The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  Then Neil and Lawton were stymied on a World War I question about Austria.

  It was our turn, and, right out of the gate, we were kicking butt and taking names, gathering three quick wedges. There was no gloating, though, as we both became laser-focused, just the way Coach is during games, not even smiling when we threw up a total Hail Mary and nailed an answer on the leading world exporter of bananas (Ecuador).

  “Y’all are so smug,” Lawton said, our silence almost pissing them off more.

  “Don’t hate the player,” I said, smirking. “Or the Coach.”

  Coach Carr held up a fist and bumped it against mine.

  “Sickening,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “And good luck getting a pink. You two are clueless when it comes to entertainment.”

  “We’ll see about that,” Coach Carr said, rolling the die and landing on pink. “When in doubt, go with Cyndi Lauper,” he said to me.

  I smiled as Lawton read the question: “Who once warned: ‘Never eat more than you can lift’?” I knew the answer, only because I had gotten it before, years ago, and gave Coach Carr a slight brow raise along with a look that said, Bingo, baby.

  “You’ll never in a million years get this one,” Lawton said, passing the card around to Lucy, then Neil and my mom. They all mugged at the answer, taunting us as Coach and I pretended to brainstorm.

  “Must be a really thin movie star,” I said, musing aloud. “Audrey Hepburn, maybe. Princess Diana … Farrah Fawcett?”

  Coach Carr played along, murmuring, “Then again, maybe it’s a heavier star? Like Nell Carter or Roseanne Barr?”

  “Or maybe … maybe it’s … a chubby puppet. Or even a Muppet! Such as Miss Piggy …” I winked at him.

  “Miss Piggy?” Coach deadpanned as I nodded. “Yes. We’re going Miss Piggy.”

  “You. Dirty. Bastards,” Lawton said, throwing down the card.

  Coach and I clinked our bottles of Shiner Bock, followed by another fist bump. Then we rolled and landed on science. Our next question: “Do porcupines masturbate?”

  Coach and I exchanged a look. “Let’s see … I bet boy porcupines do,” he said.

  I laughed. “Well, I bet the girls do, too.”

  “I bet you’re right,” Coach said, turning to my mom. “Okay. We’re going with yes.”

  “Is that your final answer?” she said, a rookie tactic that we didn’t dignify with a reply.

  My mom shook her head and handed us our green wedge. “Ridiculous.”

  “Ridiculous that porcupines masturbate? Or that we’re about to win this thing,” he said, glancing at his watch, “in under an hour?”

  I rolled the die again, moving to history. “What did the first Spanish dog to be fitted with contact lenses not see the day after the fitting?” Lawton read.

  “The car that killed ’em,” Coach said. “Bam.”

  “Oh. It’s a pity,” I said.

  “What’s that, girl?” Coach said.

  “That we still need the orange to win,” I said, referring to the sports category.

  “Yeah,” Coach said, shaking his head. “That’s going to be really, really difficult for us.”

  I grinned and rolled as we got two more answers, then landed on orange. Coach looked at Lawton and said, “Fire away.”

  Lawton read to himself, then shook his head and said, “Unbelievable.”

  “Read it,” Coach said. “And then weep.”

  “Who won the Heisman Trophy in 1964?”

  Coach gave me a knowing look that made me melt, then said to Lawton, “Wait. Was the question ‘Who won the trophy?’ Or ‘Who should have won the trophy?’ ”

  Coach nudged my leg under the table, and I got a tingly feeling inside.

  “Who won it,” Lawton clarified, obviously not getting our inside joke.

  Coach picked up an orange wedge. “Shea? I’m drawing a blank. Do you know this one?”

  “Hmm. Was it Butkus? … Or maybe Rhome?” I mused aloud. “Or Brian Piccolo? He graduated in ’sixty-four, didn’t he?”

  Coach shrugged and said he couldn’t for the life of him remember what happened that year.

  Lawton looked hopeful until I blurted out, “Actually … I think we’ll go with John Huarte.”

  “Are you sure?” Lawton said, his face falling.

  I nodded. “Yep. Huarte.”

  “That’s your final answer?” my mother chimed in.

  “Yes, Marie. You heard my girl,” Coach said. “Huarte. We’re going with Huarte.”

  “Dammit. She’s right,” Neil said, taking the card from Lawton, then throwing it down.

  “Of course she is,” Lucy said, getting up to refresh her wine.

  “Nothing like a little rout to kick off the season,” Coach said with a wink.

  “Plenty more of those to come,” I said, winking back at him.

  On the morning of our departure I awoke early, just after sunrise, and came downstairs to find Coach alone on the front porch, drinking coffee and staring out at the water. He looked so peaceful and deep in thought that I quietly retreated. But just before I rounded the corner back to the stairwell, he suddenly turned and looked at me through the open front door and said, “Morning, girl.”

  “Good morning, Coach,” I said.

  “You’re up early.”

  “So are you,” I said, shuffling toward him.

  “This is late for me,” he said. “There’s a fresh pot of coffee in the kitchen.”

  “I’m good for now,” I said.

  He nodded and motioned for me to join him, so I walked out onto the wraparound porch and took a seat on the old wooden swing where Lucy and I had logged hours of conversation as little girls, while frequently reprimanded by Mrs. Carr for swinging too high or fast. I slowly rocked back and forth now, gazing at the lake, so still that it looked like a piece of glass, a mirror reflecting sky and trees. Coach and I chatted for a few minutes about how nice it was up here, especially this time of day, before we got back to the only topic on both of our minds. I knew he had to be so sick of the slate of usual questions; he couldn’t go anywhere in public without being bombarded by them. But I threw one out anyway, hoping it would be a little different coming from me.

  “You ready for practice?” I said, studying his profile.

  “Yes,” he said, reaching up to stretch with one arm. “Let’s get the show on the road, you know?”

  I nodded, then asked the predictable follow-up. “How do you think we’ll be? As good as everyone’s saying?”

  “No. Not nearly that good,” he said.

  I smiled, thinking that he always downplayed how good we were while “godding up” the opponent. All coaches did it, preferring to be the underdog. Less pressure that way.

  “We have the talent, but you never know about the chemistry,” he continued. “Good thing is—the older guys really like Reggie. For a kid that talented, he’s very low-key. Not at all flashy.”

  “That is a good thing,” I said.

  “We’ll see … You never know … There might be some rocky roads ahead for us …”

  “What do you mean?” I said, hoping he was just talking about the toughest stretch on our schedule: Florida State and Stanford and Texas. But I had a feeling it had more to do with that helmet-hair lady I’d seen strolling the halls.

  Looking agitated, Coach bolted up in his chair, as if he’d been given a shot of adrenaline. “I hate the NCAA. They’re shameless, self-serving hypocrites … They’re evil.”

  “Evil?” I said, raising my eyebrows. “Isn’t that a little strong? I mean the KKK is evil … The Taliban is evil …”

  “At least the KKK and the Taliban aren’t pretending to do good,” he interjected. He finished his coffee, putting his mug at his feet.

  I looked at him and made myself ask the question. “Coach? Are we really under investigation?”

  He hesitated, then said, “Yep. Sure looks that way.”

  “For what?” I said.

  “For winning,�
�� he said. “Plain and simple. Any program that wins is being investigated in some form or another. It was only a matter of time and our number was up.”

  “So you don’t think they’ll find anything?”

  “Oh, I’m sure they will if they poke around long enough.”

  “Are they … saying anything about you?” I asked, bracing myself.

  He shook his head. “No. Not yet, anyway. Right now it’s just charges about a bunch of little stuff you can’t control. Tutors writing papers. Boosters wining and dining recruits. Professors giving a kid a better grade than he deserved … The NCAA generates all this outrage over petty violations to byzantine bylaws—and uses that to justify what they’re doing.”

  “And what are they doing, exactly?” I asked.

  “Flying on private planes. Taking boondoggles all over the place. Just generally using these kids to make themselves rich. Profiting from the glory of amateur athletics.” He began to speak faster, his voice becoming progressively more bitter. “This entire lofty idea of amateurism is a joke. A smoke screen. A hoax concocted by the NCAA and signed off on by universities so they can exploit young people for their own gain. A kid can’t put scripture or his girlfriend’s name or any personal message in his eyeblack … but they can make him wear corporate logos on his jersey, helmet visor, wristband, pants, shoes … Everyone’s getting rich here. You know the SEC made over a billion dollars in athletic receipts last year? A billion dollars! And the Big Ten is right behind them. Are you kidding me?”

  I stared back at him. I’d obviously heard these arguments before, but never so eloquently. And never from him.

  “You know how much CBS Sports and Turner Broadcasting paid the NCAA for television rights for March Madness this year? Something like eight hundred million dollars. Three quarters of a billion dollars for unpaid labor by student athletes. These kids generate billions for the NCAA and universities and corporations and even us coaches … but they can’t make a dime for themselves? And don’t give me this crap about scholarships.”

  “I wasn’t going to,” I mumbled with a smile, but I don’t think he heard me.

  “Ninety scholarships is a pittance compared to the revenue being generated. How is that fair? How is that right? It’s exploitive … It’s … It’s like colonialism—all these things are done for the quote ‘good of the student athlete’!”

  I nodded, taking it all in, so attracted to his passion on the subject.

  “Or how about this? The NCAA sells DVDs of games … and rights to videogames that relive classic moments in college sports … but the guys who played in those games can’t profit, even after they graduate and are no longer amateurs. Wouldn’t you think that a player’s likeness should belong to him? That if a videogame is made using his face, he should see some of the profits?”

  “Well, yeah,” I said. “Of course.”

  Coach shook his head. “Nope. Not a penny. Remember A. J. Green, the kid from Georgia who sold his jersey from the Independence Bowl so he could go on some spring-break trip with his friends?”

  I nodded.

  “He got a four-game suspension while the University of Georgia continued to sell replicas of his jersey at forty bucks a pop … And look at Ohio State. How do you bring down a coach and penalize a whole program because a couple of kids exchanged some gear for tattoos and a decent man tried to protect them? These are kids! By definition, they make mistakes.”

  “Yeah. That penalty was a little harsh,” I said.

  Coach scoffed. “They ferret out the true cheaters and get some bad guys, but for the most part, they’re on a damn witch hunt.” He leaned forward in his chair, staring at me, on a roll now. “Their enforcement is random and selective—and they violate any notion of due process. Everyone is guilty till proven innocent and there is little to no appeals process. They’re despots with absolute power, and we all know what happens with absolute power.”

  I looked at him, thinking that he had absolute power at Walker and had never abused it. Never used it for personal gain or anything other than the good of his players and the program. Yet as he stood to go refill his coffee, I had the tiniest tug of doubt that things might not be quite as cut-and-dried as I wanted them to be.

  Twelve

  Forty-eight hours after our return from the lake, my favorite day of the year had finally arrived: the first day of practice and the official start to the college football season. Like everyone at Walker, I was charged up and more hopeful than ever. But, somehow, I didn’t feel quite the way I expected to feel.

  I told myself it was just a simple case of preseason jitters—always worse when big things were expected of us. Or perhaps I was worried about the investigation. Internal rumors had begun to circulate, and I couldn’t stand the thought that the NCAA could unfairly rain on our parade.

  Then again, maybe it was something else, something bigger. Maybe it was the same concerns that I’d been experiencing since Mrs. Carr passed away. The feeling that I wasn’t on the right path. That, despite all my efforts to kick-start a new career and relationship, I was still in the same exact spot. Hanging out at practice or holed up in my little office, fielding endless phone calls from real reporters.

  One day after practice, I stopped by Lucy’s store, something I often did, whether to shop, or help unpack inventory, or simply say hello. She looked happy to see me, stepping out from behind the counter to give me a hug. “Hey! What’s up? You need to do a little back-to-practice shopping?”

  I laughed and said, “Yeah, right. I didn’t know you carried Walker gear now.”

  Lucy smiled and said, “I do have some things on hold for you in the back. Some transitional pieces between summer and fall.”

  “Great. Ryan’s coming back tomorrow,” I said, feeling a tinge of excitement. “I’d love to get some new things.”

  Lucy gave me a funny look and then returned to her counter, where she pulled out a tabloid magazine from a shelf under the register. “Did you see this?”

  I stared down at the page to see a blurry paparazzo picture of Ryan and Blakeslee, sitting together at an outdoor café. The caption speculated that the two might be reconciling, but I was happy to note that the scene looked anything but romantic. Blakeslee appeared miffed, her arms crossed, and Ryan was staring down at his phone. There was only a bottle of Perrier, with two glasses, on the table between them.

  I felt Lucy staring at me, trying to gauge my reaction while I slowly processed it myself. Was I angry? Jealous? Sad?

  “Maybe he was texting you at that very moment?” Lucy said hopefully, peering down at his cellphone as if she could make out what was on the screen.

  I had been wondering the same thing and asked if we knew when the photo was taken.

  “It doesn’t say … Do you think they could really be getting back together?” she said, worried.

  I shrugged, still staring at the magazine. Blakeslee was wearing heavy gladiator sandals, the kind that most women can’t begin to pull off, short shorts, and a chic Bohemian blouse. She was tiny and tan and pretty much everything I wasn’t. “They could be,” I said. “I really don’t know.”

  “Jesus. What’s with people in your life divorcing and then getting back together?” Lucy said, referring, of course, to my dad and Astrid.

  “I’d hardly put them in the same category,” I said, thinking that you couldn’t compare Ryan and Blakeslee’s reunion over sparkling water to my dad’s decision to leave me for his firstborn and clearly favorite daughter.

  “I guess not,” Lucy said, shaking her head. “But this is really irritating. He didn’t tell you he was seeing her?”

  I shook my head.

  Lucy put the magazine down and walked over to a sale table covered with Splendid tank tops, all in bright summer hues that reminded me of sherbet. I followed her, helping her rearrange the piles, separating cool tones from warm.

  “Well. I guess we shouldn’t assume the worst,” she said.

  “I know,” I said, as a young moth
er walked into the shop with her baby, maneuvering a stroller around a display of J Brand jeans. Lucy warmly greeted her, then offered her assistance. The woman declined any help, then proceeded to inspect every pair of jeans, searching for differences among a pile of size 28s, ruining the neat pile. It was one of Lucy’s pet peeves—really anyone’s pet peeve who has ever worked retail and has spent her day refolding clothing.

  “Do you have plans to see him?” Lucy asked.

  “Not yet. But maybe we should go ahead and try on those clothes now,” I said as brightly as I could. “Just in case.”

  Lucy smiled at me, looking as proud as she had when Caroline took her first few steps. “Atta girl,” she said.

  As it turned out, I saw Ryan the very first night he was back in town, at his request. We discussed going out, but I knew he’d be tired, so I asked if he wanted to just come over to my place. He said that would be perfect as I gave myself a pep talk. Don’t be embarrassed by your apartment. Don’t play the underdog. Be confident. Seize the day. Don’t think, or talk about, or, God forbid, get a buzz and call Coach.

  By the time Ryan knocked on the door, I was ready, answering it and beaming up at him. He was even more gorgeous than I remembered, his skin tanned to a golden hue, his blue T-shirt hugging the muscles of his shoulders and arms.

  “Hi, Ryan,” I said, excited, maybe even closer to thrilled.

  “Hey, you,” he said, bending down to give me a long kiss, pausing only to whisper in my ear. “It’s so good to see you.”

  I felt goose bumps on my arms as I pulled away and looked in his eyes. “It’s so good to see you, too,” I said, deciding that I was not going to ruin the night by asking about Blakeslee. Instead, I led him over to my sofa, where we made out for a long time under the only luxurious thing in my living room, a cashmere throw that my father and Astrid had given me for Christmas last year. It was so soft that Ryan actually commented on it, murmuring, “I’d like to be under this thing naked with you.”

  I gave him a coy smile, then, before I lost the nerve, took off my shirt and slid out of my jeans. “I want you,” I said between urgent, deep kisses.