The One & Only: A Novel (35 page)

“Of course not,” my dad answered for her, picking up on the nuance. He had to have at least thirty IQ points on her—and so, for that matter, did my mother, a small source of comfort.

Astrid didn’t take the hint. “So it’s really getting serious? Or are you just casually seeing each other?” she pressed.

“We’re sitting in his parents’ box at the game,” my dad said to her with a tinge of irritation that delighted me. “You do the math, honey.”

“Astrid can’t do math,” I said, smiling and quickly adding, “Just joking!”

“She actually can’t, though,” Bronwyn said. The only thing that redeemed my half sister was that she seemed almost as bothered by her mother as I was, and I was reminded of the odd fact that I actually liked Bronwyn more in person than I did in theory. She was infinitely more interesting than Astrid, having inherited my father’s intelligence.

The valet pulled up with their rental SUV, and we all piled in, Wiley, Bronwyn, and me in the back, Bronwyn in the middle. I glanced down at her hands, resting on her thighs, noticing her huge diamond ring and fresh manicure. I made two fists, hiding my own ragged cuticles, and did my best to make small talk. How was New York, their work, their new house in the Hamptons? Bronwyn’s answers were either succinct or modest, depending on your interpretation, not leaving much room for follow-up, and, to her credit, she tried to turn the conversation back to me, and seemed more interested in my new job than in Ryan.

“Do you like it?” she began. “Is it what you thought it would be?”

“Yes—and pretty much,” I said as everyone listened to my answer.
“It’s tough operating on such tight deadlines, but I really do like it. I like concentrating on one sport, one team.”

Bronwyn nodded, and I could hear respect in her voice when she said, “How many other women sports reporters are there?”

“At the
Post
, specifically?”

She nodded.

“None,” I said.

I caught my dad’s proud smile in the rearview mirror—which pleased me more than it should have.

“Did Ryan help you get the job?” Astrid chimed in.

“No,” I said. “He had nothing to do with it.”

Wiley asked a few questions about the quickly growing obsolescence of newspapers—and whether I thought we’d be completely online at some point in the near future—until Astrid managed to hijack the conversation and manipulate it in a completely unrecognizable direction. As she blathered on, I reread Ryan’s messages, trying to detect aggression in them, relieved not to find any. They were decidedly controlling, high-maintenance, and self-righteous, but I didn’t see any of Blakeslee’s accusations embedded anywhere. Of course I still hadn’t listened to his voice mails, and wondered why this was. Did I not want to find damning evidence right before meeting his parents? Was I just too exhausted? Or did I simply not care enough? As I stared down at my phone, a new message popped onto the screen. It was from Coach:
Tell your dad I said hi.

I typed back:
Will do.

I kept staring at my phone, willing another message to appear. It finally did.
How do you feel? Any better?

Me:
Yes, much. The coffee and donut helped. Thanks again.

CCC:
Of course. You at the stadium yet?

Me:
Almost.

I looked up from my phone and said, “Dad. Coach Carr says hi.”

“How is he doing?” Astrid asked with exaggerated sympathy.

“Fine,” I said.

“Is he dating yet?”

I told her no as tersely as I could.

“What about your mother?”

“What about her?” I snapped.

“Do you think they’ll get together?”

“God, no.”

“I told her that already,” my dad said.

“Why not? They’re close friends—and I have always thought he was so sexy.”

“Astrid. Please stop,” I said.

It only fueled her fire. “You don’t think he’s sexy?
Way
sexy—in that rugged Texas football coach way … Though that’s not really my type.” She patted my dad on the hand.

“Astrid,” my dad said, exasperated. “Connie just passed away in February.”

“That’s plenty of time to move on,” she fired back.

“Drop it,” my dad said.

“What? Are you jealous?” Astrid said, as we approached the stadium. “Would it bother you if they got together?”

“No,” my dad said. “I just don’t see that happening.”

I glanced back down at the phone as another text from Coach appeared:
Enjoy the game.

Thanks
, I typed. Then paused and added a very bold
I wish I were watching with you.

CCC:
You and me both …

I grinned down at the phone, lost for a moment, putting images to the ellipses as we pulled into the VIP parking lot at AT&T Stadium.

When we got to the Jameses’ suite, Ryan’s parents were already there along with a handful of couples about their age. I recognized them right away, both from seeing them in the stands during college and because Ryan looked so much like his father. Mr. James made a beeline
for me, effusively greeting me with a two-armed bear hug. It wasn’t what I expected, and I could tell Bronwyn and Astrid were impressed. If there was any suspicion of exaggeration, Ryan’s dad had just dispelled it with one big Texan embrace.

“Honey! Come meet Shea!” he hollered to Mrs. James, who approached me with a similar measure of ebullience.

“We’ve heard so much about you!” she said.

Mr. James nodded. “Ryan just thinks the world of you. He said you know more about football than any girl he’s ever met.”

“Well, that’s very sweet,” I said, ignoring the obvious sexist undertones and taking the comment in the spirit it was intended. “I love the game.”

“And he loves you,” Mr. James said.

Astrid’s mouth literally fell open.

“He’s a great guy,” I said, milking the moment for all it was worth, then turning to make the necessary introductions. My father, Mr. James, and Wiley all hit it off right away, finding endless business overlaps in their respective financial worlds, while Astrid did her best to impress Mrs. James, dropping her own version of important names, labels, locales. Bronwyn kept a lower profile, following me over to the bar area in the suite.

“Want me to make you a drink?” I asked her, eyeing the vodka. “Bloody Mary?”

“Are you going to have one?” she said.

“Think so,” I said. I wasn’t usually a hair-of-the-dog kind of girl but decided that I might need to make an exception—it was going to be a long day and my mother hadn’t even shown up yet. And to compound all the social pressure, I was beginning to feel nervousness over the game. I obviously wanted the Cowboys to win as a fan, and as Ryan’s girlfriend, but it further crossed my mind that, if he didn’t win, last night might be raised as a factor.

I mixed two drinks, handed one to Bronwyn, and confessed that I had overindulged the night before.

“You went out?” she said.

Remembering that I had lied about working, I babbled another cover-up lie about going out
after
I turned in my story, but I could tell she didn’t buy it.

“Okay,” I said. “I didn’t really have to work. I was just …”

“I get it,” she said. “I know my mother is tough to take.”

“And so’s mine,” I said, just as she made her grand entrance in a powder-blue Chanel suit and patent navy sling-backs. She looked amazing, the best she can look, and decidedly better than Astrid.

“Your mom looks great,” Bronwyn said as my mother sailed straight over to my father and said hello. It was a strong move, adding another tally to our collective score.

“And really happy, too,” Bronwyn added. “Is she seeing someone?”

I shook my head and said, “Not at the moment. And you know? I admire that about her. She doesn’t need to be with someone to be happy.”

“Isn’t that how you are, too?” she said.

“In a way,” I said. “I mean everybody wants to find true love …” I said as my mother flitted over and kissed me hello. Meanwhile she ignored Bronwyn, who took the hint and rejoined Wiley.

“Mom, you might want to be a little less obvious,” I said.

“Pfft,” she said. “They don’t exist.”

“But Dad does?”

“I
have
to acknowledge him. He’s your father.”

“Okay. Whatever,” I said with a shrug as I added a little more vodka to my Bloody Mary, then led my mom to the front of the box, where I introduced her to Ryan’s parents.

Although she was slightly less affected than Astrid, she, too, was overeager, trying to impress Mrs. James—and thoughtlessly chatty given that their son was about to play. Mrs. James seemed not to mind, though, and I wondered if Astrid and my mother were both providing a welcome distraction from maternal worry. I definitely felt anxious myself, more nervous watching him in person, sure that every snap would feel more perilous, every defender more menacing. In any
event, the game was about to begin, and it was time to focus. So I settled into the front row of the box, put my blinders on, and tuned out everything but football.

But right away, I had a terrible feeling about the game. Ryan looked emotionless. Then, midway through the first quarter, he threw an egregious interception that was returned for a touchdown so ridiculous it was sure to make the
SportsCenter
highlight reel. The mental errors, sloppy plays, and turnovers continued from there, and, by halftime, Dallas was down by twenty-one, the mood in the suite matching the one on the field. Only my mother and Astrid seemed oblivious, continuing with their chirpy, overly optimistic commentary, which was clearly making Mr. James more irate, a tough thing to do. At one point, I pulled my mother aside and said, “Mom, they don’t want to talk. Their son is getting destroyed out there.”

“He is?” my mom asked. “They’re only down three touchdowns.”

“Only?”

“They can come back.”

“But it’s not just about the score,” I hissed. “He’s the quarterback. His stats are atrocious. This is easily the worst game of his professional career.”

“Oh,” my mother said, taking the hint after that, while Astrid continued to pepper Mrs. James with small talk about Neiman Marcus’s resort wear collection, the new exhibition at MOMA, and her upcoming trip with my father to, of all places, Dubai. Where the shopping, FYI, was
to die
for.

Fortunately, nobody, not even his buddies, attempted conversation with Mr. James as he migrated to the rear of the suite with his back to the playing field, watching the game on television. The one time I got near him on the way to the restroom, I could hear him swearing at the screen, a string of expletives directed at his son. As I crept past him on my way back to my seat, he barked my name.

“Yes, sir?” I said.

“Can you believe this game?”

“No. I really cannot,” I said. Then, realizing that I wasn’t helping matters, I added, “But all the greats have games like this … Eli Manning does this once or twice a season—and he’s a two-time Super Bowl MVP.”

“Yeah. Well, I’d give Ryan some leeway, too, if he had a ring,” Mr. James snapped back.

Christ
, I thought, grinding my teeth.
You really
are
an asshole.
But instead I said, “He’s only human … He’ll bounce back.”

Mr. James made a grumbling sound while I stood next to him in silence, filled with that sickening, sinking feeling that comes with getting your ass kicked. Only this was even worse because, with every shitty possession, I felt responsible. What if it did come down to Ryan’s lack of sleep? What if that threw him off his game, which in turn threw the whole team off? I didn’t want to give myself that sort of credit—or blame—but it was hard not to consider the possibility. As FOX went to a commercial, I said to Mr. James, “Do you think maybe he doesn’t feel well? Or didn’t get a good night’s sleep?”

Mr. James looked at me and said, “Hell, he didn’t get
something
 … I haven’t seen him look this bad in years.”

I sighed, shifted my weight from foot to foot, then nervously checked my phone, which I’d wedged into my back pocket. There were two new texts, one from Lucy, saying:
Oh noo!!!! Terrible game! I’m so sorry!!!
and one from Coach:
Wow. What’s going on up there?

Lost in anxious thought, I must have mumbled something to myself, because Mr. James looked at me and said, “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I said, making uneasy eye contact. “I just got a text from Coach. That’s all.”

He looked at me confused, and I realized that he probably thought of “Coach” as Coach Garrett now, head coach of the Cowboys. So I said, “Coach Carr.”

“And? What’s he saying? That he can’t believe his guy is responsible for such a shit show?”

I shook my head, feeling a swell of anger, and said, “No. That’s not what he’s saying at
all.
”

“Well?” he said, staring me down, his voice dripping with disgust. “What, then?”

“He just said … that it’s not Ryan’s day,” I said, holding my ground, knowing that was what Coach
would
say. He understood the mental component of this game, especially for quarterbacks, and never got pissed at his guys as long as they were doing their best. And it seemed clear to me that Ryan was doing his best. If anything, he seemed to be trying
too
hard. Forcing plays, out of his usual rhythm. Sometimes it just happened—and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. I hated Ryan’s father for not knowing that—or not giving a damn. All these years of watching his son and he still hadn’t figured out that Ryan wasn’t a machine.