The One & Only: A Novel (9 page)

“Not yet,” I said, part of me relieved that I hadn’t.

“Call him again,” Coach said. “You gotta be persistent.”

I nodded, then said, “So how was practice?”

“It was good,” Coach replied, glancing at Lucy, then giving me a strained smile. “But no football talk tonight. Remember?”

“It’s okay, Daddy,” Lucy said, removing condiments from the refrigerator and handing Caroline a few carrot sticks. “I mean, whatever else would there be to talk about?”

I don’t think Lucy meant the rhetorical question to sound as biting as it did, because she followed it up with a shrug and said, “I mean, it is the week of the spring game. I get it. It’s okay. You can tell Shea—and all of us—about practice.”

“Practice was fine,” he said. “I just had to deal with some other stuff today … It’s always something …”

“What happened, Dad?” Lawton asked, tossing Caroline over the back of the sofa. She bounced, laughing, then giddily circled around for more.

“Oh, it’s a long story,” he said with a sigh. “Just a little issue with Reggie … Probably nothing.”

“Who?” Lucy said.

I think I must have gasped, because Lucy glanced at me and said, “What? Like I’m supposed to memorize a hundred players?”

“Reggie
Rhodes
, honey,” Neil said. “You know who he is.”

“He’s only the biggest recruit we’ve had since Ryan James,” Lawton said.

“Oh,
him.
Yeah. I didn’t recognize the first name,” Lucy said. “I know him.”

“Of
course
you know him, dear,” my mother said, tossing her tomato and onion salad.

“So what happened?” Lucy asked. “Did he get hurt in practice?”

Lawton laughed and shook his head, twisting off the cap of a Bud Light. “He’s not here yet, Luce.”

“What do you mean he’s not here?” Lucy snapped back.

“Lawton means … that he’s still in high school,” Neil said. “He’s coming
next
year.”

“Well, wherever he is … He could still get hurt!” my mother said, rushing to Lucy’s defense. “He could have gotten in a car accident. Or … had a random slip and fall—”

“On a banana peel?” Lawton quipped.

“What happened, Daddy?” Lucy said, scowling at Lawton.

“Nothing, really … Just a little mud in the water … It’ll be fine.” He shook his head, then shifted into his faux upbeat voice and said, “So, who’s hungry? Neil, let’s fire up that grill, son!”

We all agreed that was a very good idea—because everyone knew that there weren’t many things in Texas that barbecued ribs couldn’t fix.

A
few days later, Walker played its annual spring game, which also counted as our fifteenth and final NCAA-permitted spring practice. More than thirty thousand fans turned out for the glorified scrimmage, also televised on ESPN2, offering the first glimpse of our team minus the recruits. Technically I was working, making my usual rounds between the press box and the sidelines, ensuring that everything was running smoothly. But because nothing was really on the line, it was more party than game, a two-sided showcase of our offensive and defensive talent. We looked good, more fluid and crisp than I’d ever seen us play in March—a sentiment that I heard paraphrased behind me in a smooth Texas dialect, with just a subtle elongation of vowels. I recognized the accent and voice right away, knew it was Ryan James, Walker’s golden child, even before I looked over my shoulder. His voice was that distinct, even if I hadn’t just heard it on
SportsCenter
the day before, discussing the Cowboys’ upcoming season.

“You boys have to convert here,” he mused aloud. “Let’s get it done, fellas.”

“Hey, Ryan,” I said, as he took two steps forward and stood flush with me, watching the drive.

“Hey, Rigsby,” he said. He crossed his arms as we watched the next play. Second and three, but Mark Everclear, our quarterback, stared down the primary receiver for one beat too long, and took a sack.

“Dammit,” I said, happy that our linebackers were looking good but more disappointed by Mark’s hesitation.

“Phil Medlin was
wiiide
open,” Ryan said, reading my mind. I was impressed that he knew our roster so well—and touched that he still made it a priority to return to Walker for the spring game.

“You would have hit him with your eyes closed,” I said.

He made a modest face, as if to say maybe, maybe not, while I sneaked a quick once-over. Always clean-cut and smartly dressed, Ryan looked especially good tonight, in a navy sport coat with a white polo, dark-washed denim, and brown suede loafers. From a wealthy oil family in Midland, he had always reeked of old money and good taste, even before he turned pro and started raking in his own millions. Both George Bushes had attended Ryan’s grandiose wedding to his now ex-wife, Blakeslee Meadows, a gorgeous socialite from Houston who transferred to Walker from SMU, in the opinion of many, so she could marry Ryan. Her plan worked, and the two were engaged just days after the Cowboys drafted him as the first overall pick. Lucy had gone to the wedding, along with her parents, and said she’d never seen anything like it—Blakeslee’s family’s ranch crawling with Secret Service agents, celebrities, and regular people who were so beautiful that they looked like celebrities. I wasn’t invited, which didn’t hurt my feelings but surprised me a little, not because Ryan and I were that tight in college but because I would have thought we were friendly enough for me to make a nine-hundred-person cut. Lucy told me to take it as a compliment, that Blakeslee must have seen me as competition. I told her that was preposterous. I might have had a few attributes that certain
guys appreciated, but I was no Blakeslee, that was for sure, and Ryan was way out of my league, the biggest man on campus when we were in school, and now an NFL star. Big fish, big pond. I’d even heard a tabloid rumor that Giselle had flirted with him at a party in Hawaii during Pro Bowl weekend last year, which led to an exchange of terse words with Tom Brady. When I thought about it, I was pretty sure Ryan was the only person on the planet who could rile Tom Brady, both on the field and off. It was yet another accomplishment in a long list.

I stepped out of the way as a cameraman turned to get a close-up of Ryan for all the viewers at home. Clearly accustomed to the spotlight, he pretended not to notice the bright lights in his face, and kept right on talking to me as if we were alone.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak at Mrs. Carr’s funeral,” he said under his breath. “I had to be … in and out.”

I nodded, fighting a wave of sadness at the mention of Mrs. Carr, then said, “By the way. Great game against the Steelers a few months back. It’s not easy to get a win at Heinz Field.”

He smiled. “You watched?”

“Of course,” I said. “That was quite a scramble you had at the end there …”

He gave me a funny look and said, “So, how have you been, Shea?”

“Fine. Good,” I said, thinking that, since college, nothing had really changed in my life. “You know. Same old …”

“You still working with J.J.? In sports information?”

I held up the press pass, dangling around my neck, and smiled. “Yep.”

“And how’s Miller?” he asked. “Is he here tonight?”

“Probably somewhere. Haven’t seen him, though … We broke up,” I said, surprised that Ryan even knew we were together in the first place.

“Oh?” Ryan said. “I’m sorry to hear that …” His voice trailed off.

“Yeah. It’s okay. It had just … run its course …”

He nodded and said, “That happens.”

After an awkward pause, I said, “I’m sorry about your divorce.”

“Yeah. Thanks. At least we didn’t have kids … So, you know … clean break.”

He smiled, putting me at ease, as I remembered the tabloid story I’d read about Blakeslee getting custody of their three-year-old sheepdog, Sasha. They had fought over her, but Ryan had finally relented, based mostly on his travel schedule. Then, a week after Blakeslee took custody, Sasha ate a poisonous mushroom and died.

I tried to think of something clever to say, but came up blank. “Well, I better get to the press box. It was great seeing you.”

“You, too,” Ryan said.

As I turned to go, he reached out and touched my arm. “Do you have a card on you?”

“Sure don’t,” I said. Although I was wearing a rather unfortunate and unfeminine outfit—a Walker golf shirt and khakis—I hadn’t resorted to wearing a fanny pack or carrying a wallet in my back pocket. Besides, I was sure Ryan was just being polite to a fellow alum.

“Well, here,” he said, reaching for his wallet, covered with embossed, interlocking Gucci Gs. He pulled out a card with the Cowboys logo, an all-caps QUARTERBACK below his name, and said, “Here’s my cell. Call me if you ever want to get together. Grab a bite or something.”

I nodded and took the card, my face frozen with a big, awkward smile. Surely he didn’t really mean it.

“Or if you want tickets … We start playing again in September.”

“September, huh. Is that when the NFL starts back?” I said, smirking.

“Right,” Ryan said, grinning at me. “Forgot who I was talking to.”

“He gave you his number?” Lucy shouted.

After the game, I had stopped by her place for a glass of wine. It was
nearly nine, but Caroline was wide awake, watching
Finding Nemo
as she nursed a cup full of bright red juice, the kind that is just waiting to be spilled. Lucy ran a loose ship—very unlike the way she grew up and the way you’d imagine she’d mother—and there was something about it that was both surprising and refreshing.

“It wasn’t like that,” I said. “Don’t get so excited.”

“What do you mean ‘it wasn’t like that’? Of course it was like that. He gave you his number!”

“He gave me his
card
,” I said.

“Does it have his number on it?”

I nodded, laughing.

“Well, then, same difference! Let me see it,” she said, motioning for it.

I mumbled that she was getting worked up for nothing, but pulled it out of the side pocket of my purse.

She stared at it and then called out for Neil. “Honey! Come here and help us analyze!”

Neil stepped away from loading the dishwasher as she showed him the card and filled him in. “Now,” she said to him, “wouldn’t you say he’s interested? What other explanation is there?”

He studied the card, looking impressed. “I’d say he’s interested,” he said, looking up at me.

“I’d say you’re just agreeing with your wife because you know you have to,” I said.

Lucy ignored this and said, “You need to call him.”

“Come on, Luce,” I said. “He can go out with any girl he wants. Models. Actresses. Anyone.”

“He had Blakeslee,” she said. “And now he wants something different.”

“You mean a big girl?” I said. I wasn’t one to get hung up on my weight, but I was definitely big-boned compared to Blakeslee.

“Down-to-earth. Normal. He wants
you.
”

I laughed and said, “He doesn’t
want
me. He just likes me as a
friend. Besides, even if he were interested, I can’t go out with one of Miller’s teammates …”

“Why the hell not?” she said as she snatched the card back from Neil.

“Because … it’s a code.”

“It’s not
your
code,” she said. “It’s a
guy
code. And Ryan showed you that he doesn’t care about that guy code when he handed you
this.
” She studied the card one more time, then gave it back to me. “You better call him.”

I threw out a final objection. “I thought you didn’t want me to go out with football players. And I’d be going from one to the next like some … groupie.”

“There are football players,” she said, making a face. “And then there is
Ryan James.
God … even
I
would be jealous of you if you could close this deal.” Lucy looked over at Neil. “No offense, honey.”

“Oh, none taken,” Neil said. “I’d be jealous of her, too.”

“You both are ridiculous,” I said, but just for the hell of it, and to humor Lucy, I banged out a text to Ryan:
Great to see you tonight. Would love to get a bite sometime. LMK. Shea.

“There,” I said, holding up my phone and showing her the delivered message. “Happy now?”

“Yes,” she said. “But I will be happier once we get access to his private plane and house in Cabo.”

“Ha,” I said. “Keep dreaming.”

The next morning, I had a response from Ryan, a text that he’d sent at 6:00
A
.
M
.:
Charity function Fri. Need a hot date. You game?

I must have read it a half dozen times, searching for a “just friends” angle, if only to guard against disappointment, and concluded that he must have been joking about the “hot date” part. Because if he
really
saw me as a hot date, he wouldn’t
call
me a hot date; he’d just think it. Still. The facts were the facts. Whether or not I qualified as hot, he had
a function to attend and was asking me to go with him—and I was absolutely going to accept the invitation, this time without any prodding from Lucy. So I texted back:
I’m in.

He called only a few seconds after that and said, “That’s what I like about you.” I could tell he was on speaker, and pictured him wearing Ray-Bans in a shiny sports car, driving with one hand low on the steering wheel, the sunroof open.