At me?”

“Yes,” I said, shocked by the emotion, the very
notion
that I could be angry at Coach. “You should have reported it. You should have at least
helped
her report it.”

“Yes … I should have … I know that now … But, Shea … I honest to God didn’t think he raped her. I still don’t.”

I looked at him, thinking this was the wrong response, feeling a fresh wave of indignation, this time on Tish’s behalf. “That’s not the point,” I said. “That wasn’t up to you to decide.”

“I thought it was,” he said. “So I decided.”

“What about Cedric’s Escalade?” I said, now pacing along the runner in his hallway.

“What about it?”

“You know. The car that nobody in Cedric’s life could possibly afford,” I said, shifting into full-on investigative reporter mode.

“Is that a question?” he said, adopting his prickly press conference voice. “Or an accusation?”

“Did you really think that was okay? For Cedric to be given a car? Just because he was poor—and a good kid? That means you can break the rules? Or did you just want him to play for Walker that
badly
?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but I kept going. “And what about Reggie? What do you
really
know about this current investigation?
What are you covering up? Because I want to know the truth. I want to know what you’d do to win,” I said, pointing at him.

His eyes went from hurt to pissed, the hue of blue actually seeming to change, deepen. “Well, I wouldn’t let a girl get raped, if that’s what you’re getting at …”

“But you’d look the other way, wouldn’t you?” I demanded, my voice shaking. I hated myself for asking these questions, but I’d hate myself more for not asking them.

“Look, Shea. If even one percent of me—even
half
a percent—believed that Ryan had hurt that girl, I would have reported it … And I sure as hell wouldn’t have let you go out with him. Think about it.”

“I
am
thinking about it,” I said, staring at him, my arms crossed.

“And?” he said, raising his voice.

I took a deep breath, now on the verge of tears that I managed to blink back. “From the time I was a little girl, watching that SMU death penalty press conference, I really thought you were different. I thought you were one of the good guys. Unlike the other coaches. Unlike my own father. You were one of the few who would
never
cheat. One of the few who didn’t believe that winning was … 
everything.
The
only
thing,” I said, quoting Vince Lombardi, his hero.

Coach shook his head and said, “Wow. And you think making love would have fixed this?” He motioned in the space between us, our huddle of two.

“Just tell me,” I said.

“Tell you what? What do you want to know?”

“I want to know … is winning
everything
to you?”

“Do you think it is, Shea? Is that what you think?”

“Did you choose not to report the incident because of the Cotton Bowl? What if the season had been over? Or what if Ryan had been a redshirt? Or a benchwarmer? Would you have handled it differently? Would you have taken her more seriously?”

“I chose not to report the incident because I didn’t
believe
that girl,” he said, now shouting and pointing back at me. “Listen, Shea. I am the
head
coach of a major football program—”

“Which means you have a responsibility—” I jumped in, my voice as loud as his.

“Yes! A responsibility to
ninety
guys. If I had sat Ryan, I would have penalized eighty-nine other guys who had worked their asses off all year, some of them for
four
years. I would have penalized their families and friends. I would have punished my coaching staff and every Walker student and alum. Every man, woman, and child who gives to this program. Gives their blood, sweat, tears, dollars, time, hearts. I could have ruined Ryan’s football career. Changed his entire future.”

“But if he
raped
her—”

“And what if he didn’t! Can you really picture him doing that, Shea?”

I hesitated and then shook my head. “No. I can’t imagine him doing such a thing,” I said quietly. “But I still would have reported it … Just to be on the safe side.”

“Well, good for you, Shea. Good for making that decision with fifteen years of hindsight and a whole lot more information than I had. Thank you for that classic bit of Monday morning quarterbacking. Just like those idiots who call in to my show.”

“This is different from questioning a play in a game …”

“I know that, Shea. And I also know that I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I don’t believe he raped her, but now … I do believe he did
something
to her … And I know I should have done more for her … And I’m manning up and admitting that to you. I would change it if I could. But I can’t.”

“What about trying to fix what happened?” I said.

“How?”

“By apologizing to Tish?”

“I’ve already done that. Would you like to read the letter? It’s back there on my desk. Go read it! Go on! Then tell me what else I should do. Turn myself in? Penalize my current team, which had nothing to do with this? Bring down the program, fifteen years later? Is that what you want? If
that’s
what you want—go ahead and do it yourself. You’re
a reporter. Write the story. Write the damn story, Shea. Include what Ryan did to you. Write all of it! I’ll give you a hell of a quote!”

I stared at him, speechless, more confused than ever.

Coach finally spoke. “I’m not perfect, Shea. I never claimed to be perfect. The media did that. The media loves a black and white story … But guess what? It’s never black and white.
Never.
I’m not the saint they made me out to be. And I’m not the demon they’d love to portray if they knew …
this.
”

“This what?” I said, because he was gesturing between us again.

“Well, for starters, if they knew that I’m involved with a girl I practically raised. My daughter’s best friend. A reporter on
my
beat covering an NCAA probe into
my
program …”

“I’m going to resign,” I said. Although this was the first moment that such a thought had occurred to me, I was suddenly sure of the decision.

“You’re doing no such thing,” he said. “Because that’s the least of it … That’s a nothing little sidebar compared to this Paterno story we have going here. Forget the dubious rape allegation. There’s still an assault and battery charge that I swept under the carpet on the eve of the Cotton Bowl.”

“This is nothing like Paterno and Penn State,” I said.

“They’ll say that it is.”

“It’s not true.”

“The truth doesn’t matter.”

“You don’t believe that. Of
course
it matters.”

“Well, then, you listen here, Shea. You listen good. Because I’d stake my life on what I’m about to tell you … That decision I made in my office fifteen years ago? … It was wrong … But it had
nothing
to do with winning a football game. It has
never
been about winning a football game.”

“What’s it about?” I said, my voice cracking.

“It’s about loyalty. It’s about commitment to the people you love. Your wife. Your family. Your friends. Your
team.
It’s about giving it your all and doing the very best you can with what you have, in every
moment you’re in. And that’s what I did that night in my office. That’s what I do on the football field. And that’s what I’m doing right now as I defend myself to the woman I love.”

“You love me?” I said, my heart pounding in my ears.

“Yes, I love you. I’m
madly
in love with you. I want you more than anything. And a whole hell of a lot more than winning a football game. Even a national championship.”

“I believe you,” I finally whispered, my knees weak. “I believe
in
you.”

“Well, that’s a start,” he said. “That’s a really good start.”

T
he following morning, my mother called and demanded that I come over, right away, complaining of chest pains. So I raced to her house, finding her in her bathroom, wearing one of her many silk robes while putting on individual false eyelashes that she wore nearly every day, no special occasion needed.

“How could you do this?” she shouted when I walked in, spinning away from the counter to face me. I hoped that she was referring to my breakup with Ryan, which I had informed her of via email, but had the feeling that Lucy had spoken to her about last night.

“How could I do what?” I said, cursing myself for believing her wolf crying.

“Clive,” she said, shaking her head.

“So you don’t have chest pains?”

“I have severe heartache, that’s what I have. I honestly thought I raised you better than this.”

“Oh,
please
, Mom,” I said, steeling myself for the onslaught to come. “Stop overreacting. You don’t even know the facts here.”

“Don’t play dumb with me, missy! Lucy called me. I know the whole story!” she said.

“What’s the ‘whole story’?” I said, making air quotes.

“That you and Clive have a … 
thing.
”

“A thing. Right,” I said, determined not to discuss any
thing
with my mother. This might be Lucy’s business, but it wasn’t hers.

“Lucy’s your
best
friend, Shea. She’s like your
sister
,” my mom said, using tweezers to pluck another lash out of the white plastic packet. It occurred to me that everything about her was contrived, one big stage direction after another, her anger quieting to a dead calm when she needed to get a lash in place. “This is just wrong. Completely and totally
wrong
!”

“You’re just jealous,” I mumbled—because part of me believed there was some truth to that. If someone was going to do a little widower rescuing, it should have been her. And talk about the ultimate in copycatting; if she had Clive, she could really
be
Connie.

“It is
so
wrong!”

“How is it wrong, Mom? Tell me how love can be
wrong
?”

I knew I sounded like a naïve, love-struck teenager, but it occurred to me that sometimes naïve, love-struck teenagers have it all figured it out, and their small-minded, judgmental mothers have it all wrong. Especially the kind who continue to apply false lashes during a supposed crisis.