by Emily Giffin
I nodded. But for now, in this moment, I felt certain of our destiny. Positive that God was up there, picking favorites.
Coach caught a cricket the following week, too, and we massacred UTEP to open our season at 2–0 and earn a number 11 AP ranking. But early wins were not only expected but planned that way on the schedule, and our first true test was Texas A&M. I hated the University of Texas the most, but in some ways, I feared the Aggies more. Year in and year out, they just seemed to have our number, this infuriating way of playing their very best game of the season just to spoil ours, often in a come-from-behind, improbable win.
This game seemed to follow that same sickening story line, the Aggies playing way better than they should have to keep the game tied at seven all the way to the final minute. I was frantic. Everyone in the entire stadium was frantic. Because we all knew that, without a win tonight, it could be only a good season. Not a great one. Then, on the very last play of the game, with Reggie smothered in maroon jerseys, Everclear managed to complete a miracle pass to another freshman in the end zone. It was a thing of beauty, but more of an intense relief than a source of joy. We were 3–0, still in the hunt.
In the pressroom after the game, as we all waited for Coach Carr to arrive, I ran into Frank Smiley. “Good game,” he said. “Doesn’t get much closer than that.”
“I prefer blowouts to good games,” I said, thinking that assistant sports information directors had that luxury. We didn’t have to write about it; we just had to celebrate it. “Did you get a stat sheet?” I held a stack in my hands, hot off the presses.
He took one, said thanks.
“Did you see the longest run we gave up was seven yards?” I asked.
“I did. Some very impressive defensive stats,” he said.
“It all starts up front,” I said. “When you can control the line of scrimmage like that, it really allows you so much on the back end.”
I was making idle pressroom conversation but was also making a point: I knew this game, inside and out. And he should have hired me.
“So. If this were your beat, Ms. Rigsby, what would you ask Coach Carr?”
I looked at him, thinking that it was some real bullshit, his asking me a pseudo-interview question while I was working. But I played along. “I don’t know,” I said. “I guess I might ask him about trusting a true freshman with the ball on the final play.”
“Hmm, yes,” he said, nodding. “And what do you think Coach’s answer would be?”
I exhaled, put the stat sheets on a table next to two ESPN reporters, and said, “The answer is … Patrick Elgin might be a true freshman, but we’ve repped that play a hundred times in practice. So he was ready for it. It’s not as much of a gamble as you’d think.”
Smiley nodded but looked dubious. It irked me enough to say, “I’d also ask something about how often he dropped eight into coverage and went with three down linemen when we’re used to seeing him bring more pressure to passing teams.”
Smiley adjusted his cap and said, “And that answer would be …?”
“Well, my answer is that the Aggies have a very strong receiving corps. So it was a simple matter of matching coverages and having to drop out of our nickel package. That’s why you saw three down linemen more frequently today.” I stared at him. “But that’s my answer. If you want Coach Carr’s answer, I guess you need to ask him yourself. I don’t ask questions—I pass out stat sheets.” I almost softened my statement with a smile, but decided against it.
Smiley gave me a long stare, then handed me a business-size envelope with my name typed on the front. “Ms. Rigsby, here is a formal offer letter to join my staff. You don’t have the requisite experience, but you know this game and you’re a good writer. Not great, but good. I’m taking a big chance on you. Please let me know by Monday morning.”
Before I could reply, he walked briskly back to his usual folding chair in the front row, left corner, next to Kenny Stone, his longtime reporter on the Walker beat. I looked down at the envelope, shook my head, and allowed myself a small, jubilant smile. Meanwhile, Coach Carr entered the room with Rhodes and Everclear, the three of them walking stoically and in single file up to the skirted table covered with microphones. The room quieted and the cameras rolled as Coach addressed the media, making his standard post-win remarks. Our boys showed up today. I’m proud of them. The Aggies gave us a tough fight. They’re a great team. But things went our way, and I’m pleased with that. Then he opened it up for questions, and Smiley’s hand shot up. Coach called on him, and Smiley’s gruff voice fired back. “Coach. Can you tell us why we saw so many situations with three down linemen tonight?”
I was surprised to hear my question, a little less so when Coach’s answer also followed my script. I watched as Smiley furiously scribbled, then turned, looked over his shoulder at me, and gave me a covert and shocking thumbs-up. Against all odds, I was finally in the club.
Fourteen
After the game, I met up with Lucy and Neil at the Third Rail, a little hole-in-the-wall bar on North Potomac known for its amazing wings and great jukebox filled with both old and new country, everything from Merle Haggard and Johnny Cash to Taylor Swift and Sugarland. It had been our go-to spot for years, and I considered it a small miracle and one of life’s simple joys that it had never been hijacked by drunken coeds, redneck townies, or cougars on the prowl, the three groups that seemed to overrun every other halfway-decent bar or restaurant in town. Miller and I had once brainstormed theories on the subject, concluding that the Third Rail had a series of small strikes against it: bad parking, its proximity to the police station, and an Arkansas-alum owner named Chuck, who steadfastly refused to change the channel on the lone television near the bar if his team was playing. The flaws served us well, though, as even on home game weekends, the bar was never packed and always had a chill vibe. It also happened to be Coach Carr’s favorite spot, likely because Chuck and Coach were tight, and Chuck had given Coach a permanent table on reserve in the back room. Someone had even etched a ccc—for Coach Clive Carr—into the grainy wood with a pocketknife.
That night was slightly livelier than usual, a handful of twenty-somethings sprinkled in with the older regulars. Sara Evans was singing “A Little Bit Stronger” on the jukebox, the Arkansas game was just wrapping up, and there was, to my relief, no sign of Miller or his friends. In the six or so months since we broke up, I’d yet to run into him, which was a small miracle in a town this size. I bought a Blue Moon on tap, spotting Lucy and Neil in the back corner playing pool. As I approached them, I paused to watch Lucy take her turn, amused by her awkward stance, her elbows jutted out at weird angles. I had tried to offer her tips in the past, but she steadfastly refused to acknowledge basic geometry. It was almost as if she sucked on purpose, believing that prowess in both pool and darts was inversely proportional to femininity. A second later, she completely whiffed an easy shot.
“What are we playing?” I quipped, walking up behind her. “Loser takes all?”
“Lazy Shea-zy!” Lucy spun around and exclaimed, my ancient nickname earned by sitting on the couch and watching football all day long. She threw her arms around my neck and squealed that she was so happy to see me. Lucy was a complete lightweight drinker and could get buzzed from one beer, but I estimated that she was further in than that. They had definitely been here for a while. She handed me her cue and said, “Will you take over for me? I suck at this sport.”
I glanced at the table, assessing the situation, and laughed. “It’s a game, not a sport. And no, thanks,” I said, tossing the stick back to her as Neil hugged me hello then knocked in his last two stripes, followed by the eight ball, finishing Lucy off.
“So how long have y’all been here?” I asked casually, trying not to look judgmental about them missing the end of the game.
She winced, then put an index finger to her lips. “Shhh. Since halftime,” Lucy said. “Give or take.”
I shook my head. “Did Chuck even let you turn t
he channel?”
“A couple times. Don’t tell Daddy! It’s just that we only have a babysitter once a week and we really needed some alone time,” she said, taking off her cropped teal cardigan and exposing a black silk tank underneath. I noticed that she had gained a little weight back since the funeral and was starting to look healthy again.
“Which is why you invited me here?” I said. “This place is called the Third Rail, not the Third Wheel.”
Neil laughed and said, “Yeah, but Lucy tells me you have a boyfriend now.”
“I didn’t call him that,” I said, looking at Lucy. I had, of course, told her that we had slept together for the first time, then again after the Silver and Blue Debut, the Cowboys’ public practice and dress rehearsal before their first game. I had gone at Ryan’s request, even mingling with a few of the other wives and girlfriends, which made Lucy positively giddy. I turned the subject back to the Walker game, telling them I’d nearly had a heart attack. “Like literally. Symptoms of angina. I honestly don’t know how your dad does it.”
“I know,” Lucy said. “I don’t either.”
“He had a great press conference. He was on fire. Really relaxed and funny …”
“Did he tell anyone off?” Neil asked. “I love when he does that.”
“He doesn’t do that after wins,” I said.
“Omigod! Your boy just walked in!” Lucy said, staring behind me. I followed her gaze and saw Ryan sauntering toward us, in jeans, a just-fitted-enough white T-shirt, and a black Under Armour baseball cap. A five o’clock shadow and dog tags completed the Texas-meets-Malibu look. In short, he was ridiculously hot. Everyone in the bar, of both genders and all ages, stared, his presence causing an immediate, palpable ripple, much less subtle than the impact he’d had at the Ritz, where people knew to play it cool.
“Did you know he was coming?” she asked.
I shook my head, smiling. I had told him I was going to be here, but never imagined that he’d show up. He made his way over to us, high-fiving two guys in his path. When he reached our pool table, he paused for dramatic effect, his hands out to the sides, as if waiting for an embrace. I laughed and shook my head, not wanting to appear overly eager.
“Wow. Nothing? I drive an hour to see you and get no love?” Ryan said with a seductive grin before leaning down to kiss me, the bill of his cap obscuring the exact placement of his lips on mine.
Lucy said hello to Ryan, then sidled in to give him a hug as she introduced Neil. The two shook hands and exchanged manly pleasantries. Meanwhile, a curvy young waitress in black Lycra and stonewashed jean shorts scurried over to us. Beaming and flustered, she reminded me of a kid who finally gets to the front of a line to meet the mall Santa Claus, only to forget what she wants for Christmas.
“Um, hello, Mr. James, can I get you something to drink?” she asked him. “Or some wings or nachos or … anything?”
“Call me Ryan,” he said with a grin so charming that I couldn’t help thinking that it undermined any look of affection he’d ever given me. “Ladies first,” he said, gesturing my way.
I held up my beer and said, “I’m good, thanks.”
The waitress giggled for no apparent reason.
“I’ll have a Jack and Diet,” Ryan said. “But make sure you cut me off after my second.”
“Right. Don’t you have a big game tomorrow?” she asked, biting her lower lip in an overtly sensual way, then giggling again.
“Monday,” I mouthed to Lucy, as Ryan told her, no, he had two more days to get ready.
“Oh. Right. Monday Night Football!” she said with more nervous tittering and a promise to hold him to his limit.
Ryan winked his thanks, then turned back to Lucy, who began bombarding him with questions, seemingly riveted by every response, no matter how bland. It reminded me of how she used to act in high school around boys, even those she had no interest in whatsoever, giving them all the impression that they were the most witty and brilliant and fascinating creatures she’d ever encountered. Of course they’d fall hard and fast in love with her, which really just meant that they were in love with themselves, and she always pretended to be completely floored by the result, explaining that she hadn’t been flirting; she was only trying to be nice. Tonight, though, I was pretty sure her motivation was different and that she was only trying to compensate for my apathetic reaction to Ryan’s cameo, a hunch that was confirmed when she dragged me to the bathroom and gave me a stern lecture.
“What in the world is your problem?” she demanded as I put on a fresh coat of lip gloss. “I thought things were going well with you two?” She lowered her voice and said, “You’re sleeping with him, for goodness’ sakes.”
I shushed her, glancing under the stall doors, checking for feet, then said, “Everything’s fine. Going well.”
“Well, then, what’s with the chip on your shoulder? Could you act any less happy to see him? Gawd.”
“What do you want me to do?” I said. “Turn cartwheels? Maybe do a couple round-offs?”
“Hell, yeah, you should be turning cartwheels. Ryan James is the most eligible bachelor in all of Texas, maybe the entire country. He is famous, funny, wealthy, athletic, tall, and painfully beautiful.”
“Tall?” I said. “Really? That’s on your list? Miller was tall.”
“C’mon. What doesn’t he have? A Ph.D.? Royal blood? You still looking for a baron or a duke?” she said, mocking my brief teenage crush on Prince Harry.
“I don’t know, Luce. The whole thing is just … embarrassing. Everyone is staring at us,” I said, my insecurity returning.
“Since when do you care what people think?” Lucy said.
“I don’t,” I said, shrugging. “Not that much.”
“Well, then, stop that shit. Now. And rise to the occasion, would you?”
“Okay, okay,” I said. “I’ll do better. I promise.”
“Good,” Lucy said. “Because this is your life.”
“I got it,” I said, as we left the bathroom.
When we got back out to the bar, Ryan and Neil had moved from the pool table to a booth. They both did a half stand as we sat down, and Lucy gave me a look that said, Add chivalrous to the list.
“So I was just telling Neil about your Heisman Trophy Rain Man thing you got going on. Quiz her. She’ll get it. Any year.”
I glanced at Lucy, thinking this was tricky terrain, as I’d never told her that I called her dad that night.
“Nineteen sixty-five,” Neil said, pointing at me.
I knew it was Mike Garrett but played dumb, hoping they’d change the subject. It was the wrong strategy because Ryan said, “Oh, c’mon. You were on fire that night talking to Coach! ’Sixty-five. You got this!”
“Mike Garrett. USC,” I mumbled.
“What night?” Lucy said, never missing a trick.
“The night of that charity thing in Dallas,” Ryan said.
“Daddy was there?” Lucy looked confused.
“No. Shea called him,” Ryan said in a loud voice as the waitress brought his second drink.
“Called him? On the phone?” She looked at Ryan, then me.
Ryan answered for me, “Yeah. To discuss Heisman Trophy winners. Classic.”
Lucy gave me a look that I couldn’t read, and for a second I was worried. But then she smiled and said, “You are so sweet, Shea … Neil, isn’t Shea the sweetest?”
Neil nodded while Lucy continued. “That is so sweet of you to call Daddy to play a Heisman Trophy trivia game when you know he’s lonely. You’re the best.”
I smiled, then made my big announcement, desperate to change the subject. “So guess what? I got the job. At The Dallas Post,” I said, pulling the sealed envelope out of my purse.
“Omigod. Congratulations!” Lucy said. “That’s amazing news! Why didn’t you say anything before now?”
I shrugged and told her I was waiting for the right moment, as Ryan squeezed my leg and congratulated me and Neil tapped his mug of
beer against mine.
“For which beat? Texas?” Ryan said, finishing his Jack and Coke with one easy tilt of his head. “Are you going Benedict Arnold on us?”
I said I didn’t know as I opened the envelope, unfolded the letter, read it, then reread it, sure that I’d gotten it wrong the first time. But no, it was clear. I felt myself grinning so wide that my cheeks hurt. If Lucy wanted giddy, she was about to get a freaking lap dance from her best friend.
“What’s it say?” Lucy asked. “Is the pay good?”
“Not really,” I said, noting that I’d actually have to take a thousand-dollar pay cut from my current measly salary.
“Then what?” Lucy said, grabbing for the letter.
I held it out of her reach, relishing the final few seconds when I was the only one to know the fabulous news.
“Dammit, Shea! Tell us!” Lucy said.
“Guess who the Post just hired to cover … yoooour verrry own … Walker Bron-coooos!” My voice escalated, imitating Mac MacDonald, the voice of the Broncos, then finished off with a yelp, no longer caring who was watching us as I stood and held up the letter like a newspaper boy on V-J Day.
Then I looked at Lucy and said, “Was this what you were looking for?” Gauging the space between the booth and pool table, I put my hands straight up over my head, pointed my left toe, and busted out my very best cartwheel.
It didn’t occur to me until much later, after I’d gone home with Ryan, then had sex with him for the third time, then woken up the next day, then had sex with him for the fourth time, that this could be a setup. An ambush. A sick joke Smiley was playing on the girl from Walker. I hadn’t read one printed word about Walker being in trouble with the NCAA, and was sure it would amount to nothing, but maybe Smiley had heard some of the rumblings. Maybe he wanted a reporter with an inside scoop when the dirt really started to hit the fan. I told myself I was just being paranoid. That even if the story did come to light, our name would be cleared—and I’d be the reporter to do it. I told myself that this was my big break. That my life was finally coming together.