The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  “Look, Shea. If even one percent of me—even half a percent—believed that Ryan had hurt that girl, I would have reported it … And I sure as hell wouldn’t have let you go out with him. Think about it.”

  “I am thinking about it,” I said, staring at him, my arms crossed.

  “And?” he said, raising his voice.

  I took a deep breath, now on the verge of tears that I managed to blink back. “From the time I was a little girl, watching that SMU death penalty press conference, I really thought you were different. I thought you were one of the good guys. Unlike the other coaches. Unlike my own father. You were one of the few who would never cheat. One of the few who didn’t believe that winning was … everything. The only thing,” I said, quoting Vince Lombardi, his hero.

  Coach shook his head and said, “Wow. And you think making love would have fixed this?” He motioned in the space between us, our huddle of two.

  “Just tell me,” I said.

  “Tell you what? What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know … is winning everything to you?”

  “Do you think it is, Shea? Is that what you think?”

  “Did you choose not to report the incident because of the Cotton Bowl? What if the season had been over? Or what if Ryan had been a redshirt? Or a benchwarmer? Would you have handled it differently? Would you have taken her more seriously?”

  “I chose not to report the incident because I didn’t believe that girl,” he said, now shouting and pointing back at me. “Listen, Shea. I am the head coach of a major football program—”

  “Which means you have a responsibility—” I jumped in, my voice as loud as his.

  “Yes! A responsibility to ninety guys. If I had sat Ryan, I would have penalized eighty-nine other guys who had worked their asses off all year, some of them for four years. I would have penalized their families and friends. I would have punished my coaching staff and every Walker student and alum. Every man, woman, and child who gives to this program. Gives their blood, sweat, tears, dollars, time, hearts. I could have ruined Ryan’s football career. Changed his entire future.”

  “But if he raped her—”

  “And what if he didn’t! Can you really picture him doing that, Shea?”

  I hesitated and then shook my head. “No. I can’t imagine him doing such a thing,” I said quietly. “But I still would have reported it … Just to be on the safe side.”

  “Well, good for you, Shea. Good for making that decision with fifteen years of hindsight and a whole lot more information than I had. Thank you for that classic bit of Monday morning quarterbacking. Just like those idiots who call in to my show.”

  “This is different from questioning a play in a game …”

  “I know that, Shea. And I also know that I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I don’t believe he raped her, but now … I do believe he did something to her … And I know I should have done more for her … And I’m manning up and admitting that to you. I would change it if I could. But I can’t.”

  “What about trying to fix what happened?” I said.

  “How?”

  “By apologizing to Tish?”

  “I’ve already done that. Would you like to read the letter? It’s back there on my desk. Go read it! Go on! Then tell me what else I should do. Turn myself in? Penalize my current team, which had nothing to do with this? Bring down the program, fifteen years later? Is that what you want? If that’s what you want—go ahead and do it yourself. You’re a reporter. Write the story. Write the damn story, Shea. Include what Ryan did to you. Write all of it! I’ll give you a hell of a quote!”

  I stared at him, speechless, more confused than ever.

  Coach finally spoke. “I’m not perfect, Shea. I never claimed to be perfect. The media did that. The media loves a black and white story … But guess what? It’s never black and white. Never. I’m not the saint they made me out to be. And I’m not the demon they’d love to portray if they knew … this.”

  “This what?” I said, because he was gesturing between us again.

  “Well, for starters, if they knew that I’m involved with a girl I practically raised. My daughter’s best friend. A reporter on my beat covering an NCAA probe into my program …”

  “I’m going to resign,” I said. Although this was the first moment that such a thought had occurred to me, I was suddenly sure of the decision.

  “You’re doing no such thing,” he said. “Because that’s the least of it … That’s a nothing little sidebar compared to this Paterno story we have going here. Forget the dubious rape allegation. There’s still an assault and battery charge that I swept under the carpet on the eve of the Cotton Bowl.”

  “This is nothing like Paterno and Penn State,” I said.

  “They’ll say that it is.”

  “It’s not true.”

  “The truth doesn’t matter.”

  “You don’t believe that. Of course it matters.”

  “Well, then, you listen here, Shea. You listen good. Because I’d stake my life on what I’m about to tell you … That decision I made in my office fifteen years ago? … It was wrong … But it had nothing to do with winning a football game. It has never been about winning a football game.”

  “What’s it about?” I said, my voice cracking.

  “It’s about loyalty. It’s about commitment to the people you love. Your wife. Your family. Your friends. Your team. It’s about giving it your all and doing the very best you can with what you have, in every moment you’re in. And that’s what I did that night in my office. That’s what I do on the football field. And that’s what I’m doing right now as I defend myself to the woman I love.”

  “You love me?” I said, my heart pounding in my ears.

  “Yes, I love you. I’m madly in love with you. I want you more than anything. And a whole hell of a lot more than winning a football game. Even a national championship.”

  “I believe you,” I finally whispered, my knees weak. “I believe in you.”

  “Well, that’s a start,” he said. “That’s a really good start.”

  Forty

  The following morning, my mother called and demanded that I come over, right away, complaining of chest pains. So I raced to her house, finding her in her bathroom, wearing one of her many silk robes while putting on individual false eyelashes that she wore nearly every day, no special occasion needed.

  “How could you do this?” she shouted when I walked in, spinning away from the counter to face me. I hoped that she was referring to my breakup with Ryan, which I had informed her of via email, but had the feeling that Lucy had spoken to her about last night.

  “How could I do what?” I said, cursing myself for believing her wolf crying.

  “Clive,” she said, shaking her head.

  “So you don’t have chest pains?”

  “I have severe heartache, that’s what I have. I honestly thought I raised you better than this.”

  “Oh, please, Mom,” I said, steeling myself for the onslaught to come. “Stop overreacting. You don’t even know the facts here.”

  “Don’t play dumb with me, missy! Lucy called me. I know the whole story!” she said.

  “What’s the ‘whole story’?” I said, making air quotes.

  “That you and Clive have a … thing.”

  “A thing. Right,” I said, determined not to discuss anything with my mother. This might be Lucy’s business, but it wasn’t hers.

  “Lucy’s your best friend, Shea. She’s like your sister,” my mom said, using tweezers to pluck another lash out of the white plastic packet. It occurred to me that everything about her was contrived, one big stage direction after another, her anger quieting to a dead calm when she needed to get a lash in place. “This is just wrong. Completely and totally wrong!”

  “You’re just jealous,” I mumbled—because part of me believed there was some truth to that. If someone was going to do a little widower rescuing, it should have been her. And talk
about the ultimate in copycatting; if she had Clive, she could really be Connie.

  “It is so wrong!”

  “How is it wrong, Mom? Tell me how love can be wrong?”

  I knew I sounded like a naïve, love-struck teenager, but it occurred to me that sometimes naïve, love-struck teenagers have it all figured it out, and their small-minded, judgmental mothers have it all wrong. Especially the kind who continue to apply false lashes during a supposed crisis.

  “It’s just … wrong,” she said again. “Clive is like family to us. And Connie was my best friend. It is such a betrayal.”

  “It’s not a betrayal, Mom. Because Connie died.” I kept my voice and expression soft to mitigate the harshness of the words. It was the truth, though. Connie was gone; therefore I wasn’t taking her husband from her. In fact, I deep-down believed that she would approve of us, maybe even root for us.

  “Do you know how that sounds?” my mother said, looking stricken.

  “Mom. C’mon. I just meant that this never would have happened if Connie hadn’t died. That’s all.”

  “Well, I’m still here. And so is Lucy. And Neil. And Lawton. And Caroline. And it’s not fair to any of us what you two are doing.”

  “Caroline?” I said, crossing my arms. “Really? And what about the fetus? Is it unfair to the fetus, too?”

  “What fetus?”

  “Lucy’s pregnant,” I said. “She called to tattle on me, but left out that bit of news?”

  “Well, that should show you how hurt she is. And FYI, Shea, pregnant women are emotional … fragile … You simply can’t do this to her while she’s pregnant.” She paused, then got herself all riled up again, spinning to face me and point at me some more. “You can’t do this at all! Put yourself in her shoes. What if she were dating your father?”

  “I’d tell her she deserves better.”

  My mother was temporarily distracted from her mission by the satisfaction that came with any small paternal diss. “Amen to that.” She turned back to the mirror, then said, “He has a very small penis, you know. Your father.”

  “Mom.”

  “Well, he does.”

  “Great. So I’d tell Luce that she deserves better—and a bigger penis … But if Dad and his tiny penis made her happy, I’d say go for it. I’d get over it.”

  “I didn’t say tiny. I said very small … And the point is, I don’t think Lucy can get over it. It’s just … too much.”

  “She told you that? She told you that she couldn’t get over it?”

  “Yes. She told me that she could never accept this and that you had a choice to make.”

  “A choice? You mean, like an ultimatum?” I said.

  “Yes. A choice. And it’s simple. You can date Clive,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Or you can remain her friend. One or the other. Not both.” She raised her hands in the air, as if surrendering, and said, “Hey. Don’t shoot the messenger.”

  “Mom, that expression only works when you’re merely delivering a message—not taking sides.”

  “I’m not on her side. I’m on the side of right. This isn’t right. It can’t work. You’d be Lucy’s stepmother! Your children would be Lucy’s half siblings!”

  “Who said anything about having children? I don’t think I even know if I want children,” I said.

  “Don’t be silly. Of course you want children,” she said. “If you can’t think of Lucy, think of yourself. Your own future.”

  “Mom. I’ve been telling you virtually my whole life. I don’t want the same things you want. I’m not you. Do you ever listen to me?” Then I hit her where it really hurt. “Dad understands,” I said.

  “You told him about this? When?”

  “When he was down here. The day after Thanksgiving.”

  “Oh, that’s rich. And I’m sure he supported you one hundred percent, didn’t he? I can just hear him. ‘Do whatever makes you happy—no matter how much it hurts anyone else!’ Like father, like daughter, I guess.”

  I felt slapped, stung by the comparison, but found myself wondering if it wasn’t altogether unfair. Maybe my father and I were alike. Or maybe my mother was just a huge hypocrite. After all, hadn’t she stolen my dad from Astrid and Bronwyn to begin with, rationalizing that it was over between them anyway? That she had nothing to do with their breakup? In the end, didn’t everyone in the world at some point delude themselves in their own insular narrative?

  “Well,” I said. “At least Dad owns up to his mistakes … At least he sees clearly the choices he’s made while you’re still blaming him for what’s wrong with your life. All these years later. Still stuck in the mid-eighties with your wounded damsel routine.”

  She stared at me, her lips pursed, like an old Hollywood actress, probably a look she’d cultivated from watching too many TCM movies. “You have a lot of nerve, Shea,” she said when she finally spoke. Her voice was flat, sad, and devoid of any melodrama. “Your best friend lost her mother. And you go after her father before the one-year anniversary of her death?”

  “I didn’t go after him. It wasn’t like that,” I said, staring at my feet, thinking of Coach and Ryan and Tish.

  “It’s disloyal, Shea. That’s the bottom line. Even if you’re madly in love with the man, it’s still disloyal to Lucy. Especially after everything she and Connie did for you over the years. They gave you a happy childhood.” Her voice cracked. “Do you realize that? Do you realize how much we both owe them?”

  I didn’t answer her question, just turned and walked out the door, a pit in my stomach. Because I knew she was right about that much. And because, of all the things in the world she could have said to me, calling me disloyal hurt the most.

  When I got to work about an hour later, I bypassed my cubicle and headed straight to Smiley’s office. “Do you have a minute?” I asked him, popping my head in his half-opened door.

  “I have exactly six,” he said, glancing at his watch. “Unless you start to bore me. Then it’s three.”

  “Okay,” I said, thinking that my future, at least the professional part of it, was going to be decided in the next three to six minutes.

  I walked the whole way into his office and closed the door, but didn’t take a seat. “I don’t think I can work here anymore. At least not on this beat,” I said, forcing the words out before I changed my mind.

  “What?” Smiley said. “Is this a joke? Are you going to ESPN?”

  “No. I just can’t be objective,” I said, relieved to make the confession. I wasn’t sure if I could sacrifice my best friend for love, but my job was another story. “I can’t be objective about this investigation. Which I think is a total bullshit fishing expedition, by the way. I can’t be objective about Walker football. And I definitely can’t be objective about Coach Carr.”

  Smiley dropped his forehead to his palm, closed his eyes with exasperation, then, after taking a few seconds to gather himself, said, “Because you attended the university?”

  “Yes, sir. Because I went there. But also because I’m … sort of having a … relationship with Coach Carr.”

  “A relationship?” He spit out the word, his face changing color.

  “Yes, sir. I mean … sort of, yes.”

  “Oh, hell, Rigsby. Don’t sir me now. You’re dating someone my age.”

  I resisted the urge to tell him he was much older than Coach and instead said, “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”

  “Sooner?” he barked at me. “How long has this been going on?”

  “Not very long.”

  Smiley stared at me, then mumbled something that sounded like Well, fuck me drunk in the middle of a snowstorm.

  “I’m sorry. You took a chance on me and have been fair and good to me and you didn’t deserve this. I told you I could be objective, and I can’t. Because I really want my team to win. And that’s how I will always think of them. As my team. And I hate the NCAA for tainting this season. Or trying to. And I would do anything in my power to protect our program be
cause I believe it to be a really good, decent program led by a really good, decent man. So … how many minutes do we have left?”

  “Just enough for me to fire your ass.”

  “That’s what I thought,” I said, turning toward the door. “I’ll clean out my desk.”

  Smiley shook his head and said, “Wait. Not so fast. I have something to say to you. In response to your lofty confession.”

  I raised my eyebrows, waiting.

  “There is no such thing as an objective sportswriter. Anyone in this business loves the game and was a fan first. And whether you’re covering a team you love or a team you hate or a team you’re indifferent to, you always have a bias because that team’s performance always has an impact on your team, at least indirectly. And even when you watch a game that doesn’t matter to you whatsoever, because there are zero implications for your team, you still care!” He slammed his open hand onto the desk, and I winced, both from the noise and because it had to hurt. “You may say you don’t care, but within seconds, you do care. You go with the underdog. Or the old quarterback making a comeback. Or the young point guard who got over a torn ACL. Or the coach whose wife just died of cancer! You somehow find yourself caring even when you don’t give a bloody damn!”

  Smiley was shouting now, and, as I glanced away, I caught Gordon and a half dozen colleagues staring at us through the glass wall.

  Then, calming down a little, he said, “Bottom line, every contest matters—and it should. Somebody is going to win and somebody is going to lose and that matters to the people playing the game so it should matter to us. It matters. Didn’t you tell me this very thing when I first met you back at Bob’s? That a good reporter will make you care about a random Russian Olympian?”

  I stared at him, now thoroughly confused. “Are you saying that nobody can really be deep-down objective?”

  “Yes. That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

  “And that’s okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “So I can keep my job?”