Sixteen
It was raining when I walked out of the bar, a light mist that would have felt romantic if I were holding someone’s hand, but instead made me feel more wistful and lonesome than I had in a long time. Lonesome enough to text Ryan when I got in my car, congratulating him on a great game. Before I pulled out of my parking spot, he had written back: Thanks. I think you should come tell me in person. ;)
“Done,” I said aloud. And, a few minutes later, I was on I-35, headed toward Dallas, my thoughts jumbled and racing, yet returning, again and again, to Coach. Our conversation, his eyes, the way I felt sitting near him, whether in his office or back in that bar. It was different from the way I felt with anyone else. He gave me butterflies in my stomach, and, although I’d always chalked it up to nervousness from being so close to greatness, I was starting to worry that it was something more than that. As I drove, a queasy feeling overcame me. I was finally calling my own bluff—and I hated that I couldn’t turn it off, shut it down.
I turned up the radio, shook my head, tightened my grip on the steering wheel, and came up with a battery of excuses. I told myself that I was only confusing my love of football and Walker with an attraction to the head of our program. That, sure, Coach was hot—even a male Sports Illustrated writer had acknowledged as much—and a beautiful man could fluster any woman, even one in a committed, satisfying relationship. That everyone and her sister loved Coach Carr, and I was hardly unique in Walker, Texas. That having a little crush was just the grown-up version of childhood hero worship.
But the more I tried to convince myself, the more the wall of denial crumbled. And this time, there was no stopping the realization that hit me hard in the gut, halfway between Walker and Dallas: I had a thing for Lucy’s dad. A real, undeniable, heart-thudding, romantic thing.
I drove faster, forcing Coach from my mind, focusing on Ryan. How much I truly liked him. How perfect he was. How happy he made me.
I told myself I needed to get a grip—and fast. Coach Carr was the last person in the world I had any business having feelings for. He was too old for me. He had just lost the love of his life. He was my best friend’s father. It was insanity.
The rain fell harder, pelting my windshield, my wipers unable to keep up, the road ahead barely visible. I finally gave up and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting, breathing, denying that I was actually missing him, doing everything in my power not to think of him. But that strategy backfired, as it always does, and it didn’t help matters when Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” the most exquisitely sad song ever recorded, came on the radio. Morning will come, and I’ll do what’s right …
At some point after the rain had slowed, I got back on the road. And by the time Ryan buzzed me through his iron gate, I had pulled it together. I smiled when I saw him standing in his doorway in slippers and a black robe open at the chest.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, as I got out of the car.
“Hi, Ryan,” I said, walking to him.
He stepped off his porch, took my hand, and pulled me out of the light rain.
“What’re you doing here?” he said coyly, kissing my neck.
“I came to congratulate you in person.”
“Why, thank you,” he said, wrapping his strong arms around me and kissing me again, this time on my mouth. I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of his lips and tongue and large hands drawing me closer. Then I let him lead me upstairs to his bedroom, where he made slow, passionate love to me.
Just before sunrise, I awoke in Ryan’s arms, wanting him again. I gently untangled myself so that I could watch him sleep, stare at his gorgeous face.
At some point, his eyes fluttered open, and he gave me a half smile before reaching for me. “C’mere,” he whispered, pulling me closer and kissing the top of my head.
“You were really great last night,” I said.
“Well, I can do better,” he said, running his hand along my hip, now fully awake.
“I meant in the game,” I said with a laugh, then described one of his prettiest plays.
“Wait. Wasn’t that the first quarter?” he asked, becoming more alert.
“Yes. It was pretty early on.”
“But I thought you had to work?” he said as he rolled onto his side and propped himself up on one elbow.
“I did,” I said, then gave him a choppy explanation about watching the game with Coach, in reporter mode. “A journalist can’t turn down that kind of opportunity.”
I moved toward him, putting my cheek on his chest, my right leg and arm clutching him like a koala bear. It was an intimate maneuver, but really had more to do with wanting to escape his eyes.
“Did you tell him about us?” he asked.
“No. Not exactly.”
“Why not?”
“I don’t know. What would I have told him? That we’re having sex?” I said, trying to be playful, and perhaps fishing a little.
“Jeez. I think it’s a little more than that,” Ryan said, his fingers combing through my hair.
I smiled to myself and asked a shameless follow-up. “Oh? Is it?”
“Yes. You know it is,” Ryan whispered.
After a stretch of silence, he said, “So you watched that whole game with him and never mentioned that we are seeing each other?”
Flustered, I said, “Well … he definitely knows about us.”
“How do you know?”
“Because Miller showed up,” I said. “Of all people. And he told him.”
Ryan bolted upright, one of his many hard body parts clipping my chin as he switched on the light and said, “You saw Miller last night?” His eyes were intense; his whiskers seemed much darker than they’d looked just a few hours before.
I looked up at him, my eyes adjusting to the light as I tried to interpret what was happening, why he seemed to be so upset. Could he actually be bothered that I had seen Miller? Was he jealous? It seemed far-fetched, but because I had no other explanation, I said, “Yeah. He showed up out of the blue. It was actually pretty annoying. Coach and I were having a serious conversation about—”
“How long did he stay? Did Coach leave first?” His voice became strained and loud as he crossed his arms, muscles flexing in his chest and arms. He was definitely pissed.
“Ryan … C’mon. You can’t be jealous of Miller.”
“Of course I’m not jealous of Miller,” he snapped. “That guy is a stoner loser.” The indictment sounded so much worse coming from him than from Lucy, and I felt an odd surge of protectiveness.
“That’s harsh,” I said.
“Wow. You’re still sleeping with him,” Ryan said. “Aren’t you?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. “Of course I’m not still sleeping with him.”
“Do you still care about him?”
“As a friend. That’s it. Look. I can’t control who walks into the Third Rail … And Coach invited him to sit down. It was no big deal. The three of us sat around watching you play. We were all happy for you. Miller was happy for you.”
“Yeah, right.”
It had been a long time since I had inspired jealousy in anyone, and I found it incredible to believe that Ryan and I were actually having this conversation. It was flattering, but also unsettling.
“It was no big deal. I’m over him. He’s over me. He’s got a girlfriend,” I said, rambling about Nan Buxbaum, then adding a gratuitous footnote. “I bet they get engaged soon.”
Ryan stared at me for a few beats longer. “Okay,” he finally said, turning off the lamp and putting his head back on the pillow. “I’m sorry.”
I told him he had nothing to be sorry for.
After a long beat, he said, “Can you just promise me one thing?”
“Sure. What’s that?” I said, wanting to make him happy.
“Promise me that you won’t see anyone else,” he said. “Because I know I can be old-fashioned … But I believe in monogamy. And I want you all to myself
.”
“I promise,” I said, surprised by how quickly things were moving.
“I promise, too,” he said, then sealed our pact with a long, intense kiss—the kind that always leads to more.
Seventeen
A week later, after we drummed Oklahoma State on the road to move up three spots in the polls, J.J. and his wife, Mary Ann, threw me a going-away party, even though I’d been insisting that I wasn’t really “going” anywhere and that everyone would see me just as often. I dreaded being the center of attention, and hoped that once things got under way, it would feel like a generic party with the usual athletic department suspects. But when I pulled up to the Justuses’ house and spotted Ryan’s black Porsche, I knew there would be nothing generic about the evening. Nothing ever was when Ryan was involved. I couldn’t help feeling a jolt of annoyance that he was here when I had specifically not mentioned the party to him or told anyone at work we were dating. I decided that Lucy had to have orchestrated the appearance of Walker’s golden child, as low-key was never her default position.
I got out of my car and walked inside the house, finding Ryan in the foyer, handing Mary Ann a bottle of wine as she gushed about how thrilled she was to see him, how wonderfully he had been playing, how proud we all were of him. As they both spotted me and turned to say hello, I managed to change my attitude, shifting into grateful mode. I might not like this sort of thing, but it was really nice of everyone, Ryan included. He walked the few steps over to me, slid his arm around my waist, and kissed me on the lips, leaving little doubt about the nature of our relationship, while Mary Ann complimented my teal dress.
“I got it at Lucy’s. Thank you. And thank you so much for tonight,” I said as the three of us moved toward the living room, which was already filled with voices and laughter.
“Surprised?” Ryan whispered to me in the hall, his arm now casually draped across my shoulder.
“Yes. Very. Thank you for coming,” I said, smiling up at him, bracing myself for our grand entrance.
“Of course, babe. I wouldn’t have missed it,” he said. Then he kissed me once more, this time in plain view of Scott Street, our head trainer, and Tim Seymour, the academic counselor whom Coach jokingly referred to as “the grim reaper” because he only came knocking with bad news. Scott and Tim both looked surprised to see Ryan, and it occurred to me that my relationship would trump my new job, the former being the more impressive accomplishment in most everyone’s eyes.
Trying to act as natural as possible, I began my round of hellos and hugs, observing, as I frequently did at such gatherings, how eclectic the group was, just about as diverse as it could be given that we all worked at a small private college in Texas. Gay and straight, black and white, young and old. It was one of the things I loved about sports: all the built-in diversity and intense bonding that came with having one huge thing in common. We really were like a tight-knit family, as Mrs. Carr had always said. Although our patriarch had not yet arrived, Lucy was already working the room, with Neil at her side. Wearing a gorgeous coral pantsuit with several long strands of pearls, she glowed. Even her hair had been freshly highlighted with wide streaks of golden blond. She rushed over to give me a big hug. Her mood was infectious, and I instantly absolved her from her ensuing admission that she and Ryan were indeed in cahoots.
“I know you don’t like surprises, but …”
“But what?” I said, smiling but trying to prove a point.
“But … sur-prise!” she said, high-fiving Ryan as if they’d just completed a tactical military invasion. Meanwhile, Coach Carr made his understated but still grand entrance, in a polo and khakis, strolling over to us just as Ryan headed to the makeshift bar to get me a glass of champagne.
“Hello, girls. You both look so pretty,” he said, reminding me of how he talked to us when we were teenagers, before a dance or party.
“Hi, Daddy,” Lucy said, kissing her father’s cheek.
“Hi, Coach,” I said, feeling the warmth of being near him, while doing my best to push away my recent unsettling epiphany. “How was practice?”
“Other than the fact that our o-line is as useless as a screen door on a submarine?”
I burst out laughing, then recalled another recent colorful colloquialism slamming our linemen. “Slightly less damning than being an ashtray on a motorcycle?”
He raised his brow and said, “Maybe not. Least smoking on a bike won’t kill you.”
I smiled as Ryan returned with two glasses of champagne. He handed me one, then gave Coach a hearty, manly hug and told him it was great to see him.
Coach smiled and said, “You, too, son. Hell of a game last Monday night.”
“Yes, I heard you watched with Shea. And Miller,” Ryan said, with a calculated grimace.
Fortunately I had told Lucy about the odd Miller exchange with Ryan, so she was quick to defend me. “Yeah. Shea said it was annoying the way he just showed up out of the blue and glommed on to her conversation with Daddy.”
I looked at her, thinking that hadn’t been what I’d said at all, but I knew what she was doing and appreciated her effort on my behalf. I still felt compelled to throw Miller a bone, though. “He means well,” I said, glancing at Coach, who nodded his agreement.
Ryan wasn’t going to let it go so easily. “He’s a mess.”
Lucy nodded. “ ‘Mess’ is an understatement.”
I changed the subject back to football, as Coach covertly checked his watch, confirming my suspicion that he had only shown up to be nice and was biding his time until he could leave. Sure enough, about thirty minutes later, after we’d both drifted into different conversations, he found me again, tapped me on the shoulder, and said he really needed to go prep for the next game.
I nodded and told him I understood.
“I brought you a little something. It’s in my car. Want to come out with me and grab it?” he asked.
“Okay,” I said, feeling happier than I should have.
“I meant to give you this thing the other night,” he said as we walked to the foyer. “But then Miller showed up … and I forgot.”
I nodded, both of us falling silent as we walked outside, then over to his car. I stood in the grass, watching as he opened the passenger door, reached down on the floor, and grabbed a flat, rectangular package, wrapped in brown paper.
He handed it to me and said, “Consider it a congratulations and good-luck gift rolled into one.”
Relieved that he hadn’t called it a “goodbye” gift, I took it from him and said, “I don’t know what to say … Thanks, Coach.”
“You’re welcome, girl,” he said, his eyes switching on, becoming all twinkly. “I’m real proud of you.” He bit his lower lip on the right side and said, “Now go back in there and enjoy yourself. And don’t let Ryan steal all your thunder.”
“Thanks, Coach,” I said again and very nearly hugged him.
I didn’t, though, just stood there as he got in his car and drove away. Feeling light-headed, I went back inside, hoping nobody had missed me. But as I stowed the package in the foyer, Lucy emerged from the hall powder room, her quick mind processing every detail.
“Where were you? What’s that?” she said, staring down at my gift.
“Outside,” I said. “Your dad gave me something.”
“What did he give you?”
I shrugged and said I didn’t know.
“Well, open it!”
“Later.”
“No. Now. I’m so curious to see what he came up with without my mother’s help!”
Her delivery was straightforward, but I knew her well enough to know what she was thinking. That he had gone to a lot of trouble for me, just months after he had completely forgotten her birthday. I felt a guilty pang as she scooped up the package and walked back toward the party.
“Look, Neil!” she announced as everyone paused and watched her. “My dad got Shea a present! Wasn’t that sweet of him?”
Neil nodded and smiled, but
something in his eyes confirmed my hunch. It was fleeting, but I could see the look of sympathy or consolation. I was suddenly sure that they had discussed my friendship with her dad—and equally certain that she had confessed her feelings of jealousy—or at least frustration that she and her father seemed to have such trouble connecting when it was so effortless for him and me.
Ryan and a half dozen other guests followed her over to the sofa, where she instructed me to sit and open it. My cheeks burned as I carefully peeled back the paper to reveal a matted and framed newspaper article. I recognized it immediately as the first full-length feature I had written for my high school newspaper, nearly twenty years ago. It was a rambling ode titled “Why We Love Walker” along with a photo I had snapped myself of Coach Carr at practice, and another one of Walker’s then quarterback, Adam Gipe, dropping back in the pocket, his arm cocked, ready for a bullet pass. Next to my byline, in a patch of white space, Coach Carr had scrawled with a Sharpie: “We love you, too, girl. Knew you could do it! Coach C.”
As everyone processed what it was, there was a chorus of oohs and aahs as J.J. seized the moment to hand me a teal fountain pen and a Walker lamp, both of which I recognized from the school store. “This is from everyone here,” J.J. said, his voice turning formal. “To thank you for two decades of diligent service.”
“Two decades?” I said. “It hasn’t been that long.”
J.J. reminded me of the volunteer work I had done as a kid, detailing some of the more mundane tasks. I smiled, as Roxann Moody, our equipment manager, cupped her hand around her mouth and yelled, “Speech! Speech!”
Flanked by Lucy and Ryan, I bit the bullet and thanked everyone for coming, telling them how much I appreciated the gifts, then giving a special thanks to J.J. and Mary Ann, followed by a reminder that I’d still see everyone often. I closed by raising my glass and saying, “Go Broncos.” Everyone clapped and whistled, and I thought I was in the clear. But then Ryan quieted the crowd again and said, “I’d like to say something.”