The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  Fifteen

  On Monday morning, I called Smiley and formally accepted his offer of employment, thanking him so profusely that he sputtered, “Don’t ever thank me again. This isn’t a gift. It’s a job.” Then, to emphasize the point, he went on to explain that Kenny Stone, the guy I was replacing, had sold out to ESPN. “Another one bites the dust to the network that puts entertainment ahead of sports,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said. “I won’t thank you again. But, seriously, this is my dream job. And the salary is a little lower than what I make now, but I’m fine—happy—with it.”

  Smiley made a scoffing sound and said, “For the love of Christmas. Let’s hope your reporting skills are sharper than your negotiating tactics.”

  “Yes, sir. They are. Thank you so much,” I said.

  “When can you start?”

  “When do you need me to start?”

  “The sooner the better.”

  “I’ll give notice today.”

  “You do that. And remember—”

  He paused, and I said, “What’s that, sir?”

  “No more rah-rah shit. You’re a reporter now.”

  “Yes, sir,” I said, squeezing the little teal Walker Nerf ball on my desk before tossing it in the air and catching it with one hand.

  Later that day, I found Coach Carr in his office, his door wide open.

  “Congratulations,” he said when he saw me, taking a bite of a bagel, then sweeping stray sesame seeds into his trash can.

  I smiled my thanks and said, “Smiley told you?”

  “Yep. So I guess he thinks you can be objective.”

  “Do you think I can?”

  “We’ll find out,” he said, taking another bite.

  “Maybe we won’t.”

  “Oh? How do you figure?”

  I swallowed, feeling bold as I lifted one eyebrow and said, “Because you and your program are perfect.”

  “That’s a good point,” he said, laughing. “You know that’s not true, though, right? I’ve made a few mistakes along the way.”

  “Such as?”

  He put his bagel on his napkin, then pushed it aside. “Are you asking me as a reporter or my friend?”

  “Um. Reporter.”

  “Well, then I plead the Fifth,” he said.

  “Okay. And as your friend?” I asked, leaning toward him.

  “What’s the question again?”

  “Are you as perfect as you seem?”

  “Is the pope a bear?” he said, one of his stock expressions.

  I smiled. “He must be.”

  Coach laughed a big laugh. “So, girl. What are you doing tonight?”

  “Um, watching the Cowboys,” I said, leaving out the part about watching the game in person with Ryan’s tickets that were awaiting me at will call at AT&T Stadium. “Why? What are you doing tonight?”

  “Same,” he said. “Would you like to watch it together? I’ll go on record for you.”

  “On record? About what?” I said, feeling an odd little rush of emotion that only he gave me.

  “Oh, I don’t know. The season so far. Injuries. Recruiting. Strategy. Upcoming games. Conference realignments. Your call, girl. Consider it a congratulations-you-got-the-job gift. What do you say? Meet at the Third Rail at eight?”

  “Sure,” I said.

  “Good. Very good.” Coach Carr smiled his approval. “See you tonight.”

  “See you tonight,” I said.

  I waited until late afternoon to send Ryan a text, keeping it as simple as possible: So sorry can’t make it tonight. Have to work. Talk soon and good luck!

  Very technically it was the truth, but I felt a trace of guilt that caused me to tack on an xo in a separate text. It was silly, really, because I felt certain that Ryan would care remarkably little about my last-minute cancellation, especially given that it was game day, and was surprised and a little flattered when he wrote back: That sucks. Call me afterward. Miss my girl.

  I told myself I’d make it up to him later—and that I couldn’t turn down the chance to talk to Coach Carr on record. If I was going to be a successful reporter, I had to take these opportunities when they presented themselves. It was as simple as that.

  A few hours later I walked into the Third Rail to find Coach already at his table.

  “You look nice,” he said.

  I thanked him, but felt suddenly overdressed in one of Lucy’s ensembles, especially given that he was in the same casual clothes he had been wearing earlier. “You been here long?” I asked, sitting across from him.

  “Long enough to order this,” Coach said, taking a sip of beer. “Are you hungry?”

  I nodded.

  “Wings?”

  I nodded again, then said, “So. This is quite an honor.”

  “An honor? C’mon, now, girl,” he said, batting away my comment with his hand, making me feel slightly foolish.

  “I just meant … thanks for suggesting this. It means a lot to spend time with you. And I know you don’t like to go out during the season.” I paused as the same waitress from the other night came by to check on us. She seemed not to remember me, apparently that blinded by Ryan, and it annoyed me that she was markedly less impressed with Coach. I asked for a Blue Moon, and she departed briskly.

  “You don’t have to thank me, Shea,” he said. “And I don’t mind coming out to quiet spots like this.”

  Our waitress returned with my beer and asked if we wanted to order anything to eat. Coach told her wings and specified spicy, as I knew he would. “If that’s okay with you?” he said, looking my way. I nodded and said that was the way to go as ESPN began its telecast.

  “Too bad Faith Hill doesn’t do Monday Night Football,” I said, musing aloud about how great her legs were.

  Coach raised his brows and nodded with appreciation so acute that I felt a pang of irrational jealousy. But the comment also made me feel close to him. Like we were on the same page. Coach and reporter bonding over beers and wings and Faith Hill’s killer wheels.

  I took a sip of beer, then looked at Coach. Really looked at him, trying to pinpoint that certain quality that made him different from other men. There was just something so solid about him. He had a way of taking up the space around him with such quiet dignity. It was almost as if there were an invisible barrier around him that you knew you couldn’t penetrate with the usual congratulatory small talk about the last game. Coach was always warm and gracious, even to strangers, yet he remained walled off, self-contained, almost mysterious in a way that had always captivated me.

  “What’s on your mind?” he suddenly asked.

  I shook my head, as if to say nothing at all, as we both turned our attention to Jon Gruden, informing us that Dallas had won the toss and had elected to receive.

  “Good,” Coach said. “Better for Ryan to establish an early rhythm. Calms him down. I don’t like him on the sidelines at the beginning of the game.”

  Coach Carr and I both nursed our beers as the Giants kicked off for a touchback.

  “I like the matchup in the secondary,” Coach mumbled as Ryan handed off. “If they can protect him up front, he’s going to have a good game.”

  The series didn’t prove fruitful, though, as Dallas went a quick three and out.

  “So, Coach? Are you a big Cowboys fan?” I said. It sounded like a throwaway question—a total given for any Texas native, especially one who had once coached the current starting quarterback, but I could tell he understood that the question was more nuanced than that. I was asking about his passion, and, in my mind, it was difficult, if not downright impossible, to have more than one passion in life. In other words, I know you pull for the Cowboys, but do you truly love them?

  He gave me a very lackluster yeah, confirming my hunch.

  “Don’t sound so enthusiastic,” I said.

  He laughed. “Well, I’m definitely a fan, but growing up …” He paused, glanced around the room, then peered up at the ceiling as if searching for hi
dden cameras before leaning in to share his secret. “Growing up I was a Green Bay fan. Still am sort of. But that is way off the record,” he said with a deep, gravelly chuckle.

  “Green Bay? Why?” I asked, intrigued.

  “Because of my old man. And Vince Lombardi … My dad loved Lombardi as much as—” He struggled to finish his sentence as I thought, As much as all of Walker, Texas, loves you?

  Coach gave me a funny look, as if reading my mind, but said, “One of his own. I don’t know how a man born and raised in Fort Worth came to that—but he passed it on to me. You know how that works …”

  I nodded, thinking that fandom was one of the rare instances when parental (or even grandparental) allegiances trumped geography or whatever it was your friends were doing.

  “Anyway,” he said. “Are you familiar with the Ice Bowl?”

  “Yeah,” I said, then proved it. “Packers–Cowboys, New Year’s Eve 1967. The NFL championship game, but it was known as the Ice Bowl because of the subzero temperatures in Wisconsin.”

  “Yep. Minus thirteen at Lambeau that night,” he said, shivering at the mere thought of it. “I was there with my old man. He got me tickets for Christmas and we drove twenty hours to get there, leaving my sisters and mother behind.”

  “How old were you?” I asked, trying to do the math in my head.

  “Nine,” he said. “But I remember it like it was yesterday, especially that final play. Sixteen seconds. Packers down by three. Third and goal inside the Dallas one.”

  “And what happened? The Cowboys lost, didn’t they?”

  “Yep. Bart Starr called a thirty-one wedge but kept the ball. Poetry in motion … Later, when I read everything there was to read about Lombardi, I learned that Lombardi let Starr call that one. He just said, ‘Run what you want and let’s get the hell out of here.’ I sometimes think about that in tense situations and try to take a page from the alltime great. You have your strategy in place … but sometimes you can’t micromanage. You gotta trust your guys to read the field and make the right play …” Coach said. His eyes were on the television, but I could tell he was back in time.

  I made no pretense of watching the game. “How happy were you and your dad after that game?”

  “Very. Nearly frostbitten—couldn’t feel my earlobes for days—but damn, were we happy. We headed back to Texas that same night, but not before we made a pact never to tell anyone that we’d pulled for the Cowboys’ demise. My old man was good—should have been an actor and not a shoe salesman—going on and on to all his friends about what a waste it was to go all that way and lose. How pissed off he was.” Coach shook his head and laughed. “Never confessed that to anyone. Until now.”

  I felt sure that he meant that he’d never confessed to anyone except Mrs. Carr, but I still felt special as I asked him another question. “So when did you know you wanted to be a coach?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, girl. Not until I stopped playing the game,” he said. “I don’t think anyone grows up dreaming of being a coach. I just think the game gets in your blood and you can’t bear to think of your life without it. That’s the way it was for me, anyway.”

  “Well, I can’t bear to think of my life without it either,” I said.

  Coach smiled at me, and I smiled back, both of us missing the first score of the game—a Giants thirty-six-yard field goal.

  “Maybe we should actually try and watch this game,” Coach said as our wings arrived.

  I nodded happily as we spent the rest of the half focused on the television and our food, and an occasional hello from a fan brave enough to cross into the semiprivate area of the bar. Our conversation remained light and easy and never strayed far from the play at hand while Ryan appeared on-screen every thirty seconds. I kept waiting for Coach to ask about him or talk about him, but, to my relief, he didn’t—except as it related to the game.

  Right at the start of the second half, Coach looked toward the door and said, “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.”

  “Who?” I said, not wanting to take my eyes off Coach.

  A second later, I heard Miller’s voice behind me. “Hey, Coach. Hey, Shea. What’s up?”

  I felt a jolt of nostalgia, but no real emotional stirrings, as I turned to say hello to my ex.

  “Miller time!” Coach said, breaking the ice. “Wanna join us?”

  Miller grinned without a trace of the awkwardness that you’d expect after a breakup, then pulled up a stool and said, “Don’t mind if I do.”

  I kept my eyes on the television, but must have looked disappointed by the interruption because Miller said, “What’s wrong? Are the boys losing?”

  “Nope. We’re up seven,” I said, forcing a smile as I asked him how he’d been doing.

  “Not too bad,” he said, giving me a bland, rambling update about his job and family, then asking what was new with me.

  I told him about my job, in as few words as possible, then explained that that was why Coach and I were here together.

  Miller congratulated me and said, “What else is goin’ on?”

  “Not much.”

  “Not what I heard,” he said in a singsongy playground taunt.

  I knew that he had to be referring to Ryan, but I just shrugged, hoping it would end the discussion.

  But it didn’t, of course—because Miller had the maturity of the eighth-grade students he taught.

  “You and Ryan,” he said, shaking his head, laughing. “Gotta say. That really stings. I mean, did you have to go for such an obvious upgrade? The guy who took my starting spot?” He put his hand over his heart, a gesture that someone would only employ if his heart weren’t the slightest bit hurt.

  “We’re just friends,” I said, wondering why I was downplaying our relationship with an outright lie. Was it to spare Miller’s feelings?

  Miller laughed. “Yeah, right. Ryan isn’t friends with girls. Is he, Coach? Least not hot girls.”

  Coach Carr cleared his throat and said, “There are exceptions to every rule.”

  Miller slapped his thigh and said, “Oh, man. You used to tell us that in practice! Flashback!” Then he changed the subject to an even more awkward topic. “So is the rumor true, Coach? About the NCAA investigating us?” he asked. It was a question I had avoided all evening, somewhat irresponsibly given my new job.

  My instinct was proven right as Coach visibly bristled and said, “Where’d you hear that, son?”

  “From Nan Buxbaum,” Miller said. By the cocky grin on his face, it was pretty clear in what capacity Miller knew Nan.

  “Who?” Coach said.

  “A professor in the sociology department,” Miller said, leaving out that she was gorgeous. If Nan didn’t get tenure, lingerie model wasn’t out of the question. “We’ve been hanging out since Shea here dumped me.”

  “I didn’t dump you,” I said, objecting to the ruthless nature of the verb.

  “The hell!” he said as our waitress stopped by and took Miller’s PBR order.

  “What did she say?” Coach asked, his expression becoming increasingly agitated.

  “She said an investigator is crawling up their asses. You know, since we all major in sociology,” Miller said, still referring to himself as a player. “They seem to be implying that Walker skates athletes through the department. I think that’s the gist. I bet they confiscate Ebert’s computer.”

  Professor Ebert, widely known as Easy Ebert, had been around forever. He was a huge football fan, and athletes had always clamored to take his classes. But, to be fair, so had all the regular students. If Ebert was the problem, the NCAA’s case seemed rather flimsy.

  “It’s a non-story, Miller,” I said, quoting Coach. “So don’t go spreading rumors.”

  “I’m not spreading rumors,” he said. “About the NCAA or you and Ryan James. I’m just callin’ ’em like I see ’em. Gotta be real. Right, Coach?”

  “Right, Miller,” Coach said, abruptly standing. Clearly, he’d had enough. “If you’ll excus
e me a moment …”

  I watched him walk away from the table and head for the men’s room, then turned back to face Miller. “Look. Coach is clearly upset about this NCAA stuff,” I said. “You might not want to talk about it so … casually.”

  “Yeah. My bad,” Miller said, as I tried to think of a tactful way to get rid of him completely. But short of telling him to please go away, I came up empty-handed, and a couple minutes of babble later, Coach rejoined us and announced that it was time for him to go home and hit the hay.

  “Shea, I settled up at the bar. So we’re good,” he said, zipping up his fleece jacket.

  “Thank you,” I said, my heart sinking.

  “You’re welcome,” he replied, holding my gaze. I got the sense that he was as irritated by Miller’s interruption as I was.

  “You sure you don’t want to stay? You’re going to miss the end of the game … And I know how much you love the Cowboys …”

  “Nah. Ryan’s got this one in the bag,” Coach said.

  “Your boyfriend,” Miller said, pointing at me, thoroughly amused with himself.

  “Shut up,” I breathed back as we all watched Ryan complete an impossible thirty-yard pass through a forest of red, white, and blue into the end zone. He took off his helmet and thrust one finger up in the air as I read his lips: Fuck yeah.

  Miller happily chortled, clearly not really jealous of anyone, as Coach said, “See? I know these things. Game over.”

  I laughed. “Would you call it over if you were coaching the Giants?” I said. “There are still three and a half minutes to play.”

  “No,” he said. “But I also wouldn’t have put a block on and roughed the kicker with that much time on the clock.”

  I nodded, basking in his final brilliant analysis, as he clapped Miller on the back and said, “All right, then … Good to see you, son. Y’all be safe getting home.”

  We promised that we would as he turned to me, hesitating, as if debating whether to give me a handshake or hug or similar backslap. Instead, he put his hand over mine, lowered his voice, and said, “Enjoyed talking football with you, girl.”