The One & Only: A Novel (6 page)

“So. I read your piece,” he said, pulling it out of a drawer.

The copy was clean, with no marks that I could see, but his expression
was blank enough for me to question the direction I had taken. Was it too quirky or colorful? Coach Carr liked things simple and to the point. No bells and whistles, he always said.

“I can change it. It was just my first draft,” I fibbed. “So if there’s anything you don’t like …”

He cut me off. “No changes. It was perfect.”

I lowered my head and thanked him, my cheeks warming.

“Walker is lucky to have you. So am I.”

I smiled, but noticed that, although his words were promising, his expression was somber, troublesome. It was the way he looked at a player who was about to lose his starting spot.

“Thanks, Coach,” I mumbled.

“When J.J. retires, you’ll be poised to be one of the youngest sports information directors at a major football school in the country,” he said. “It’s a great position for a lot of folks.”

“Coach,” I said. “Why do I feel like you’re getting ready to fire me?”

He laughed and told me not to be ridiculous. “And besides, I can’t fire you. You don’t report to me.”

I refrained from pointing out that he could pretty much do anything he wanted—that our athletic director might technically be in charge, but everyone knew Coach held all the power around here. Instead I said, “Is there a
but
?”

He smiled, then paused and said, “But … is this really … your passion?”

“It’s a great job,” I said. But I knew what he was getting at. It was almost as if he had read my mind.

“No doubt. It’s a hell of a job. And for some, the perfect calling. J.J. loves juggling all the balls … He’s an administrator who loves sports.
All
sports … But is this really what you were born to do?”

“What do you mean? I love football,” I blurted out, realizing my error immediately. Football was such a small part of what I worked on, as Walker had fifteen other sports.

“Right,” he said. “And I know you love writing, too. But your job really isn’t about football or writing. It’s about keeping stats. Going to men’s cross country meets and women’s volleyball games. Drafting routine press releases, churning out media guides. At the end of the day, it’s a PR job, not a writing job.”

“I get to write sometimes. I loved writing this,” I said softly, gazing down at my hands.

“I know, girl. I know,” he said. “That’s my point.”

I nodded, but still couldn’t look at him.

“You should be writing,” he said.

“I do write,” I said.

“Writing
full-time.
You wrote more in high school and college than you do now.”

“Yeah. Silly pieces for the school newspaper,” I said, fixing my eyes directly above his head at a shelf filled with photos that had come from our department, various action shots from over the years, including one from my senior year, of Ryan James, standing on the sidelines with one finger thrust in the air, his arm around his beloved coach.

“They were professional-caliber pieces, Shea. Unlike any student work I’ve ever seen.”

I felt a chill as I dropped my eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” I said, forcing myself not to look away.

“And besides … You shouldn’t limit yourself to Walker. There’s a big world outside this place.”

It was an odd statement coming from a man whose entire life revolved around Walker, and I was unable to resist making the point, a bold one for me. “What about you? You turned down the Bills.”

As soon as the words were out, I realized that the comparison was ridiculous. He was the head football coach. He
was
Walker.

He shrugged and said, “I could never live in Buffalo. Too damn cold. And I love the
college
game.”

“Well, I love Walker,” I said.

He stared me down. Then, just when I couldn’t bear it another second,
he removed a folded slip of paper from his top drawer and reached across the desk to hand it to me. I unfolded it and stared down at a 214 phone number and, below it, a name. Frank Smiley.

“You know him, right?” Coach said.

I nodded. I had only talked to Smiley a few times, in passing at press conferences, but I knew exactly who he was—the sports editor of
The Dallas Post
, the only major newspaper left in Texas with a legitimate sports section, covering sports like they covered hard news. Smiley was a brash curmudgeon of an old-timey reporter who openly pined for the good ol’ days. Back when guys didn’t showboat, and college athletes actually went to class and graduated after four years, and boosters didn’t buy sports cars, and networks didn’t call the shots, and money didn’t drive the conferences, and rivalries really meant something, and players stayed with a franchise for life, and coaches stayed put, too. His pressroom demeanor was legendary, as he always knew how to get a coach to
really
say something by asking just the right question in just the right tone. Somehow you liked the guy even when he was pissing you off, and you wanted to give him something because you couldn’t be bland around a guy that colorful. He was a pro, no doubt.

“He’s looking for a reporter,” Coach said.

“For which beat?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest, thinking that I was pretty sure Smiley was not looking for a female reporter with no experience.

“I don’t know,” Coach said. “I didn’t get the details. He just mentioned that he lost two guys to ESPN and another to some sports website …”

“I can hear the rant now.”

Coach smiled, then imitated him perfectly. “Doesn’t anyone get their hands dirty in the morning anymore?” he said, referring, of course, to the ink on papers.

“I do,” I said, holding up my hands, palms out.

Coach winked at me, then pointed to the stack of newspapers on his
desk. “Anyway. Smiley asked if I knew anyone.” He looked at me purposefully.

“Well?” I stonewalled. “Do you?”

“I sure do.”

“And who’s that?” I asked, playing dumb while I panicked inside.

“You.”

I didn’t hesitate. “I
have
a job.”

“Right,” Coach said. “But this one is better. And if you get it, you should take it. Even if that means you have to say a few nice things about other programs.”

I smiled and said, “No way. That’s a deal breaker.”

“Shea,” he said, his face all business. “Call Smiley. This could be a great opportunity for you.”

I had the feeling he was thinking about Connie, probably something about the brevity of life, the importance of seizing the day, all the things that I’d been obsessing over lately. I nodded, knowing that he was right, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I could refuse this interview. Or anything Coach Carr asked me to do.

“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call him.”

“Good,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied expression. “Oh. And another thing?”

“Yeah?” I said, as Kenny Chesney crooned
Come over
,
come over
,
come over
in the background.

“How do you
really
feel about Miller?”

I shrugged, my answer clear.

“Yeah. That’s what I thought … And between you and me, Lucy’s right … you’re too good for that boy.”

I stared at him, shocked, as he held my gaze and winked. “Didn’t expect that one, did you?”

“No, Coach,” I finally said. “I certainly didn’t.”

I smiled at him and shook my head, touched by his concern but inexplicably embarrassed. After all these years, the hero worship still surfaced at unexpected moments, flustering me.

“Good enough, then.” He gave me a close-lipped smile, then looked back down at his depth chart, signaling that our meeting was over.

I stood up and silently excused myself, not wanting to break his concentration or waste a second more of his time. As I walked past Mrs. Heflin, then back over to my office, I thought about what I should wear to my first real interview. And, more pressing, how exactly I was going to break the news to Miller.

O
ver the next week or so, I could feel the dissatisfaction with my life mounting, as I became more certain of the changes I needed to make. Yet I kept stalling, feeling stuck. I didn’t call about the job with the
Post
, and I continued to spend time with Miller. All the while, I did my best to avoid Coach, lest he confront me about my lack of progress.

I don’t know what I was so afraid of—failure, rejection, or being alone—but something was holding me back. Keeping me in limbo.

Then, the following Friday night, Miller and I went to see an action flick, sharing popcorn, Twizzlers, and a jumbo Coke for dinner, a typical date night for us. Afterward, he drove me back to my place, his seat reclined, one hand on the steering wheel, some stoner band blaring on the radio. I hated Miller’s music and silently put it on the list of “Why We Aren’t Good Together” that had been lingering in my head since the indictment in Coach’s office. As I turned down the music, I randomly asked Miller if he was glad he went to Walker. I’m not sure
what made me ask the question, other than the hope of baiting him into a wrong answer. If he said anything disloyal about our school, I’d have something else to put on my list. If his answer was too curt or uninteresting, I could put that on my list, too:
poor conversationalist.

“Sure,” Miller said, his head bobbing to the bass. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes I think it was a little small,” I said, leading the witness.

“Maybe,” Miller said noncommittally.

“Was there anything you didn’t like about it?”

“The foreign language requirement,” he said. “That was some real
mierda.
”

“Mierda?”
I said. “I took German.”

“Shit,” he translated, pushing the sleeve up on his plaid flannel shirt, pretty much the staple of his wardrobe, in addition to T-shirts and jeans. To look at him, you’d never know that he once played college ball or currently coached. With shaggy hair to match his grunge clothes, he looked more musician than athlete.

“Well … how did you feel about playing for Coach Carr?” I asked.

“Wait. Are you writing some article about former players?” Miller asked.

Delusions of grandeur
, I thought, as I shook my head and said, “No, Miller. I was just … wondering.”

“Oh,” he said. “Well, I didn’t like losing my starting spot to Ryan James … But I’d rather play backup QB for Coach than start for some jackass.”

I laughed, realizing that my strategy was backfiring. Miller really did crack me up, even when he wasn’t trying. He was so easy to be around. In over three years, we hadn’t had a single fight, although I knew that said as much about my personality as about his. I avoided conflict at pretty much any cost.

“And I got
this
,” Miller said, pointing down to his hulking Cotton Bowl ring. He winked. “Works wonders with the ladies.”

I rolled my eyes, and, although I never cared much for jewelry of
any kind on a man, I did love how big his hands were and that he could still throw a football fifty yards from his knees.

“What about you?” he asked. “You glad you went to Walker?”

“Yes. Best decision I ever made,” I said, thinking that it might be the
only
big decision I’d ever made. Everything else just sort of happened
to
me.

“Better than going out with me?” Miller grinned.

I smiled back at him, but my insides were in knots as we pulled into the lot of my condo, next to my ancient Honda Accord, with a substantial dent on the driver side where I had sideswiped a concrete pillar in a parking garage months before. Miller started to open his door, but, when I didn’t make a move, he looked at me and said, “Wait. Did you want to get a bite to eat or something?”

I turned in my seat and said, “Miller. We need to talk.”

“What’s up?” he said.

I took a deep breath, digging down for courage—or at least a little gumption. “I don’t think we should keep seeing each other.”

His face fell. “Are you serious?”

I nodded. My heart hurt, but the words still felt right, and there was suddenly no doubt in my mind that I was doing the right thing.

“Why?” he asked, a question that is never really productive when someone is trying to break up with you.

“I just don’t think it’s … right.”

“Is this because of Lucy?”

“No. I swear,” I said, knowing how terrible Miller would feel if he knew who it really came from. “It just doesn’t … feel right anymore. I think we’re both just stalling … hanging out because there isn’t anything better.”

“But I think you
are
the best,” Miller said, so sweetly. I could tell he meant it, and I asked myself if maybe that wasn’t good enough. For one of the two of us to feel the right way. But I knew the answer, so I pressed on.

“That’s really nice, Miller,” I said.

“Are you seeing someone else?” he asked.

I said no as vehemently as I could, hoping that this made it better. Then again, what I was really saying was that being
alone
was better than being with him.

“Okay,” he finally said. “We can break up … if that’s really what you want … But can we still do it? You know—friends with benefits?”