The One & Only: A Novel (36 page)

Then, as if proving that exact statement—that Ryan’s body wasn’t robotic—we watched him try to field a bad shotgun snap on a third and eighteen. He stumbled and went down, lying on the ground as the Eagles pounced on the ball. I knew even before they showed the replay that it was his knee. His bad left knee, already heavily braced. I felt instantly nauseated, the way I always am when someone gets hurt in a game—especially when knees are involved, the most vulnerable parts of any athlete’s body.

I held my breath and prayed as I watched all the color drain from Mr. James’s tanned face. “God dammit. No,” he said. The stadium fell as silent as a stadium can be, as Mrs. James came scurrying back to her husband in an absolute panic. One sling-back heel slipped off her foot, and she kicked it away, hobbling awkwardly with one shoe until abandoning the second.

“How bad is it?” she said to no one in particular, breathless.

“How the hell should we know?” he snapped at her.

“Did you see the replay? Who hurt him?” she said, her voice shaking.

“Your boy tripped. Nobody touched him,” Mr. James said, disgusted.

She ignored his tone and said, “Shea, what did you see? What happened?”

“I can’t tell,” I said, watching the replay for the third time, feeling cold with dread. I babbled some more, explaining that it didn’t look too serious, and they were probably using the injury time-out for everyone to get a breather. But what I didn’t tell her, and what I also knew to be true, was that even the very smallest movements could result in catastrophic injuries. That knees were funny things that way. But she didn’t wait for me to finish my answer, running back to the front of the suite to be just a little closer to her son. I was torn, wanting the closer-up view on the television but also wanting to see him in the flesh.

Then, suddenly, Ryan got up by his own power and limped off the field with the help of only one trainer, to the applause and enormous relief of eighty thousand fans. Except for Ryan’s own father, who still seemed more pissed than anything else. I took a few steps away from him, now standing in the middle of the suite, with really no view whatsoever of the field or the television, as another text came in from Coach.

CCC:
It’s not torn. He’d be on a stretcher.

Me:
I know. But Mrs. James is freaking out.

CCC:
And let me guess. Mr. James is guns-a-blazing blaming Ryan?

Me:
Yep.

CCC:
He’s going to demoralize that boy. Worse than he already has.

Me:
I know. Now I really wish you were here.

I meant for Ryan’s sake, but also for mine, and Coach took it that way, writing back:
Me, too. Miss you, girl.

I stared down at my phone, hesitating, then slowly typing:
I miss you, too.
Then I put my phone back in my pocket and walked to my seat, avoiding the worried stares from my parents. I don’t think I watched another play after that, my eyes fixed on the sidelines, as if staring at the blue number twelve on my boyfriend’s back would somehow turn the terrible tide.

T
he Cowboys ended up losing by twenty-eight, their worst defeat ever on Thanksgiving Day. The only ones who stuck around our suite until the very ugly end were the people who had come with me. Mr. and Mrs. James, along with my mother, hit the road with a couple of minutes left on the clock. There obviously wasn’t enough time for Dallas to come back, but it still felt disloyal.

“You ready?” my dad said as both teams cleared the field and disappeared down their respective tunnels.

I shrugged, nursing my third drink of the day, wishing I had an actual buzz, anything to dull the loss and the worry I felt over Ryan’s injury—and what he was going to say to me when we finally spoke.

“Really no hurry,” I said. “Either sit here or in traffic.”

“Okay. Well … What’s the plan, exactly?” my dad asked as it occurred to me that, for once, I was the one in charge.

“We’re meeting at Café on the Green at five-thirty,” I said, having intentionally left our plans vague until this moment.

Unfamiliar with Dallas, Astrid gave me a questioning look as I said, “Private dining room at the Four Seasons. Relax.”

She smiled and said, “Perf.”

I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at Astrid as Bronwyn said, “Mom doesn’t understand that only teenagers have any business abbreviating adjectives … Presh, fab, jeal. And my least favorite—totes.”

“
Totally
isn’t an adjective, though, is it?” Wiley said as Astrid laughed, seemingly proud to be compared to a vapid youth.

“It totes isn’t,” I said. “Adverb.”

My phone rang, and I jumped, thinking it might be Ryan, but it was only Gordon shouting hello in a din of testosterone.

“You in the locker room?” I said.

“Headed in now … Sorry about the game,” he said, which I appreciated given that he was an Eagles fan. “Tough day for your boys.”

“Yeah. Sometimes you get the bear …” I began, one of Coach’s sayings. “And sometimes the bear gets you.”

“Ha. Right,” Gordon said. “Well, looks like I’ll be talking to your guy in a minute here.”

“Any word so far on his knee?” I asked.

“Nothing official. They won’t know for sure until later, but the buzz is that they think it’s minor. Have you talked to him?”

“Not yet,” I said. “You’ll probably hear before I do … So let me know …”

“Will do,” he said.

I hung up, realizing that everyone was staring at me.

“Who was that?” Astrid nosily demanded.

“My colleague,” I said. “On the Cowboys beat.”

My dad nodded, looking intrigued, then asked a few questions about Gordon’s background. I gave him the rundown on his traditional, esteemed journalistic path—NYU, then the Newhouse School at Syracuse for his grad degree, then a string of small-town papers
until he landed this gig. My dad seemed to get my implication, saying, “You really scored big with this job, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I feel very lucky.”

“It’s not about luck,” my dad said. “You’re good.”

“And I know Coach,” I said. “That’s as good as a grad degree.”

“I’m telling you,” Astrid said, looking straight at me. “That man is
hot.
”

An hour later, after we had stopped off at the Ritz for Astrid to “freshen up,” and my mother had called to tell me she would not be joining us for dinner, I had yet to hear from Ryan, even after texting him twice. I couldn’t imagine that he’d blow me off altogether, though I was starting to panic that that was a real possibility. But when we arrived at the Four Seasons, I was relieved to see Ryan’s Porsche in the primo valet spot, a couple of guys in uniform admiring it. As much as I understood guys and sports, I would never understand their love of cars.

“Ryan’s here,” I said. “That’s his car.”

“Wow. Beautiful,” my dad said with a long whistle.

“Is that the Turbo S?” Wiley asked.

“Yep,” my dad said. “Sure is.”

“How much did
that
cost?” Astrid asked.

“About one seventy-five,” my dad said as we all piled out of the car.

I checked my phone one last time, but there was only a text from Lucy replying to an earlier question, informing me that her dinner was a success and she didn’t know how her mother had managed to make it look so easy. I felt a wave of intense guilt, realizing I hadn’t said a single word to Lucy about her mom all day long. It was inexcusably self-centered of me, practically putting me in Astrid’s camp—and I made a mental note to call her as soon as dinner was over.

A few minutes later, after checking in with the hostess at the restaurant, we were ushered into the private Decanter Room, where Ryan
and his parents were already seated. Ryan and Mr. James promptly stood when we walked in, but neither smiled. They looked about as miserable as a father-son duo could be, and I had the sense that they had just exchanged heated words. Both their faces were flushed.

I held my breath, bracing myself for a chilly greeting, and the embarrassment that would come with it, but that didn’t happen. Instead, Ryan walked over to me, put his arm around my waist, and kissed me, his lips landing just shy of mine.

“Hi, babe,” he said, as if I were the only one in the room.

“Hi,” I said as softly as I could without whispering. “I’m really sorry …”

Ryan nodded, as if accepting my apology, then smoothly handled the first introduction himself, shaking my dad’s hand, his voice becoming robust. “Mr. Rigsby! I’m Ryan James.”

“Walt,” my dad insisted firmly.

“Walt. Okay, then. Good to meet you, sir!” he said, turning to the others. “And you must be Bronwyn, Wiley, and Astrid.” He pointed as we went, shaking their hands, too. Astrid beamed, then, unbelievably, asked if they could take a photo together before we sat down.

I think I gasped, and Bronwyn looked horrified, as her mother handed me her iPhone. But Ryan handled it well, smiling, posing, even letting Astrid check my work to make sure she liked the photo. Meanwhile, my dad, Bronwyn, and Wiley made small talk with Mr. and Mrs. James.

“Did I blink?” Ryan asked when I handed Astrid her phone. “I always blink.”

“No. It’s perf,” Astrid said.

“Great!” Ryan said with such jocularity that I wasn’t sure if I was impressed or disturbed that he could fake things to this degree.

We sat down as my father grew grave and said, “We’re really sorry about the game, Ryan. How’s your knee?”

“It’s okay,” Ryan said. “I just twisted it a little.”

“How’d you do that, anyway?” Mr. James said.

“What do you mean?” Ryan said, the tension palpable. “How does one ever twist one’s knee?”

Mr. James mumbled something unintelligible as the waiter came in with his spiel about the prix fixe meal and took our drink orders. For a few minutes, the atmosphere lifted, as everyone but Mr. James made polite small talk.

But by the time our wine and whiskey arrived, Ryan’s dad had picked right back up with his veiled insults. Ryan ignored them until he seemingly couldn’t take it another second.

“Dad,” he said, staring ahead, “can we
please
change the subject?”

“Sure. What would you like to talk about, son?” Mr. James said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “It’s
your
day.”

My father raised one brow and looked at me.

“Anything. But. Football,” Ryan said, his nostrils flaring.

Mr. James pushed on. “Such as?”

“Such as … 
anything
,” Ryan said, raising his voice slightly.

“Okay. How about this Walker investigation? Shea—I saw your story … Anything to that?”

I opened my mouth to answer as Ryan dropped his palm to the table. “That’s football, Dad.”

“But at least it’s not about your god-awful game today.”

“Honey. Don’t,” Mrs. James whispered to her husband as Ryan threw back his whiskey.

“How’s the investigation going?” Mr. James pressed, not letting me off the hook.

“It’s … going,” I said as Ryan touched my leg under the table, giving me strength to continue. “I guess. I really don’t know. The NCAA won’t comment. Walker won’t comment. My sources won’t be named … Which is actually a relief for me. Means there’s nothing to write about.”

“And? Do you think they have anything on us?”

I wanted to tell him he wasn’t any part of
us.
I wanted to tell him to shut the hell up. Instead, something inside me snapped and I said,
“Well, I don’t know, sir. I did hear that you bought a car for Cedric Washington. Is that true?”

I glanced at Ryan, who gave me a small nod, though I wasn’t sure if he was confirming the rumor or giving me moral support.

In any event, Mr. James remained perfectly calm as he said, “What’s the statute of limitations on that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, then pressed, “So you did? Buy him a car?”

“I might have,” Mr. James said.

“Honey,” Mrs. James said again.

“What?” he snapped back at her. “Shea asked me a question.”

My father started to whistle, a nervous habit, and even Astrid had caught on that the situation was becoming dire, as she began murmuring to herself how much she loved the wine, then turned to ask Wiley what he had ordered. Wiley filled her in on the vintage and vineyard. He’d been there, of course, with Bronwyn, who also chimed in. Ordinarily it was the sort of thing that irritated me, but I could tell everyone was doing their very best to cast a lifeline to Ryan and me. It was almost touching.

“Where did you hear that, Shea? Or do the questions only go one way?” Mr. James said with a big, fake laugh.

I smiled and said, “I can’t reveal my sources.”

“C’mon. Did you talk to Ced?”

“It’s just a rumor. Just like this entire investigation is built on rumor, conjecture. It’s a house of cards. Like everything else the NCAA is doing these days.”

It was the right thing to say because there was a perceptible shift after that. Or maybe the whiskey was just doing the trick.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Mr. James said, raising his glass.

I didn’t like the idea of being on the same side of an argument with him, but I was more intent on getting through the meal without a full-on explosion, so I kept on with my anti-NCAA rant, lifted mostly from Coach. Meanwhile, Ryan retreated into a dark silence, speaking only when spoken to. I couldn’t blame him, though, and was sure nobody else held it against him either. If anything, as we muddled through dinner,
I felt myself growing ever more protective of him—almost as if he were still a little boy getting bullied by his father.