by Emily Giffin
“You still look like you’re going to throw up,” Lucy says to me.
“That’s because I might,” I say, as I wave to a group of former Walker colleagues sitting one section over, many of whom I chatted with last night at the hotel lobby bar. They’d all heard about me getting fired, of course, and assumed that it was because I wouldn’t write negative things about our program and the ongoing investigation.
Do you think the rumors are true? I was asked repeatedly. Was an official notice of inquiry coming? Would we ultimately be slapped with sanctions?
I said I didn’t know, that it often took years for these things to be resolved. I am still clinging to the hope that we’ll ultimately be cleared, at least of the big charges, and that Coach will be vindicated. I no longer hold him to mythic standards, and instead see him as a flawed man and a fallible leader. But, in an unexpected way, this only makes my faith and trust in him stronger.
“Tell Shea we’re going to win,” Lucy instructs my mother now, as if any of our predictions actually matter.
“We’re going to win!” my mother says, clapping along with our cheerleaders. She, too, has blithely ignored everything that happened before Christmas, not once mentioning Coach despite ample opportunity in our shared hotel room. The implication is that she is doing me a favor, instead of the other way around, which only intensifies my bitterness.
Miller informs us all that even Vegas has changed its mind, the line moving to one point in our favor after two injuries hit the Crimson Tide. You never want anyone to get seriously hurt, but well-timed minor injuries are another story, and I’m not-so-secretly grateful for the sprained wrist and hip contusion within the Alabama ranks. I’m even more grateful that I’m not up in the press box right now, pretending that this is just another day at the office.
“Did you bet on the game?” my mom asks Miller.
With a mouthful of hot dog, Miller says, “Hell, yeah, I bet on the game. Five hundred bucks. Easy money!”
My mother says, “Is it too late for me?”
“Nope.” Miller pulls his phone out of his pocket and says, “I can call my guy!”
I can’t keep myself from shouting, “Enough! Both of you! Would you please shut up?”
“Jeezy-peasy, sorry!” my mom says. “Forgot who we’re dealing with. Miss Doom and Gloom.”
I roll my eyes and stare straight ahead, bracing myself for a painful few hours of college football. And that’s if the game goes well.
But the first half goes anything but well. We come out flat and totally unprepared for Alabama’s physical play, quickly trailing by ten. Obviously it’s not an insurmountable deficit, but a hard gap to close against a team as good as Bama. While my mother and Lucy resort to Walker chants and cheers, and Miller and Lawton opt for cursing a blue streak at the refs, I pray and barter and promise, appealing to the football gods—and even God Himself. If we can pull off a comeback, I will settle for a dozen utterly forgettable, lackluster seasons. I’ll even take a few losing seasons, including humiliating losses to the Longhorns. I will never text Coach again. I will take a job in New York, leave Texas, and never look back.
None of our strategies work, and as the sun begins to set over the hills of Pasadena, we head to the locker room down 23–7. Halftime is unbearable with the endless chants of Roll, Tide, Roll, giddy performances by both marching bands, and more optimistic banter among my mom, Lucy, Lawton, and Miller. Meanwhile, I try to stay calm and put all my faith in Coach. I remind myself that he does his best work on the ropes, and is back there now, regrouping, reconfiguring, and reinvigorating our troops. Telling them that it’s now or never.
And then the second and final half of the college football season begins under a vibrant teal sky that I can’t resist pointing out to Lucy. “I know!” she says, staring up at it, her hand over her heart and the gold pin we are all wearing in memory of her mother. “I was just thinking the same thing. It’s amazing … I’ve never seen a sky like this before.”
One beat later, we nail a thirty-one-yard pass to the Bama forty-nine-yard line.
“Yeah! Fuck, yeah! That’s more like it!” Miller yells, pumping his fist in the air, then high-fiving Lawton.
I clap for the first time all night, as we go deep once again, covering another twenty-five yards to our backup wide receiver. Coach definitely has the Tide off balance with his hurry-up offense, and I watch with satisfaction as they begin shuffling personnel to try to contain the sudden explosion. On the next play, they focus on our deep threat, but we mix things up, rushing to the line and calling an audible before Everclear takes the ball sixteen yards on a bootleg.
I turn and shout, “Your dad’s a friggin’ genius!” at Lucy and Lawton.
On second down, Everclear fakes to Rhodes and connects with our tight end in the back of the end zone. There it is. Touchdown! In one minute and twelve seconds of flawless execution, we are back in the hunt. As Mike Green, our kicker, nails the extra point, I crack a small smile and high-five Miller.
On the ensuing possession, we load the box and blitz, looking much more confident on defense, too. Alabama is still able to convert a couple first downs, but the drive proves ultimately unfruitful as they punt from midfield, pinning us deep in our own territory. Coach plays it more conservatively from there, and the remainder of the third quarter becomes a battle for field position with an exchange of field goals.
“All right! All right, boys!” Miller shouts as we begin the fourth quarter with the ball on our twelve. “We’ll take it!”
I stare at the scoreboard, even though I have the 26–17 score emblazoned in my mind, telling myself it is entirely possible to erase a nine-point deficit in the final quarter of play. Over the next six and half minutes, we capitalize on a fatigued Bama defense by relentlessly attacking the line of scrimmage, only to be stopped short on the five-yard line. But Green nails another field goal, closing the gap to six with eight minutes and change remaining.
Alabama does us no favors on their next series, grinding out yards and ticking off seconds in a sustained drive that forces us to burn two time-outs. We manage to shut them down on a fourth and long, but by now they are on our fifteen, in easy field goal range for any kicker, let alone one who has been perfect on the night.
I drop my head to my hands, a gesture that alarms Lucy. “What?” she demands, jabbing me in the back. “Why are you doing that?”
I break it down for her. “They’re going to make this kick. Then we’ll be down nine—which is a two-possession game. And we only have one time-out left.”
“Which means?” Lucy asks.
“Which means we don’t have fucking time to win,” Miller says, finally exasperated with her, too.
“But he has to make the field goal first, right?” she asks.
“He hasn’t missed yet,” Lawton says, as the players line up on the field.
I drop my face to my hands again, unable to watch the inevitable, but a few seconds later, Miller grabs my arm and starts yelling, “He hooked it! He hooked it! He fuckin’ hooked it!”
I look up to see the Walker offense taking the field. “He missed it?” I say, with a shocked sputter of laughter.
“He fuckin’ missed it!” Miller crows.
“Choke city!” Lawton chimes in.
“Now can we win?” Lucy yells over the din. She definitely has a mental block when it comes to basic football math.
“Now we have a shot!” I tell her, then break it down for her, explaining that all we have to do is cover eighty-five yards in one hundred and ninety seconds. It is plenty of time; it is almost too much time, because the last thing we want is for Alabama to have the final possession.
I turn my gaze back to the field as Coach begins to drain the clock with running plays and short passes, working his way to midfield while using up a minute and forty seconds. After that, we break into our two-minute offense, starting with a very long pass that Rhodes can’t quite reach. Incompletion. On second down, Coach goes deep again, b
ut this time it works, putting us on the Alabama thirty-two.
Miller and I stare at each other, wide-eyed, as the chains are moved and Everclear rushes the team to the line. I hold my breath as he goes with a surprise draw play for a gain of eight. The clock is still ticking, and my heart is in my throat, as he snaps the ball, keeps it, and picks up three more yards for another first down.
The next few plays are a blur that I can only watch in replay on the jumbo screen. Everclear throws it away to avoid a sack … A completion to the eighteen … First down at the ten … A loss of two with the clock still running … A mad scramble for a miracle gain of seven, safely out of bounds at the five, with four seconds left on the clock.
Suddenly, it all comes down to this. Our dream season—the whole awful, amazing year—whittled down to four measly seconds. We are one play and five yards away from a national championship.
Then, something bizarre happens inside of me. Something I never expected to feel, not in a thousand Walker games. A quiet sense of perspective washes over me. I know that whatever euphoric or devastating result follows will be indelibly inscribed, replayed in perpetuity in the hearts and minds of every Walker-loving man, woman, and child. But I also realize that it doesn’t really matter what happens on this last snap. I still want to win, madly and deeply, but it’s not the most I’ve ever wanted anything. Not even close.
The next four seconds unfold in slow motion. Everclear rolls out … dodges a defender … aims and fires, off balance … the ball spirals high into the end zone … Rhodes leaps with outstretched arms … so does an Alabama safety … the ball is tipped, disappearing into a heap of teal and red jerseys … A collective hush falls over the stadium as men are peeled off the pile, one by one, until the last remains. It is Rhodes, clutching the ball, then holding it up with an outstretched hand as the ref raises his arms high over his head, signaling a touchdown. One beat later, the kick is good, and Walker wins. Walker wins! Oh my God, Walker wins!
The stadium erupts with fans shouting and hugging and dancing and crying and snapping photos all around me. But I hold perfectly still, in utter disbelief, doing my best to memorize the moment, keeping my eyes fixed on just one man down on the field, tracing his every move, as he’s embraced by his players, then doused with the customary cooler of Gatorade.
More pandemonium ensues, the stadium filling with teal streamers and confetti and the light from thousands of flashes as Miller never stops shouting in my ear, his voice hoarse and crazed. Something finally breaks my trance, and I start to hug Lucy, but she is hugging Lawton, so I settle for Miller, who reciprocates with a wet kiss on my mouth. I give him a startled look, and he retorts, “Don’t worry. I’m going to kiss your mother like that, too!” Then he does. I laugh as Lawton jumps onto Miller’s back, toppling both my mother and me. Then Lucy piles on top of us as if re-creating the final play of the game, shouting how much she loves me.
“I love you, too,” I say, laughing and crying at once, then struggling to get up so I can watch Coach some more. Seconds later, J.J. appears, out of breath, with VIP all-access passes, telling Lucy and Lawton to come with him. They need to get down to the field for the trophy ceremony.
“Not without Shea,” Lucy says.
“Well, come on then! All three of you!” he yells.
I shake my head in protest, but I can tell right away that I have no choice in the matter. So I allow myself to be whisked down the rows of metal stands, hugging friends, acquaintances, and strangers along the way. Right as I’m about to step onto the field, I see a little boy, about ten years old, sobbing, the red A’s painted onto his cheeks now streaked by tears. I pause, kneel, and tell him that it’s going to be okay.
“You’ll get us next year,” I say.
He is inconsolable, but, in a strange way, I am happy for him. One day, the memory of this night will return to him, making the taste of victory all the sweeter.
We keep walking, in circles, until we find Coach. He is drenched from sweat and Gatorade, but I can tell that he’s also been crying, the whites of his eyes pink. I watch him hug Lucy and hear him say, “This is for her, Luce.”
“I know, Daddy,” she says, now sobbing. “She’d be so proud of you. I’m so proud of you.”
Then it’s Lawton’s turn, and he starts crying like a baby, too, and I can’t help remembering his face at his mother’s funeral. “I wish she were here,” he tells his only parent. “So much.”
“She is here,” Coach says, comforting his son, as I realize how much true grief can resemble pure joy.
I start to tremble, just as I feel Lucy’s hand on my back. She is pushing me toward her father, right into his arms. I give her a confused look, thinking surely she doesn’t mean for me to hug him, but she nods and says, “I was wrong, Shea. Go to him. You belong with him.”
I stare at her, processing what she’s told me, realizing that I’ve never heard her say those words before: I was wrong.
“Go,” she says, smiling through tears, pushing me again.
So I step forward. Coach grins at me.
“Congratulations!” I shout over the mayhem. Then I close my eyes and collapse against his broad chest, feeling his heart beat through his wet shirt, inhaling his salty skin. “You did it, Coach,” I say, more quietly, directly into his ear.
“Yes, we did it, girl,” he whispers back, squeezing me tighter. “We finally did it.”
I pull back and look into his eyes, and can tell that Lucy has talked to him. That he knew before the game what she has only just said to me. I was wrong.
Then, confirming my wishful thinking, he leans in and brushes his lips against mine. It is the quickest kiss ever, but very much a real kiss, right there in front of Lucy and the entire world. It is the sweetest moment of my life, yet I know there will be even better ones to come. And soon.
“I gotta go,” he says, beaming at me. “But I’ll see you later tonight, okay?”
Light-headed with elation, I smile and nod, then watch as he slips back into a mob of teal. For a moment, he is gone, but he soon reappears, hoisted high on the shoulders of a lucky few players, representatives of everyone who has ever put on a Walker jersey, Miller and Ryan among them. I stare up at Coach, against the backdrop of a black-velvet sky filled with a million stars, a planetarium above the most famous stadium in college football, and marvel that we can be this happy from winning a game.
Then again, I know it’s not the win itself, but everything that went into the victory. The effort. The passion. The faith. The things that Coach Clive Carr has taught me to believe in. The things that endure in defeat, and even death. The things that make football like life—and life like a game of football.
For my uncle, Doug Elgin,
who inspired my love of college sports …
and taught me that it’s more than just a game
Acknowledgments
This is my seventh novel—and every one has begun the same way: with an unformed idea followed by exhaustive discussion with my mother, sister, and best friend. Thank you, Mary Ann Elgin, Sarah Giffin, and Nancy LeCroy Mohler, for all of your support with this one, from beginning to end.
I am so grateful to Stephen Lee, the most loyal publicist in the world. I can’t imagine this publishing journey without your friendship. Thanks, too, for the never-ending supply of peanut M&M’s.
To my editor, Jennifer Hershey: thank you for believing in me and elevating this story the way you did. Your notes nearly killed me, but you were right, and I’m so glad I trusted you.
Many thanks to my entire A-plus team at Random House, including Gina Centrello, Libby McGuire, Kim Hovey, Theresa Zoro, Susan Corcoran, Jennifer Garza, Sanyu Dillon, Debbie Aroff, Melissa Milsten, Cynthia Lasky, Scott Shannon, Loren Noveck, Susan Brown, Kate Childs, Joey McGarvey, Matt Schwartz, and Paolo Pepe.
Deep appreciation to my brilliant agent, Theresa Park, for the unwavering guidance, wisdom, and thoughtfulness—and to everyone at Park Literary, especially Emily Sweet, Abby Koons,
and Pete Knapp. Thank you to Mollie Smith for being the consummate behind-the-scenes pro, and Rich Green for all your work to bring my stories to the big screen.
A few words to my friends at St. Martin’s Press, especially Jennifer Enderlin, John Murphy, and the late, great Matthew Shear: you remain in my heart, and I will forever be thankful for our decade and six books together.
I’m enormously grateful to three college coaches who are also among my dearest friends: Dave Odom, Jim Boeheim, and Billy Schmidt. I have loved your passionate, colorful, quirky world since I was a little girl, and although I changed basketball to football for this story, much of the dynamic is the same. Thank you for your generous insight into Coach Clive Carr. He had some big shoes to fill (but Coach O: he still walks around barefoot in his house).
Thank you to Jennifer New, Allyson Wenig Jacoutot, Doug Elgin, Lisa Ponder, Kate McDavid, Julie Portera, Jim Konrad, Kevin Garnett, Ralph Sampson, McGraw Milhaven, J.R. Moehringer, Michelle Fuller, Cameron Sherrill, Vahe Gregorian, and Bill and Kristina Giffin, for fielding various queries about this book or its cover.
Thanks also to Coach June Jones, Brad Sutton, and Herman Hudson for allowing me to soak up the atmosphere at SMU’s spring practice. (Go Ponies!)
On the home front, I am indebted to Kate Hardie and Martha Arias for their daily support and kindness—and to Jeff MacFarland for keeping me physically and mentally strong enough to meet every deadline along the way.
To all other family and friends: while you may not have contributed in tangible ways to this novel, I thank you for your love, moral support, and uplifting emojis.
And, finally, I thank Buddy Blaha for wearing so many hats, including football consultant, proofreader, short-order cook, workout partner, car-pool driver, homework checker, Little League coach, chicken caretaker, friend, husband, and father to our three beautiful children.
