by Emily Giffin
“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.
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.
Twenty-nine
The 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.
