The One & Only: A Novel (23 page)

“Headed in that direction? Falling ever so slightly?”

“Maybe,” I said, reaching up to touch one of my diamond earrings as Coach blew his whistle then asked Barry Canty if he planned on breaking a sweat anytime soon.

I laughed.

Lucy looked at me and said, “What?”

“Your dad,” I said. “He’s so funny.”

“Oh. Yeah.” She put down her sandwich and said, “So. I want to talk to you about something else.” I knew the look on her face. Something was wrong.

“What?” I said, a knot of worry in my chest.

“It’s about Daddy. I think he might be seeing someone.”

My stomach dropped as I asked her why she thought that, picturing an attractive lady, in her mid-forties, perhaps a widow.

“Because I was over at his house, and he was on his phone. Texting someone,” she said, as Coach transitioned the backs into a pass protection drill.

“When?” I said.

“Last night,” she said. “Around eight.”

I felt a rush of relief, then guilt, knowing that he was texting me—and made the split-second decision not to tell her.

“It was weird,” she continued. “I asked who he was talking to and he said nobody. I mean,
nobody
?”

“Maybe he was surfing the Net?” I said, hating myself for lying to my best friend and confused about why I was doing it. We’d been doing an interview; it was all legit.

“No. He was definitely texting. I saw his screen. And when I tried to look over his shoulder, he flipped it over.”

“Maybe he was texting his coaches,” I said, biting my lower lip. “You know, top secret stuff about the game.”

She gave me a look. “Top secret stuff? He’s a
coach
, not an FBI agent.”

Having run out of all plausible explanations—other than the truth—I shrugged.

“Do you think he could be seeing someone?” she asked.

I said no, then asked, “How would you feel if he were?”

“Are you serious?” she asked, as if it were the most ridiculous question in the world.

“I mean—I know you’d be upset, but would you be … mad?”

She sighed, putting her sandwich down. “Well, how could I be mad?”

“You just could,” I said, thinking that the fact that she
shouldn’t
be angry had never stopped Lucy before. On any topic. It was amazing how different we were—yet how much we still loved each other.

“Well, no, I don’t think I would be
mad.
But I think he should wait at least a year before he even
thinks
about talking to another woman. Isn’t that the rule?”

I shrugged, thinking of Mrs. Carr. How she had little rules for everything.
No linen or seersucker after Labor Day. Never be early to depart a party, but good heavens, don’t be the last to leave. Gift registries are gauche and so is writing “no gifts, please” on an invitation.
And my favorite
—manners trump etiquette.
In other words, you shouldn’t put your elbows on the table, but it is far worse to point it out.

“I don’t think there’s a rule about this, Luce … I think it depends on a lot of things …” I said, my voice trailing off.

“I know. And I really want him to be happy,” she said. “But, God, I don’t know if I could bear it … Do you know someone recently asked me about
your
mother?”

“What about her?” I said.

“Whether I thought she and my dad would get together. You don’t think she’d ever be interested in him, do you?” Lucy asked.

“No,” I said as quickly as possible.

“Out of respect for my mom?”

I shook my head and said, “I just can’t see them together. He’d never go for her. And she likes the slick, suit-and-tie type. Speaking of which,” I said, trying to change the subject, “my dad’s coming down for Thanksgiving.”

“Solo?”

“Of course not. He’s bringing Bronwyn and Ass Face,” I said, my nickname for Astrid.

Lucy laughed. “Did you tell them about Ryan yet?”

“Not yet. And I must confess, I can’t wait,” I said, smiling.

“Yeah. That will be so satisfying,” Lucy said.

I looked down the field at Coach, as he blew his whistle and shouted, “Dammit, Sanders! If I tell you a duck can pull a truck, then shut up and hook the sucker up.”

I laughed and wrote the quote down. I knew I probably wouldn’t use it, and certainly not without Coach’s okay, but I still wanted a record of it to read later, along with our texts that I had yet to delete.

I
n a game that was even more ugly than the one Coach predicted, we barely escaped with a win in Waco, beating Baylor 21–20. Other than the final score, pretty much everything went wrong for us. We dropped the ball, missed field goals, and got a lot of stupid penalties. I knew from experience that Coach was going to be terse in the press conference, more frustrated with his team for their mental lapses and lack of discipline than happy to come away with a victory.

Sure enough, he came out surly, barking at reporters and barely acknowledging me when I raised my hand. Instead of calling my name, he simply pointed at me and said, “Yep. Question right there.”

“Coach Carr,” I began nervously, “what did you see in the play where Rhodes fumbled? At the end of the first half?”

“What did I see?” He squinted, as if confused, then replied, “I saw the official call a fumble. That’s what I saw.” His voice was gravelly
from yelling over fifty thousand fans—and probably at his team afterward.

I felt my face turn red but pressed on. “Have you seen the replay? It looked very close as to whether he was down or not.”

“Yeah. I saw the replay.”

“And? Do you think the right call was made?” I asked, flustered, not able to articulate what I really wanted to know—which was how he felt about his team collapsing after such a pivotal call.

“It was the official’s call. And, as you well know, I had already used my challenge on an earlier play. So. They ruled it a turnover, and that was that. It really doesn’t make any difference what I think.”

I looked at him, thinking it made
every
difference what he thought about that call, the game, and everything else, too. He stared back at me, waiting, as I forced myself to ask one final question. “Do you think that changed the tide of the game for …” In the nick of time, I stopped myself from saying “us” and finished the sentence with “you.”

Coach crossed his arms and heaved a weary sigh. “There were a lot of plays in this football game. A lot of things we could have done better. Bottom line, we were lucky to get a win.
Damn
lucky. Okay. That’s all.”

He got up abruptly and, without another word, walked off the platform and out the side door, back to the visitors’ locker room.

That night, I was in a mood as foul as Coach Carr’s and ignored the phone when it rang, not picking up for Lucy, or for Ryan, who was at the Four Seasons in St. Louis, preparing for the Rams game tomorrow. The only person I wanted to talk to was Coach, but I didn’t dare call him, knowing the last thing he wanted to do was hear from a reporter who asked him annoying questions. At some point, though, after I had filed my story, I broke down and decided one little text wouldn’t hurt. After drafting and deleting at least a dozen versions, I wrote:
Sorry about the game and also for the dumb question.

I didn’t expect to hear back from him at all, and certainly not right
away, but he replied almost instantaneously:
It’s ok. I’m sorry for snapping at you.

Then, before I could respond, the phone rang. It was him. Shocked, I fumbled it Rhodes-style, then scrambled to scoop it up and answer before it went to voice mail.

“Hey,” Coach said. “How are you?”

“Probably the same as you,” I said, though my frustration over the game was suddenly supplanted by relief that he wasn’t angry at
me.

“That was one hell of a hollow win,” Coach said.

“It was still a win,” I said.

Coach made a disgusted sound, then said, “I’d rather play well and lose.”

I wasn’t sure if I believed him, and I know I didn’t subscribe to the notion, especially during a year like this one, but I still murmured my agreement, adding, “That
was
a terrible call, though.”

“Even shittier on the replay. That ref is a joke. And yes, to answer your question, I think that was a game changer. It definitely changed things for those boys. Got in their heads. We do that against a better team, and we’re done for.”

“Yeah,” I said, letting him vent.

“Beyond the painfully obvious fact that we couldn’t establish our run,” he said, “we just missed a lot of opportunities. What were we in the red zone?”

“O for three.”

“You can’t win many football games when you’re O for three in the red zone.”

I murmured in agreement, surprised that Coach was discussing the game with me, when he typically didn’t even talk to his staff immediately after poor performances.

“So what are you doing?” he asked suddenly.

“Right now?” I asked.

“Yeah. Now.”

“Nothing. Why? What are you doing?” I asked, wondering why I was so nervous.

“About to go for a run,” he said.

“At eight-thirty?”

“If that’s what time it is … then yes. Wanna join me?”

Stunned by the invite, I said okay, my heart beginning to race.

“Good enough. Meet you at the track over at school in fifteen?”

“Okay,” I said again, marveling that I could feel this good, this
happy
, so soon after a bad game.

Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the lot closest to the track, adjacent to the tennis courts and our original field house. I was wearing gray sweats, a standard issue from the equipment room, and an ancient Walker baseball cap, my long ponytail threaded through the back. A pale light shone on the track, a mix of moonlight and halogen, but a fog had rolled in, and at first I didn’t see the lone figure stretching near a high stack of pole-vault mats. It was Coach, and my heart stopped for a second as I stood at the top of the brick staircase and watched him. When I finally descended the steps toward the entrance, he looked up through a curtain of mist and gave me a half wave, half salute. I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down as I entered the security code and unlatched the squeaky metal gate. Then I slowly crossed the spongy red track, walking onto the turf. I stopped a few yards away from Coach, overcome with a rush of pure joy. We were completely alone on a beautiful night, and I simply couldn’t imagine anything more exhilarating.

“Hi, girl,” he said, giving me a half smile.

“Hi, Coach,” I said, wishing I could read his mind. There was no way to tell what he was thinking, his face expressionless.

“Little chilly,” he said, pulling the drawstring on his gray sweatshirt, a hooded version of mine.

“I know. I like it,” I said, nervously bending over to tighten my laces.

“Me, too,” he said, lightly jogging in place and stretching.

“Do you always run after games?” I asked, thinking it was easier to speak when he wasn’t looking at me.

“When we play like shit,” he said, sitting down to stretch more thoroughly.

I nodded, watching him.

“So did you get your story in?” he said, glancing up at me.

“Yeah,” I said.

“And?”

I wasn’t sure what he was asking so I said, “And … it’s done.”

“You happy with it?”

“As happy as I can be when I’m writing about a game … like that one,” I said.

Coach nodded, only his eyes smiling at me. “Don’t you need to stretch?”

I shrugged and reluctantly sat next to him, spreading my legs in a V-shape, imitating his form. I touched my toes a couple of times in a jerking, bouncing motion—the way they always tell you not to stretch—then stood up, murmuring that I was good to go.

“Youth,” Coach said. “If I stretched like that, I’d tear something.”

“We’re only, like, twenty years apart,” I said, feeling myself tense inside.

“
Only
twenty? That’s not the best reference tonight.”

I looked at him, confused, then remembered that was how many points our defense gave up.

“Oops,” I said. I waited for him to smile, and, when he did, I followed suit, as we walked a few steps over to the track, then began a slow counterclockwise jog. Coach started out on the inside but then moved to my right shoulder, two lanes over from me. The adjustment felt chivalrous, almost romantic, but I told myself to stop thinking such crazy, delusional thoughts. He probably just preferred an outside lane.

After one straightaway and two curves of the track, not quite a quarter-mile warm-up, I was already sucking wind, my thighs burning.
Coach clearly was in better shape than I was, and I vowed to start hitting the gym with some regularity. You’d think dating a professional football player would have motivated me, but there was actually something about Ryan’s ridiculous physique that made me want to blow it off altogether. Running with Coach was a different matter.

After another couple of silent laps, Coach said, “Warmed up? Ready to go?”

“Yeah. Sure,” I said as he opened up his stride. Struggling to keep up with him, I said, “Damn. You’re fast. What’s your mile pace?”