The One and Only

by Emily Giffin

  “Well, no, I don’t think I would be mad. But I think he should wait at least a year before he even thinks about talking to another woman. Isn’t that the rule?”

  I shrugged, thinking of Mrs. Carr. How she had little rules for everything. No linen or seersucker after Labor Day. Never be early to depart a party, but good heavens, don’t be the last to leave. Gift registries are gauche and so is writing “no gifts, please” on an invitation. And my favorite—manners trump etiquette. In other words, you shouldn’t put your elbows on the table, but it is far worse to point it out.

  “I don’t think there’s a rule about this, Luce … I think it depends on a lot of things …” I said, my voice trailing off.

  “I know. And I really want him to be happy,” she said. “But, God, I don’t know if I could bear it … Do you know someone recently asked me about your mother?”

  “What about her?” I said.

  “Whether I thought she and my dad would get together. You don’t think she’d ever be interested in him, do you?” Lucy asked.

  “No,” I said as quickly as possible.

  “Out of respect for my mom?”

  I shook my head and said, “I just can’t see them together. He’d never go for her. And she likes the slick, suit-and-tie type. Speaking of which,” I said, trying to change the subject, “my dad’s coming down for Thanksgiving.”

  “Solo?”

  “Of course not. He’s bringing Bronwyn and Ass Face,” I said, my nickname for Astrid.

  Lucy laughed. “Did you tell them about Ryan yet?”

  “Not yet. And I must confess, I can’t wait,” I said, smiling.

  “Yeah. That will be so satisfying,” Lucy said.

  I looked down the field at Coach, as he blew his whistle and shouted, “Dammit, Sanders! If I tell you a duck can pull a truck, then shut up and hook the sucker up.”

  I laughed and wrote the quote down. I knew I probably wouldn’t use it, and certainly not without Coach’s okay, but I still wanted a record of it to read later, along with our texts that I had yet to delete.

  Nineteen

  In a game that was even more ugly than the one Coach predicted, we barely escaped with a win in Waco, beating Baylor 21–20. Other than the final score, pretty much everything went wrong for us. We dropped the ball, missed field goals, and got a lot of stupid penalties. I knew from experience that Coach was going to be terse in the press conference, more frustrated with his team for their mental lapses and lack of discipline than happy to come away with a victory.

  Sure enough, he came out surly, barking at reporters and barely acknowledging me when I raised my hand. Instead of calling my name, he simply pointed at me and said, “Yep. Question right there.”

  “Coach Carr,” I began nervously, “what did you see in the play where Rhodes fumbled? At the end of the first half?”

  “What did I see?” He squinted, as if confused, then replied, “I saw the official call a fumble. That’s what I saw.” His voice was gravelly from yelling over fifty thousand fans—and probably at his team afterward.

  I felt my face turn red but pressed on. “Have you seen the replay? It looked very close as to whether he was down or not.”

  “Yeah. I saw the replay.”

  “And? Do you think the right call was made?” I asked, flustered, not able to articulate what I really wanted to know—which was how he felt about his team collapsing after such a pivotal call.

  “It was the official’s call. And, as you well know, I had already used my challenge on an earlier play. So. They ruled it a turnover, and that was that. It really doesn’t make any difference what I think.”

  I looked at him, thinking it made every difference what he thought about that call, the game, and everything else, too. He stared back at me, waiting, as I forced myself to ask one final question. “Do you think that changed the tide of the game for …” In the nick of time, I stopped myself from saying “us” and finished the sentence with “you.”

  Coach crossed his arms and heaved a weary sigh. “There were a lot of plays in this football game. A lot of things we could have done better. Bottom line, we were lucky to get a win. Damn lucky. Okay. That’s all.”

  He got up abruptly and, without another word, walked off the platform and out the side door, back to the visitors’ locker room.

  That night, I was in a mood as foul as Coach Carr’s and ignored the phone when it rang, not picking up for Lucy, or for Ryan, who was at the Four Seasons in St. Louis, preparing for the Rams game tomorrow. The only person I wanted to talk to was Coach, but I didn’t dare call him, knowing the last thing he wanted to do was hear from a reporter who asked him annoying questions. At some point, though, after I had filed my story, I broke down and decided one little text wouldn’t hurt. After drafting and deleting at least a dozen versions, I wrote: Sorry about the game and also for the dumb question.

  I didn’t expect to hear back from him at all, and certainly not right away, but he replied almost instantaneously: It’s ok. I’m sorry for snapping at you.

  Then, before I could respond, the phone rang. It was him. Shocked, I fumbled it Rhodes-style, then scrambled to scoop it up and answer before it went to voice mail.

  “Hey,” Coach said. “How are you?”

  “Probably the same as you,” I said, though my frustration over the game was suddenly supplanted by relief that he wasn’t angry at me.

  “That was one hell of a hollow win,” Coach said.

  “It was still a win,” I said.

  Coach made a disgusted sound, then said, “I’d rather play well and lose.”

  I wasn’t sure if I believed him, and I know I didn’t subscribe to the notion, especially during a year like this one, but I still murmured my agreement, adding, “That was a terrible call, though.”

  “Even shittier on the replay. That ref is a joke. And yes, to answer your question, I think that was a game changer. It definitely changed things for those boys. Got in their heads. We do that against a better team, and we’re done for.”

  “Yeah,” I said, letting him vent.

  “Beyond the painfully obvious fact that we couldn’t establish our run,” he said, “we just missed a lot of opportunities. What were we in the red zone?”

  “O for three.”

  “You can’t win many football games when you’re O for three in the red zone.”

  I murmured in agreement, surprised that Coach was discussing the game with me, when he typically didn’t even talk to his staff immediately after poor performances.

  “So what are you doing?” he asked suddenly.

  “Right now?” I asked.

  “Yeah. Now.”

  “Nothing. Why? What are you doing?” I asked, wondering why I was so nervous.

  “About to go for a run,” he said.

  “At eight-thirty?”

  “If that’s what time it is … then yes. Wanna join me?”

  Stunned by the invite, I said okay, my heart beginning to race.

  “Good enough. Meet you at the track over at school in fifteen?”

  “Okay,” I said again, marveling that I could feel this good, this happy, so soon after a bad game.

  Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the lot closest to the track, adjacent to the tennis courts and our original field house. I was wearing gray sweats, a standard issue from the equipment room, and an ancient Walker baseball cap, my long ponytail threaded through the back. A pale light shone on the track, a mix of moonlight and halogen, but a fog had rolled in, and at first I didn’t see the lone figure stretching near a high stack of pole-vault mats. It was Coach, and my heart stopped for a second as I stood at the top of the brick staircase and watched him. When I finally descended the steps toward the entrance, he looked up through a curtain of mist and gave me a half wave, half salute. I took a few deep breaths, trying to calm myself down as I entered the security code and unlatched the squeaky metal gate. Then I slowly crossed the spongy red track, walking onto the turf. I stopped a few
yards away from Coach, overcome with a rush of pure joy. We were completely alone on a beautiful night, and I simply couldn’t imagine anything more exhilarating.

  “Hi, girl,” he said, giving me a half smile.

  “Hi, Coach,” I said, wishing I could read his mind. There was no way to tell what he was thinking, his face expressionless.

  “Little chilly,” he said, pulling the drawstring on his gray sweatshirt, a hooded version of mine.

  “I know. I like it,” I said, nervously bending over to tighten my laces.

  “Me, too,” he said, lightly jogging in place and stretching.

  “Do you always run after games?” I asked, thinking it was easier to speak when he wasn’t looking at me.

  “When we play like shit,” he said, sitting down to stretch more thoroughly.

  I nodded, watching him.

  “So did you get your story in?” he said, glancing up at me.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  “And?”

  I wasn’t sure what he was asking so I said, “And … it’s done.”

  “You happy with it?”

  “As happy as I can be when I’m writing about a game … like that one,” I said.

  Coach nodded, only his eyes smiling at me. “Don’t you need to stretch?”

  I shrugged and reluctantly sat next to him, spreading my legs in a V-shape, imitating his form. I touched my toes a couple of times in a jerking, bouncing motion—the way they always tell you not to stretch—then stood up, murmuring that I was good to go.

  “Youth,” Coach said. “If I stretched like that, I’d tear something.”

  “We’re only, like, twenty years apart,” I said, feeling myself tense inside.

  “Only twenty? That’s not the best reference tonight.”

  I looked at him, confused, then remembered that was how many points our defense gave up.

  “Oops,” I said. I waited for him to smile, and, when he did, I followed suit, as we walked a few steps over to the track, then began a slow counterclockwise jog. Coach started out on the inside but then moved to my right shoulder, two lanes over from me. The adjustment felt chivalrous, almost romantic, but I told myself to stop thinking such crazy, delusional thoughts. He probably just preferred an outside lane.

  After one straightaway and two curves of the track, not quite a quarter-mile warm-up, I was already sucking wind, my thighs burning. Coach clearly was in better shape than I was, and I vowed to start hitting the gym with some regularity. You’d think dating a professional football player would have motivated me, but there was actually something about Ryan’s ridiculous physique that made me want to blow it off altogether. Running with Coach was a different matter.

  After another couple of silent laps, Coach said, “Warmed up? Ready to go?”

  “Yeah. Sure,” I said as he opened up his stride. Struggling to keep up with him, I said, “Damn. You’re fast. What’s your mile pace?”

  “When I’m tired?” he said. “Because that’s the real question. Not your personal best, but how fast you can go when you’re tired. Down and out.”

  “Are you tired now?” I gasped.

  Coach shook his head. “Nope. But I am down and out,” he said. I caught him smiling again, and it occurred to me that I was making him feel better, at least a little. I felt emboldened by that notion, enough to increase my speed, hang in there with him.

  We fell silent after that, as I lost track of our laps. But somewhere around the three-mile mark, he turned to me and, breathing hard, asked, “So how’s Ryan?”

  Ryan was the last thing I wanted to think about now, and I was too winded for a long answer anyway, so I just panted, “He’s fine. Rams tomorrow.”

  “Heard about the earrings,” he said, glancing at my ears, although I wasn’t wearing them now.

  “Yeah,” I said, rubbing my left side where a cramp was beginning to form. “I tried to give them back … but—”

  “I’m sure that didn’t go over,” Coach said, slowing a bit.

  “No. He acted like they were a little something out of a gumball machine.”

  Coach laughed, then stopped running altogether, leaning down to grab on to his knees. “Yeah,” he panted. “That boy’s so rich he buys a new boat when he gets the other one wet.”

  I laughed, making my cramp worse. I felt a little guilty, talking about Ryan behind his back, but told myself that it wasn’t disloyal given that Coach cared about him as much as I did.

  “Please tell me we’re done,” I said, wincing.

  “Yeah. We’re done,” he said.

  After walking another half a lap in silence, we walked through the gate, then up the staircase to the parking lot.

  Only when we reached our cars did he finally speak. “Well, thank you, Shea. I feel better now.”

  “Thank you, Coach,” I said, feeling light-headed even before I met his gaze. “That was … nice.”

  “Yes. It was,” he said, our eyes still locked. He gave me a slow smile, and I could tell he was talking about my company as much as the running.

  I hesitated, overcoming another small wave of guilt over Ryan, telling myself that my attraction to Coach would never be reciprocated. It was safe, feeling this way about something that was never going to happen. Frustrating, and a little sad, but also very safe. I looked back down at the ground and said, “I hope we can do it again.”

  “Didn’t I tell you I only come out here and run when we play like shit?” he said.

  “Oh, yeah,” I said. “Well, then I hope we never do it again.”

  “Me, too,” Coach said. “And you’ll be happy to know …”

  “What?”

  “That I eat chocolate cake after we play well.” He gave me a little wink.

  “Excellent,” I said. “Because I’m not much of a runner. But I’m really good at eating cake.”

  Twenty

  The week leading up to the LSU game, Smiley gave me my first feature assignment: a three-thousand-word piece on Reggie Rhodes. He gave me very little guidance, just told me he wanted “a lot of flavor on the guy.” His background. His adjustment to the college game. All the hype and whether or not he was living up to it. I breathed a sigh of relief when he ended the meeting abruptly, with no mention of any recruiting violation rumors. I was starting to think that Walker might be out of the woods and I, as a reporter, off the hook. Of course, I’d subscribed to the don’t-ask, don’t-tell philosophy, intentionally avoiding the subject with anyone at Walker.

  When I called J.J. to ask for access to Reggie, the two of us danced around the obvious, focusing only on one fact: that I was the first reporter to get the plum interview, the only one Coach trusted to interview his young star in anything other than a postgame press conference.

  For two days, I prepared for my conversation with Reggie, reaching out to various people from his life. I talked to his high school coach and principal, his parents, and, of course, Coach. Everyone said variations of the same thing. That Reggie was a rarity. A superstar without Twitter. Tim Tebow without all the ostentatious religion. A good kid. The real deal.

  On Tuesday night, I met Reggie at the plush academic counseling center as his tutor wrapped up an American lit session.

  “Hey, Miss Rigsby,” he said, standing to shake my hand. He had a soft voice and a friendly gap between his front teeth.

  “Hi, Reggie,” I said, surprised that he remembered me, although we’d talked a few times during my old job. “What are you working on?” I pointed down at his notebook.

  “Huckleberry Finn,” he said, smiling as he shut his books and slid them into a nylon messenger bag at his feet.

  “You like it?” I said.

  “The CliffsNotes are real good,” he said, nodding seriously before breaking into a big grin. “Nah. I’m just playin’. I do like it. We were just discussing that scene where Huck plays the trick on Jim with the leaves on the raft. You know, making him think he was dreaming everything?”

  I nodded although I only vaguely
recalled the scene.

  “And then Jim says that part about how trash is what people are who put dirt on the heads of their friends and make them feel ashamed?” Reggie shook his head. “And then Huck works himself up to go apologize, humble himself to a … excuse my language … nigger?”

  I flinched, hearing the vile word spoken aloud, but was able to maintain eye contact, transfixed by Reggie’s take on the scene and impressed by his ability to engage an adult, talk about literature instead of himself. I nodded, waiting for him to continue.

  He whistled and said, “Man. That’s some powerful stuff right there. Powerful. You can see how Twain humanizes Jim. It’s so good.”

  I smiled, thinking that we were just a few minutes in and I could understand why everyone liked Reggie. He was so easy to talk to—and so humble.

  “So,” I said. “Can we talk about you for a bit? Your experience so far at Walker?”

  He nodded and said sure.

  “Let’s start with why you chose to come to college here. You had a lot of choices … So why Walker?”

  His face became somber as he gave me the answer that I wanted. “I came to Walker for a lot of reasons. The education. How nice everyone was to me. How pretty the campus is. All that stuff … But I ain’t gonna lie, I mostly came to Walker so I could play for Coach Carr. He’s the man. Always keeps it a hundred percent real. For me, it really came down to that, ya know?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I know.”

  The day after my interview with Rhodes, as I was putting the finishing touches on the story, Smiley called me into his office. I was all jazzed up, on the verge of telling him about all the great stuff I got, when he gave me a long, accusatory look. Then he whipped off his reading glasses, tossed them onto his desk, and said, “Have you heard anything about Walker being in trouble with the NCAA?”

  I opened my mouth, choosing my words carefully. “I’ve heard … rumblings.”

  “Rumblings?” Smiley demanded, slapping his desk. “Define rumblings.”

  “You know … rumors.”