The One & Only: A Novel (39 page)

I looked at him, wondering if he was speaking from experience, and, if so, was he talking about Astrid or my mom? I considered asking him but decided I really didn’t want to know, as he continued. “Figure out what you want … whatever that is … and go for it.”

“I will,” I said. “But for now …”

My dad raised his eyebrows, waiting.

“For now, I just want to beat the hell out of the Longhorns.”

My dad laughed and said, “Yeah. You just might belong with Coach, after all.”

O
n Saturday morning, the day of the final Walker game of the regular season, I woke up feeling sick to my stomach. My hatred for Texas always compounded my standard nervousness, and this year was even worse, with so much more at stake. If we won, we would be playing for the national championship. If we lost, Texas would forever relish their role as spoiler, and we’d finish the year ranked third or fourth, at best, in some ways more painful than a mediocre season.

I got out of bed, too rattled for coffee, too nauseated to eat, pacing and praying and fidgeting all over my apartment. I listened to music and even did some yoga poses and breathing exercises, but nothing worked. I told myself to get a grip. The game was big—as huge as they come—but there were more important things in life, fates worse than losing to the Longhorns. On this very day, people would get terrible diagnoses. Die in fluke tragic accidents. Others would get fired, lose their homes to the bank, their spouses to divorce, their best friends to
petty differences. Beloved pets would be put to sleep. Suicide notes penned. Innocent men arrested. Natural disasters might even strike and topple whole villages in remote corners of the world.

This was
only a game
, I kept telling myself. Not life or death. But no matter how hard I tried to remain philosophical, I couldn’t talk myself into that perspective. Into
any
perspective.

And then, a few hours later, I actually puked in a trash can at the stadium.

J.J. busted me, coming up on my left shoulder, laughing.

“Did you just do what I think you did?” His voice echoed in the cavernous corridor that would later be squeezed with bodies and vendors.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, took a swig of water from a bottle in my bag, and popped in a piece of gum before turning around to face him.

“Yep,” I said. “I sure did.”

“And something tells me it wasn’t bad fish.”

“Ha. No. It was the emasculated bovines,” I said, my favorite nickname for the Longhorns.

“So much for an impartial media.”

I laughed but quickly sobered up again, J.J.’s face mirroring the way I felt.

“Do you get the feeling that it’s now or never?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Why do we feel that way?”

“Because,” he said. “We’re
so
close. I can’t imagine getting this close again. It could take years. And I’m sixty-one. I don’t have that kind of time.”

“I know,” I said. “You have to be
so
good … But so damn lucky, too.” I crossed my fingers, stared up at the ceiling of the atrium, and prayed for the hundredth time since that morning.

“You think we’ll pull it off?” he said.

I shrugged, thinking that when it really, truly mattered, I never had a good gut feeling. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have faith in my team, but that I maintained the truest fans always reverted to a doomsday
position in the same way that parents always worried about tragedy befalling their children. Love made things feel precarious, and, when you got right down to it, everything in life was tenuous and fleeting and ultimately tragic. Yes, someone would win this game, and two teams in the country would go on to play for a championship in January. And someone would win
that
game. And a few seniors at one program in the nation would end their careers on a jubilant high note. But for many, many more, the college football season would end in utter disappointment. Even heartbreak. Just like life.

J.J. slapped me on the back and said, “When’s the last time you tossed your cookies like that before a game?”

“The Cotton Bowl,” I said.

“Well, that’s a good sign, no?”

“Yep,” I said, having already thought of that superstitious angle. Because, no matter how pessimistic I was before a big game, I never stopped looking for signs, never stopped praying for the right alignment of stars over the Brazos River.

As it turned out, there was no need to pace, puke, or pray. Because Walker kicked the shit out of Texas. We were faster, sharper, and better on nearly every play. It was an art and a science and a thing of beauty and a glorious act of God, the final scoreboard glowing brighter than the moon: Walker 28, Texas 0.

Buoyant, I sprinted to the press conference, counting down the minutes until I could see Coach, hear him recapping the game with his usual matter-of-fact preamble. When he walked in, he scanned the room as if looking for something or someone. Then he spotted me, standing in the back with a couple of guys from
The Dallas Morning News.
Our eyes locked, and he threw me a wink. My insides melted, and I couldn’t help but grin back at him.

“Let me guess,” one of the reporters next to me said in a snide voice. “You went to Walker.”

“Yep. And let me guess. You went to UT-Austin,” I said, knowing
that he had. The
Austin
infuriated Longhorn fans, who liked to think of their school as
the
University of Texas—which his irate expression confirmed.

A few seconds later, the press conference was under way, and I furiously scribbled notes and quotes, waiting until the end to ask my own question.

“Yes? Shea,” Coach said, pointing to me.

“Congratulations on an undefeated regular season,” I began, wanting these to be my first postgame words to him.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding, waiting for the question.

I took a deep breath and said, “So … We all know that you’ve had an exceptionally difficult year … and I was hoping you might say a few words about what this season has meant to you personally.”

Coach nodded, his face somber. “Yes, this year has been enormously difficult and emotional for me and for my children, Lucy and Lawton … My wife, Connie, meant everything to us and this program and community, and there’s been a void without her …” He stopped, blinked, then looked down, seemingly rattled, and, for a few seconds, I regretted the question. But when he looked up again, he had his composure back and said, “So to end the regular season this way means a tremendous amount to me … and I think it is the ultimate tribute to her.” He cleared his throat and continued, “I’d like to thank my players, coaches, and the Bronco nation for making today possible. Thank you.”

Then he smiled, stood, and walked off the platform.

The press conference continued with Mack Brown and a couple of his key players, and I stayed, gathering a few quotes. But I already had what I needed for my story, my angle, and I left as soon as possible to rush back to the press box and write. I was getting faster, and that night, words, sentences, whole paragraphs flew from my fingers, the entire piece written in just under ninety minutes—a record. It was factual reporting, but poetic, too—and I was prouder of it than of anything I’d ever written, concluding with Coach’s quote about Mrs. Carr. I emailed it to Smiley, who wrote back, “Well done. Congrats.”

I wasn’t sure if he was congratulating me on my piece or the game, but I took it as both, and drove straight to the Third Rail, where Lucy, Neil, Lawton, and Ryan were in full celebration, along with dozens of other friends, acquaintances, and former colleagues from Walker. Every bar in town would be jamming tonight, but I couldn’t imagine more of a scene than the one here, as I was pretty sure that word had gotten out that this was Ryan’s new hangout. We all hugged and kissed and hollered and high-fived. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so grateful or euphoric after a ball game. Couldn’t remember a night more thrilling.

Until it wasn’t.

“
W
ell, well,” Ryan said, tendons appearing in his neck as he stared beyond me. “Look who it is.”

I knew who it was even before I turned around to see Miller, loping toward us, looking as happy as I’d felt only a few seconds before. When he got to the table, I saw the credit card in his hand.

I stood, considering my options. I knew that hugging him hello and whispering in his ear would be problematic, but it was the best chance I had. My only hope.

So I did just that, cutting Ryan off, sidling up to Miller, leaning in and frantically whispering, “Don’t say anything about the other night.”

Of course it backfired, as he was way too dense or drunk to catch on. “What do ya mean?” he asked in a loud voice. Then, holding it out for the world to see, announced, “I have your credit card!”

Ryan stood up, chest swelled, like he was ready to throw a punch.
But in the next second, he gathered himself in a way that seemed more sinister than your garden-variety bar fight.

“What do you have there?” he asked me as Miller handed me my card.

“My credit card,” I mumbled, wedging it into my back pocket.

At this point, Lucy gave Miller a hug and said, “Good to see you, Miller. I like you so much more after a big win! Or maybe it’s just that you aren’t dating Shea anymore.” Her voice was playful.

Miller grinned but said, “Don’t be a bitch, Lucy.”

Lucy made a face, put one hand on her hip, and said, “Omigod, did y’all hear that? Miller just called me a bitch.”

“No, I didn’t,” Miller said, still grinning. “I just gave you some really good advice.
Don’t
be a bitch!” Then he raised his glass, leaned back, and bellowed up at the ceiling, his voice filling the bar, “Fuck Texas!”

At which point, everyone erupted in a chorus of “Fuck Texas!” Except for Ryan—who reached out and grabbed my forearm.

“Can you c’mere for a second?” he said, pulling me by my arm toward the restrooms in the back. Clearly it wasn’t a question or an invitation; it was a command.

“What are you
doing
?” I said, though I knew exactly what he was doing.

“Care to tell me why Miller has your credit card?” he said as he dragged me along with him.

“I left it at the bar the other night. I told you that,” I said, my heart racing.

“Yeah? So how did he end up with it?”

“I guess he … got it from the bar,” I said.

“I thought you said you didn’t see him?”

It occurred to me to layer my lie with another lie, tell him that Miller had come in after I’d left, but I knew the jig was up. Ryan was way too savvy and determined not to get to the bottom of things. “Okay. He was here. I saw him the night before your game.”

“So you
lied
to me?” he said.

“I’m sorry.”

The admission must have both surprised and further outraged Ryan because he shouted, “You’re
what
?” Then he squeezed my arm harder. I tried to pull away, more concerned about a potential scene than anything else, but I couldn’t break free.

“I’m sorry. He did come into the bar that night … But that was it.” I pulled away again, but like with those Chinese finger traps, the harder I pulled, the tighter his grip became. “I can’t control who walks into a bar!”

He took a step toward me, backing me against a wall. “You freakin’ lied to me!” he yelled, jabbing his finger into my chest.

“I know. And I’m sorry,” I said, cringing as I made eye contact with a girl headed to the ladies’ room. She was staring at us, taking it all in.

“You’re sorry?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You say that a lot, Shea. Don’t you?”

“But I
am
sorry,” I said, feeling pathetic and ashamed. Not for lying but for being trapped like this, in a bar no less.

“Bullshit!” he yelled. “You’re not sorry!”

“I am, Ryan. I really am. I only lied because you were so upset about the game … and I didn’t want to make it worse. And nothing is going on … I just saw him at the bar. And he got my credit card. That was it.” I was talking as fast as I could, but nothing seemed to work.

“You just
saw
him?” he shouted louder as another girl stared, along with the guy she was with.