The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  “And did I?”

  “Nope. You rambled some more.”

  “About?”

  “What else?” he said.

  “Football?”

  He kissed me again, this time on the mouth, then rolled me onto my back. “You have a one-track mind,” he said, covering my body with his. “I think you love the game more than I do.”

  I kissed him back, my body battling my mind.

  “And I think,” he whispered, “you like football more than sex.”

  “So we didn’t …?” I asked, hopeful.

  “Hell, no,” Ryan said. “You passed out on me. Besides, I’m a gentleman … But there’s still plenty of time …”

  He kissed me more urgently, cupping my breast with his large hand. I kissed him back, but mentally pumped my fist, relieved. It was ironic, really—and the way it often was with whiskey. You were never quite sure whether to blame it or give it credit. I’d make that final call after I spoke to Coach.

  “You want to now?” Ryan asked.

  “Talk football or have sex?” I asked.

  “Both,” he said, breathing hard, his voice low. “I can play your little Heisman game while I’m inside you …”

  “Oh, yeah?” I said. “Who won in ’sixty-eight?”

  “Is this a test?” he said as I felt him grow hard against my leg.

  “Yeah,” I said, pushing back against him, but feeling confident that he’d fail.

  “Steve Spurrier,” he said.

  “Nope. Try again.”

  “Archie Griffin.”

  “Way off,” I said, wriggling out from under him. “The Juice. O.J. Better luck next time.” I laughed and sat up.

  “Wait. First the dude murders two people … and now he’s cock-blocking me?”

  I made a face. “Don’t ever use that expression again. But yes.”

  Ryan laughed and said, “You really do, don’t you?”

  “I really do what?”

  “Like football more than sex?”

  “Hmm … it’s about tied,” I said.

  Ryan’s face lit up. “That’s a hell of an answer,” he said. “I have a good feeling about you, Shea Rigsby.”

  I smiled back at him. “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Well, good,” I said. “Because I have a pretty good feeling about you, too, Ryan James.”

  Ten

  After a weekend of obsessing and worrying and self-loathing for being such a reckless drunk, I headed straight to Coach Carr’s office, first thing Monday morning. Relieved to find Mrs. Heflin away from her desk, I took a deep breath and knocked on his door.

  “Come in!” his voice boomed.

  In agony, I made myself open the door and look into his eyes, noticing that they exactly matched the light blue golf shirt he was wearing.

  “Hi,” I said, wishing I had brought something to hold, a notebook, folder, anything. “Good morning.”

  “Yes, it is,” he said, smiling. “How are you today, Shea?”

  “Fine,” I said. “How are you?”

  “Not too bad,” he said, motioning for me to come in the whole way.

  “Are you sure … this is a good time?” I said, almost hoping he’d say no.

  Instead, he glanced at his watch and said, “Yup. I have a few minutes before I head into a meeting.”

  I took three tentative steps forward, now standing in the middle of his office. “How’s it looking?” I said, glancing at the play diagram on his desk, covered with Xs and Os.

  “We’re getting there … You gonna have a seat or what?” he said, leaning back in his chair, clasping his hands behind his head. I took another step, then sat down, crossing my legs and staring at my lap.

  I waited, hoping he’d mention my phone call first, until he finally said, “Well, c’mon, don’t be bashful now.”

  “Right … So about that … I just wanted to apologize …” I began, meeting his eyes, then looking at his chin, probably my favorite feature of his. It was the quintessential coach’s jaw, strong and square with a cleft in the middle that always reminded me of a decisive, authoritative period. It crossed my mind that if a coach didn’t have a good chin, he might as well go ahead and find another profession.

  “Apologize? For what?” he said, the corners of his mouth turning up in a slight smile.

  “For calling you so late and—”

  “I was up. Watching film,” he said.

  “Well, then … I’m sorry that I interrupted you … while you were working,” I said, thinking that the hour of the call or the interruption of his work wasn’t really the crux of what I was sorry for, but it was hard to say “I’m sorry I drunk-dialed you.”

  “It was fine. You were fine,” he said, now looking full-on amused. You’d think letting me off the hook would have made me feel better, but my anxiety only increased with every incremental absolution.

  He cocked his head to the side and said, “How much had you had to drink, anyway?”

  “Um … I don’t know … Probably a little … too much,” I said.

  “Well. You have to be careful with that stuff,” he said. “You always want to be in control.”

  “Yes,” I said, nodding, trying to remember when I had dropped the sir.

  “So you were with Ryan, huh?”

  “Yes. We went to a charity function. As friends.” I said the last part with emphasis, although I wasn’t sure why.

  “Well, it’s good to have friends,” he said teasingly.

  “Yes. Friends are good. I mean—take us, for instance,” I babbled, my face heating up again. “I’m glad we’re friends. You and me. At least I think we’re friends?”

  “Of course we’re friends,” he said, smirking. “And, as we established … friends are good.”

  “Right,” I said, the tension mounting in my shoulders until I just said it. “And when I said you were my favorite person in the world and all that … I just meant—”

  “I know what you meant.”

  I exhaled. “You do?”

  “Sure. You meant … that I’m your favorite person in the world.” He let out a big laugh, his eyes doing that twinkly thing.

  “Right … I mean I love how you are … as a coach … and role model … and stuff like that.”

  “Right. Role models are like friends. They’re both good.”

  He was definitely mocking me now, and I knew I had to save face and say something of substance. Somehow justify my drunken proclamation.

  “I think you’re great,” I said, sure that my face was now crimson. “I mean everyone thinks you’re great. But I really think you’re great. And that’s all I meant …”

  “I think you’re great, too, Shea,” he said. “You’re a great girl with a big heart and a good head on your shoulders. Don’t waste either, okay?”

  I nodded, my heart and mind racing.

  “And you have to hang in there with Smiley,” he said. “I think he might give this Texas beat to another guy … with more experience … But … I have a feeling another beat is opening up soon … So just be patient, okay?”

  “I will,” I said, feeling a wave of disappointment.

  “One more thing,” he said, giving me a coy smile. “On the subject of our little stiff-armed friend …”

  “Yeah?” I said, knowing that he was referring to the Heisman Trophy.

  “The other night … You didn’t mention John Huarte. No way in hell he should have beaten out Rhome and Butkus.”

  “They were rewarding Coach Parseghian,” I said, conjuring the ’64 season that I had only read about. “For turning around Notre Dame’s program.”

  “But the award shouldn’t have anything to do with coaching,” he said.

  “I disagree,” I said. “The two are inextricably bound.”

  Coach adamantly shook his head. “I could be wrong,” he said. “But I’m not.”

  I smiled at his familiar expression, then stood to go.

  “You’re wrong about Sala
am, too,” he said suddenly. “He was that rare two-thousand-yard rusher. You gotta give it to him.”

  “But Ki-Jana had better stats on fewer carries against Big Ten defenses,” I argued. “And McNair? C’mon. He was the best in the long run.”

  “In the long run? You’re viewing it retrospectively. You can’t do that. The vote happens at the end of the regular season. Even before bowl games. You have to make these decisions on the facts that you have at the time,” Coach Carr said. “I might change some decisions if I had more time to evaluate them.”

  I stared at him, unable to fathom Coach making a bad decision, at least one of any import. I said as much, adding, “Even the media thinks you’re perfect.”

  “Hardly,” he said, then took a breath, as if he was about to say something serious. Instead, he shook his head and simply said, “I’m far from perfect. You know that, girl.”

  I nodded, thinking that might be true, but that he came pretty damn close.

  Over the next few months, I transformed into an assertive version of myself, determined to make headway in both my professional and my personal life, rather than languish in the stifling Texas heat as I typically did every summer.

  When I didn’t hear back from Smiley, I dropped him an email, telling him how very much I hoped to join his staff. And I shamelessly pursued Ryan, who had reported to the Cowboys’ training camp in Oxnard, California. If anything, the long distance made me bolder, our friendly texting banter quickly turning racy. One night, he wrote to tell me that he couldn’t wait to see me again, then detailed everything that was going to happen to me when he did. I typed back that I was more excited about that than the start of the college football season. He shot a smiley face back, saying that those were some mighty big words coming from a girl like me.

  He was sure right about that, as I was nothing short of obsessed with football in that final countdown to August and the official start of practice. In addition to my usual duties at Walker, which included preparing our media guide and fielding interview requests from all over the country, I spent my free time reading anything and everything I could find about the upcoming season. I memorized depth charts, devoured blogs with preseason projections, and scoured message boards with posts from other diehards. The consensus was clear: this was Walker’s year. And that was just on paper. When you took into account the emotional intangible of losing Mrs. Carr, how much the players wanted to win a championship for Coach, there was no getting around the feeling that we were a team of destiny.

  Unfortunately, this also made us the team to beat. The team to come gunning for—in more ways than one, I discovered one day when I saw a strange woman emerge from the office of Ernie Galli, our compliance officer. I said hello, but she only gave me an icy gaze back, as I observed her Aqua Net helmet hair, severe suit, and hard briefcase. In short, everything about her screamed “investigator.”

  I headed straight for my boss’s office, looked J.J. in the eye, and said, “Is the NCAA on our campus?”

  He leaned back in his desk chair and said, “Why? What have you heard?”

  “Nothing,” I said. “But I saw that woman. She’s with the NCAA, isn’t she?”

  J.J. nodded, looking grim.

  “Are we in trouble?” I asked.

  J.J. abandoned his usual punctilious ways and said, “I hope not, but that broad’s definitely out to get us.” He then gave me the scoop—that the NCAA had received reasonably substantial information indicating possible violations and was now conducting a preliminary investigation.

  “Investigating us for what?”

  J.J. shrugged. “You name it … Recruiting allegations, drug allegations, eligibility and academic allegations.”

  “Where did these allegations come from? Someone in Austin, no doubt?”

  “Exactly,” J.J. said. “Apparently the most pressing rumor is that some shady real estate guy in Cincinnati came down to Louisville a few weeks before Signing Day and took Rhodes and his friends out on a five-star bender.”

  “Can a bender be five-star?” I asked.

  “Good point. Maybe not. They went to steak houses and strip clubs. So what’s that? Three and a half stars?”

  I smiled and said, “So? Since when are steaks and strippers against the rules?”

  “Well, I guess that joker went to Walker for a year or two before dropping out. And he held himself out as a damn …” He searched for the right word.

  I offered him a quote from Jerry Maguire, one of my favorite movies. “Ambassador of quan?”

  J.J. laughed and said, “Yeah. And then, according to the NCAA, he showed Reggie the money.”

  “Do you think it’s true?” I asked.

  “I don’t know. But I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the accusations are flying this year,” J.J. said. “When we’re going to be really good.”

  “Exactly.” I nodded. “Have you talked to Coach?”

  J.J. shook his head. “Nope. Far as I know, nobody has discussed it with him yet. Not in depth, anyway.”

  “Good. He has enough on his mind without worrying about this bullshit,” I said, thinking that there was no way that Coach was involved in anything shady.

  Eleven

  On the first weekend of August, right before practice began for the season, Lucy invited my mother and me to Lake LBJ with her, Neil, Caroline, Lawton, and Coach. The Carrs had a beautiful home there, high on a wooded bluff with gorgeous views of the blue-green water. Growing up, Lucy and I had gone there often, spending our summer days sunbathing on their private pier or tooling around in the pontoon boat or reading in the hammock on the screened-in back porch. But I hadn’t gone since Mrs. Carr got sick, and I was a little surprised to get the invite this year, thinking that their family would want to be alone.

  But Lucy insisted that we were family, and then referenced football, making a comment about how she couldn’t speak her father’s language. Twice since her birthday she had asked me to give her the rundown of our roster, especially our recruits, whom she couldn’t seem to keep straight. I had offered to make her flash cards, and she said it wasn’t a bad idea, marveling over how her mother had managed to memorize every player. I wanted to tell her football wasn’t a chore, and it really wasn’t that hard, but she probably felt the same about my inability to keep track of her fashion or foodie parlance.

  In any event, my mother and I drove up Saturday morning, giving the Carrs one night alone. When we arrived, Coach and Lawton were walking up from the water with their fishing poles. Wearing matching khaki shorts, Walker T-shirts, and flip-flops, they looked more like father and son than they usually did, Lawton favoring Connie’s side of the family with his fine bones, narrow face, and blond hair.

  “Hey, girl! Hi, Marie!” Coach said. “Glad you could join us.” He looked relaxed and content, which was the way he usually was up here. He often said it was his favorite place, other than our football stadium, and I remember Connie once saying that it was the only spot on Earth where he managed to spend some waking hours not thinking about football. At least as far as she knew; I had my doubts about that, although it seemed clear he wasn’t troubled by the NCAA investigation, his voice chipper and light.

  My mother and I said hello, and we gave Lawton, whom we hadn’t seen since the spring game, a big hug. Then we all went inside, where Neil was putting the finishing touches on lunch—his trademark tomato pie, along with a Bibb lettuce and radish salad, and strawberry shortcake.

  When we sat down to eat, Coach Carr said a quick prayer, which Lucy told me later was the first time he’d said grace in a long while. “Dear Lord,” he began. “We thank you for our many blessings and this place that Connie so loved. We feel her presence with us today and are so grateful for the many wonderful memories we shared. Lord, please watch over us all and keep us safe in your care. Amen. Go Broncos.”

  When I opened my eyes, Coach Carr looked calm and strong. He glanced around the table and said, “It’s true. I know she’s smiling up there. So happ
y we’re here together. And even happier because …” I held my breath, feeling reverent. “Because she knows that I am going to kick your butts in Trivial Pursuit tonight. Who wants to be on my team?”

  “I do,” I blurted out. We had always played games at the lake—backgammon, chess, euchre, Uno, Pictionary. But Trivial Pursuit had been our favorite for two decades, and Coach Carr was right; he almost always won, regardless of his partner. I was the second best player, though, almost never missing in literature and sports.

  “No way,” Lucy said. “You two can’t be together. It’s not fair. You’re both too good.”

  “That’s what Baylor’s saying about Everclear and Rhodes right about now,” I said, glancing at Coach.

  “Dad-blame right,” he said, then gave me a high-five.

  Later that night, after Lucy had put Caroline to bed, and the wine and beer and Trivial Pursuit game board came out, we drew numbers out of Coach’s baseball cap to select teams. I mentally crossed my fingers, as Lucy and my mother both got threes, Neil and Lawton drew twos, and Coach and I got the ones.

  “Naturally,” Coach said, winking and then whispering loud enough for everyone to hear, “Number one.”

  Lucy rolled her eyes as Coach and I, in unison, claimed the blue wheel, closest to Walker teal.

  “Omigod, you’re the same person! My best friend and father are the same person,” Lucy said, shaking her head.

  Coach took a sip of beer and said, “Shea’s a little prettier than I am.”

  I knew he was kidding but felt myself blush, and I only got more flustered when he switched seats with Lawton to be next to me. I looked down, busying myself with the cards, dividing one box into three stacks. I gave one to Lawton, another to Lucy, and kept the third, then handed Lucy the die and said, “You go first. You need every advantage.”

  “Ha,” Lucy said, as she rolled. After a string of ridiculously easy questions that culminated in the entertainment wedge, my mother and Lucy faltered on “How many colors are there in a rainbow?” (Answer: “More than the eye can see”).