The One & Only: A Novel (13 page)

The rest of the night was a blur. Talking to couples interchangeable with Barry and Sandy. Posing for professional photos with Ryan. Bidding on silent auction items—laser hair removal, a malachite cuff, a hot-air balloon ride—not because I really wanted them but because they seemed like “good deals.” Dancing on a slippery parquet dance floor to a doo-wop band. Losing my stilettos, then finding them, then losing them again. And sipping a never-ending glass of pinot noir.

Then my memory skips to watching Ryan disarming his security system … walking through his sleek, contemporary compound … making out with him in his sparkling marble kitchen … going upstairs to his bedroom. Then nothing … until I awoke in his bed, wearing only my underwear and a very large Cowboys T-shirt. I got up, the room spinning as I frantically looked for my clothes and cellphone.

Without lifting his head off the pillow, Ryan’s voice came back muffled. “Morning, babe.”

“What time is it?” I asked, my head pounding.

“Six-thirty,” he said.

“Where’s my phone?”

“In my bathroom. You were charging it.”

“I was?”

“Yes.”

“What else did I do?”

Ryan rolled over and looked up at me, smirking. “You don’t remember?”

They were pretty much the worst three words you can hear after a first date, particularly when you’re standing in the guy’s bedroom, wearing his clothing, with a bad hangover.

“Sort of,” I lied, stumbling over one of his boat-size loafers, looking for the bathroom.

“Other way,” Ryan said, pointing to his side of the bed.

“Right,” I said, following the light to a bathroom larger than my bedroom. I had no recollection of ever seeing the room before, let alone plugging in my phone. I pulled it from the charger. Four missed calls from Lucy and several texts from her, asking what was going on. I took a deep breath and checked my call log, with the sinking dread of what I was going to find. And there it was: two outgoing calls to Coach Carr.

Shit
, I said aloud, now vaguely remembering placing the calls.

Ryan heard me and said, “You okay?”

I walked back to the bed, my phone in hand, and said, “Did I talk to anyone last night?”

Ryan laughed and said, “Yeah. You called Coach. You were hilarious.”

“Hilarious how?” I asked, my heart racing as I saw that one call to Coach Carr had lasted nearly eleven minutes. I crossed my fingers that I was funny-hilarious, not foolish-hilarious as I got back in bed and pulled the sheet over me. “What did I say?”

“On which topic?” Ryan said, sitting up, exposing a torso so cut that it didn’t look real. “Your tirade against the Longhorns? Your stance on women in the locker room? Or your declaration of undying love for him?”

“What?” I said, my voice hoarse. “I said that?”

“You said he was your favorite person in the world. Something like that.”

“I don’t love him in
that
way,” I said.

“Well, no shit. He’s an old dude.”

“He’s only fifty-five,” I said.

“Well, still. I knew what you meant.”

“But I really said that
to
him?” I said.

“Yup,” Ryan said, seemingly enjoying my misery as he imitated my slurred voice. “ ‘Yermyfaaaavoritepersoninthewholewiiiiideworld.’ ”

“Oh, God.
Why
did you let me call him?” I said, burying my face deeper into the covers, every part of me burning with humiliation.

“There was no stopping you. You were on fire.”

“On fire? What else did I say?” I asked.

“You went through pretty much every Heisman Trophy since Jay Berwanger won the damn thing in 1935 and asked Coach who he thought
really
should have won. You put him on speaker for that segment.”

“Did he …?”

“Play along? Oh, yeah. He played your little game. Let’s see … You both agreed that Herschel Walker should have beat out George Rogers in ’eighty-two.”

“ ’Eighty,” I corrected. “He
did
win in ’eighty-two.”

“Right. Whatever. But according to you, he
shouldn’t
have won that year. Eric Dickerson should have … And you thought Chuck Long should have beaten Bo Jackson, but Coach disagreed on that one … You said Ki-Jana Carter or McNair should have beaten Salaam, and you both agreed that Peyton Manning should have won in ’ninety-seven.”

“Did we discuss you?” I asked.

“Nope. I was a complete footnote. Until
after
you hung up,” he said, peeling back the covers and kissing the side of my face. His breath was warm in my ear, and I couldn’t help feeling aroused even as my focus remained singular.

“What else?” I said. “What else did I say to Coach?”

“You talked about the job. For the
Post.
Coach told you that you were crazy not to take it. You said you didn’t get it yet. He said you would. You said you didn’t want to leave Walker. God knows why. He said you could commute back and forth between Walker, Dallas, and Austin. Blah, blah, blah. Then I told you to say goodbye.”

“And did I?”

“Nope. You rambled some more.”

“About?”

“What else?” he said.

“Football?”

He kissed me again, this time on the mouth, then rolled me onto my back. “You have a one-track mind,” he said, covering my body with his. “I think you love the game more than I do.”

I kissed him back, my body battling my mind.

“And I think,” he whispered, “you like football more than sex.”

“So we didn’t …?” I asked, hopeful.

“Hell, no,” Ryan said. “You passed out on me. Besides, I’m a gentleman … But there’s still plenty of time …”

He kissed me more urgently, cupping my breast with his large hand. I kissed him back, but mentally pumped my fist, relieved. It was ironic, really—and the way it often was with whiskey. You were never quite sure whether to blame it or give it credit. I’d make that final call after I spoke to Coach.

“You want to now?” Ryan asked.

“Talk football or have sex?” I asked.

“Both,” he said, breathing hard, his voice low. “I can play your little Heisman game while I’m inside you …”

“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Who won in ’sixty-eight?”

“Is this a test?” he said as I felt him grow hard against my leg.

“Yeah,” I said, pushing back against him, but feeling confident that he’d fail.

“Steve Spurrier,” he said.

“Nope. Try again.”

“Archie Griffin.”

“Way off,” I said, wriggling out from under him. “The Juice. O.J. Better luck next time.” I laughed and sat up.

“Wait. First the dude murders two people … and now he’s cock-blocking me?”

I made a face. “Don’t ever use that expression again. But yes.”

Ryan laughed and said, “You really do, don’t you?”

“I really do what?”

“Like football more than sex?”

“Hmm … it’s about tied,” I said.

Ryan’s face lit up. “That’s a hell of an answer,” he said. “I have a good feeling about you, Shea Rigsby.”

I smiled back at him. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, good,” I said. “Because I have a pretty good feeling about you, too, Ryan James.”

A
fter a weekend of obsessing and worrying and self-loathing for being such a reckless drunk, I headed straight to Coach Carr’s office, first thing Monday morning. Relieved to find Mrs. Heflin away from her desk, I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.

“Come in!” his voice boomed.

In agony, I made myself open the door and look into his eyes, noticing that they exactly matched the light blue golf shirt he was wearing.

“Hi,” I said, wishing I had brought something to hold, a notebook, folder,
anything.
“Good morning.”

“Yes, it is,” he said, smiling. “How are you today, Shea?”

“Fine,” I said. “How are you?”

“Not too bad,” he said, motioning for me to come in the whole way.

“Are you sure … this is a good time?” I said, almost hoping he’d say no.

Instead, he glanced at his watch and said, “Yup. I have a few minutes before I head into a meeting.”

I took three tentative steps forward, now standing in the middle of his office. “How’s it looking?” I said, glancing at the play diagram on his desk, covered with Xs and Os.

“We’re getting there … You gonna have a seat or what?” he said, leaning back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. I took another step, then sat down, crossing my legs and staring at my lap.

I waited, hoping he’d mention my phone call first, until he finally said, “Well, c’mon, don’t be bashful
now.
”

“Right … So about that … I just wanted to apologize …” I began, meeting his eyes, then looking at his chin, probably my favorite feature of his. It was the quintessential coach’s jaw, strong and square with a cleft in the middle that always reminded me of a decisive, authoritative period. It crossed my mind that if a coach didn’t have a good chin, he might as well go ahead and find another profession.

“Apologize? For what?” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a slight smile.

“For calling you so late and—”

“I was up. Watching film,” he said.

“Well, then … I’m sorry that I interrupted you … while you were working,” I said, thinking that the hour of the call or the interruption of his work wasn’t really the crux of what I was sorry for, but it was hard to say “I’m sorry I drunk-dialed you.”

“It was fine. You were fine,” he said, now looking full-on amused. You’d think letting me off the hook would have made me feel better, but my anxiety only increased with every incremental absolution.

He cocked his head to the side and said, “How much had you had to drink, anyway?”

“Um … I don’t know … Probably a little … too much,” I said.

“Well. You have to be careful with that stuff,” he said. “You always want to be in control.”

“Yes,” I said, nodding, trying to remember when I had dropped the
sir.

“So you were with Ryan, huh?”

“Yes. We went to a charity function. As
friends.
” I said the last part with emphasis, although I wasn’t sure why.

“Well, it’s good to have
friends
,” he said teasingly.

“Yes. Friends are good. I mean—take us, for instance,” I babbled, my face heating up again. “I’m glad we’re friends. You and me. At least I think we’re friends?”

“Of course we’re friends,” he said, smirking. “And, as we established … friends are good.”

“Right,” I said, the tension mounting in my shoulders until I just said it. “And when I said you were my favorite person in the world and all that … I just meant—”

“I know what you meant.”

I exhaled. “You do?”

“Sure. You meant … that I’m your favorite person in the world.” He let out a big laugh, his eyes doing that twinkly thing.

“Right … I mean I love how you are … as a coach … and role model … and stuff like that.”

“Right. Role models are like friends. They’re both good.”

He was
definitely
mocking me now, and I knew I had to save face and say something of substance. Somehow justify my drunken proclamation.

“I think you’re great,” I said, sure that my face was now crimson. “I mean everyone thinks you’re great. But I
really
think you’re great. And that’s all I meant …”

“I think you’re great, too, Shea,” he said. “You’re a great girl with a big heart and a good head on your shoulders. Don’t waste either, okay?”

I nodded, my heart and mind racing.

“And you have to hang in there with Smiley,” he said. “I think he might give this Texas beat to another guy … with more experience … But … I have a feeling another beat is opening up soon … So just be patient, okay?”

“I will,” I said, feeling a wave of disappointment.

“One more thing,” he said, giving me a coy smile. “On the subject of our little stiff-armed friend …”

“Yeah?” I said, knowing that he was referring to the Heisman Trophy.

“The other night … You didn’t mention John Huarte. No way in hell he should have beaten out Rhome and Butkus.”

“They were rewarding Coach Parseghian,” I said, conjuring the ’64 season that I had only read about. “For turning around Notre Dame’s program.”