Ryan whispered. “I want you, too, sweetie.”
“I like when you call me sweetie,” I said as I ran my fingers through his hair, admiring the texture.
“You are my sweetie,” he said—and at that moment, I not only believed him but felt sure that nothing was going on with Blakeslee or any other woman.
I watched as he sat up and took off his T-shirt, exposing his lats, pecs, triceps, and all those other muscles I couldn’t name. I shook my head, blown away by his body, and he smiled, because he knew exactly what I was thinking—that he was a sublime male specimen. Wishing I were the female equivalent, I unsnapped the front closure of my bra, then pressed my body against his, nestling deeper into our cocoon on the couch. “See how soft it is?”
I meant the blanket, but it sounded like I meant my own body, and he said, “Oh, yes, you are,” which turned me on because I could tell he was turned on.
“And you … you are a friggin’ underwear ad. Your body is so sick that it makes me …”
“It makes you what?” he breathed.
“It makes me almost not like you,” I said.
“C’mon, now. Don’t say that,” he said, smiling.
“Well, it’s intimidating,” I said, covering myself, thinking that I had really outkicked my coverage with Ryan. He was way out of my league. “You’re intimidating.”
He moved my hand away, then caressed my stomach. “I love your body, too. Right here,” he whispered.
I believed him so much that I stopped sucking in my stomach as he lifted me up off the couch, blanket and all, and carried me back to the bedroom. It was a first. Other guys, including Miller, had carried me to bed before, but it was the first time I hadn’t felt completely awkward, like deadweight, in the process. Ryan made me feel lithe, light, downright graceful in his arms, my hands clasped around his neck. He held my gaze as he effortlessly lowered me to the bed, more muscles flexing in the warm glow of my bedside lamp, just the right amount of light to hide some of my flaws but still illuminate his perfection.
“Do you want music?” I said.
Standing over me, he shook his head slowly, then kneeled on the floor in front of me. I tried to sit up, but he pushed me back with one callused hand, as his other hand made its way up the inside of my thigh, resting between my legs. I didn’t resist and instead raised my hips, making it easier for him to remove my black thong. Then I sat up, pulled his shoulders toward me, and said, “C’mere. I want to feel you over me.”
So he did, lying directly on top of me, his gray boxer briefs our final barrier. I ran my hands over his muscled back, and pulled his underwear down as far as my arms would allow, then wrapped my legs around him, hooking my toe into the elastic waistband and removing them the rest of the way.
“Jesus,” I said, now breathing hard, my hands on his steel-hard ass. “Jesus.”
He rubbed himself against me, teasing me, asking me if it felt good. I told him it did.
“Are you …?”
“On the pill?” I said. “Yes. Do we need anything else?”
He knew exactly what I was asking, maybe even that I was picturing that long line of Cowboy cheerleaders, and said, “No, baby. I’m very careful …”
I relaxed completely, trusting him, feeling that, even if I was one of many, surely I wasn’t one of many he trusted without a condom. Multitasking, Ryan kissed my neck while pulling down my comforter and sheets, then repositioned me forty-five degrees, my head now on a pillow. I looked up at him, but was too close to see anything but his eyes and nose, the exact part of his face you see on television through his blue and white starred helmet. He looked that intense, that focused, as he said, “You ready for this?”
“So ready,” I said. “Are you?”
“Yes, sweetie. I’m ready, too.”
Then he pushed his way inside me, only a little at first, holding back with exquisite timing and control. I opened my eyes. He opened his, looked at me, then closed them again, all his muscles flexing as he pushed deeper in me until he was the whole way inside. My God, I said more than once, along with a lot of other expletives, thinking that it was, hands down, the best purely physical sensation of my entire life. Sort of how I’d imagine it would be to try heroin, the kind of drug that can ruin your life. Instant addiction. Still muttering to myself, I lost all sense of time and space as I let him take charge. His speed changed from slow to fast, then slow again, his rhythm scary good. He turned me over, slid inside me from behind, pressing his chest into my back, holding me down, gently pulling my hair, kissing my ear, saying my name. Then, when I couldn’t stand it another second, he flipped me back over, telling me to look into his eyes. My room grew sauna hot, and I kicked off the covers, our bodies slick with sweat. I felt myself start to shake, then heard myself scream his name as we both came together.
Afterward, I fell into a coma. I couldn’t move or speak or focus on anything other than my breathing, and the thrilling realization that I’d just had the best sex of my entire life with the gorgeous starting quarterback of the Dallas fucking Cowboys.
The next morning, I opened my eyes from a sound sleep to find Ryan standing over my bed. He was fully dressed and wearing his clothes from the night before, but he looked freshly showered, his dark hair damp and precisely styled. I tried to gather myself, pulling my own tangled hair away from my face and wiping my mouth on the back of my hand.
“Was I drooling?” I asked, thinking that stealth early-morning grooming was the worst kind of unfair advantage over a girl who was already the underdog.
“No. You’re a very pretty sleeper,” Ryan said.
“Thanks,” I said. It was actually a compliment I’d heard before.
“You’re pretty when you’re asleep. Pretty when you’re awake. And you’re really pretty when I’m making love to you.” He whispered the last part, as if sharing a secret only he was lucky enough to know.
Embarrassed, I smiled, then sat up, tucking my comforter under my arms to cover myself. “Are you headed out?” I said, trying not to sound needy and noting, with relief, that I didn’t feel that way. If anything, I was actually happy to get the awkward morning-after stuff over with and send him on his way.
“Yeah. I have to. I wasn’t going to wake you,” he said, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside me. “But I didn’t want to leave without saying goodbye either.”
“It’s okay. I need to get up anyway,” I said. “I have to go to work. Women’s volleyball today. We’re hosting Penn State.”
He nodded, then reached over and cupped my cheek in his hand, a gesture that felt surprisingly intimate given that we’d done a lot more the night before. Of course maybe that’s why it felt intimate. “I’d stay and make you breakfast,” he said. “But I have practice. Then I have a couple of meetings and a four o’clock massage.”
I nodded, wondering why he was telling me his schedule. Did he think I minded that he was leaving so early? Because I didn’t. Was he laying the groundwork so he didn’t have to call me later? Because I got it, I knew he was busy. Big-time busy.
“Okay. Well. Thanks for coming over,” I said, trying to sound casual, even throwing in a fake yawn along with a stretch. “It was fun.”
I must have sounded a little too nonchalant because Ryan shook his head and said, “Fun?”
“You know what I mean,” I said, smiling.
“Fun is playing Xbox. Shooting clay pigeons. Going to the movies,” Ryan said.
“Okay. Let me try again. Last night … was amazing … mind-blowing … satisfying on every level.” I smirked and reached out to grab his hand, the covers dropping to my waist.
“That’s better. And I agree,” he said, squeezing my hand, his gaze lowering to my breasts, then slowly returning to my eyes. Everything he said and did felt deliberate and smooth, but also sincere.
We smiled at each other for a few more seconds, then his expression grew serious, almost soulful, as he said, “I really like you, Shea.”
“I really like
you, too,” I said.
“I’ve been looking for a girl like you,” he said. “And you’ve been right here. The whole time.”
I held his gaze, all my defense mechanisms firing as I considered that he could get any girl in the world he wanted. Why would he possibly choose me? Then again, why would he lie to me? Especially after I had already slept with him? I felt myself taking a small leap of faith as I said, “Yes. Here I was. The whole time.” Then I leaned in for a long kiss goodbye.
Thirteen
The night before our season opening game against Rice, Lucy called me from her dad’s house. She’d been having a rough few days, missing her mother more intensely than usual, but sounded reasonably upbeat now.
“Big day tomorrow!” she chirped into the phone.
“Yep. How’s your dad feeling?” I asked, even though I’d seen him a few hours before out on the field and could tell that he was in an optimistic zone.
“He’s getting nervous. I just made his strawberry milk shake. Thank God I thought to ask Mom for her exact recipe. I never would have known to put in the malted milk powder. And then they’d never win again.”
I laughed.
“Is he not the most superstitious person you’ve ever met?” Lucy asked me.
“I’m not superstitious,” I heard Coach say in the background.
“Oh, yeah?” Lucy said. “Strawberry milk shakes for home games? Those nasty old tube socks from 1994? Mello Yello instead of coffee when you play higher-ranked teams? Big Red gum that has to be purchased from the Parkit Market? Not the E Z Stop. Not the Chevron. Not the 7-Eleven. But the Parkit Market.”
I smiled, thinking of the time, when I was in the third grade, that I threw a pack of Big Red in my mother’s cart in the checkout line. The next time I went over to Lucy’s to play, I gave it to Coach Carr, and, after thanking me, he offhandedly asked me where I got it. I told him the grocery store, and he nodded, smiled, then kneeled down and lowered his voice to a near whisper. “Let you in on a little secret.”
“What?” I said, leaning in, starry-eyed.
“Big Red is my favorite gum and I will enjoy every last piece of this pack … But if you want the very best, luckiest Big Red that money can buy, you need to go to the Parkit Market.”
“Why?” I asked, thinking that surely it all came from the same factories, like the one my grandparents had worked at when my mom was little.
“Because the Parkit Big Red helped us beat Texas in 1985, the year you and Lucy started kindergarten.”
“But we’ve beaten them since then,” I said.
“I know,” he said, nodding gravely. “And every last time, I had Parkit Market Big Red with me.” He stood up and patted his front pocket.
I remember thinking that we had lost to Texas since then, too. And wondered if that meant he had forgotten his Big Red gum for those games. Somehow I knew that wasn’t the case, and it didn’t work that way. We might not win with the gum. But we definitely were going to lose without it. And, in any event, we weren’t going to test the theory.
I tuned back into the banter between Lucy and her dad as she said, “Shea. Get a load of this. Daddy just said, ‘Those aren’t superstitions. They’re rituals.’ ” She imitated him, getting his accent and cadence exactly right, though her pitch was way too high.
I laughed and said, “Did he catch his cricket yet?”
This practice began early in his career when he couldn’t sleep one night before a big game, blaming it on a big, noisy cricket outside his bedroom window—which he promptly got up and captured in a Mason jar. The next day Walker won, thus cementing the superstition for the duration of his coaching career.
“Oh, right! I forgot about the ritualistic capturing of the cricket! You got him yet, Daddy? Jailed in some jar in the garage?”
“Not yet,” I heard Coach say. “That comes after the milk shake.”
I smiled, as Lucy argued that anything that involved more than thirty minutes of your time, lots of cursing, and a flashlight was more than a ritual. “Right, Shea?” Lucy asked me.
“Yeah. Think I agree with you on this one,” I said. “Tell Coach I said …”
I hesitated as Lucy finished my sentence, “Good luck … I will.”
“No. Not good luck,” I said, knowing he didn’t like to be told “good luck” before a game and wondering how Lucy could have missed that nuance.
“Tell him what, then?” she said. And then—“Oh. Just tell him yourself.”
She handed him the phone, and suddenly he was there, in my ear. “Hey, girl.”
“Hey, Coach,” I said, my hand tightly gripping the phone.
“What do you got for me?” he said.
“Catch a big cricket,” I said, my heart skipping a beat.
“I’ll do my best,” he said, and I could tell he was smiling. “See you tomorrow, Shea.”
“See you tomorrow, Coach,” I said.
The following night I got to Bronco Stadium early, long before the gates opened or before I really had to be there, along with the equipment managers, security guards, and groundskeepers. It had been my routine for years, and the first glimpse of the empty, still stadium always thrilled me. Ours wasn’t the biggest, newest, or prettiest in college football (although plans were in the works for a major renovation), but, like Coach, it was still my favorite place in the world. The setting itself was picturesque enough. Horseshoe-shaped, the red-brick façade rose out of acres of grass fields with a scenic view of the Brazos River at its open end. Once you walked inside, it was a different story—the view stark and ugly—but the stadium’s aesthetic shortcomings only made me love it more. I loved the dank underbelly with its cinder-block tunnels leading to the locker rooms, the mammoth steel girders covered in layer upon layer of industrial gray paint, and the faded interior signage that dated back to the fifties. I knew every square inch of it, and it all felt like sacred ground.
Maybe it was sacrilegious to admit that I felt closer to God inside that stadium than in church on Christmas Eve, but it was the truth, and I told myself it was no different from people who find their deepest spirituality in the woods or by the sea. Yes, God made those trees and that water, unlike the steel eyesore erected in 1938 and haphazardly added on to over the decades, but I still felt Him there—especially on that night, as I found myself praying for a season to remember. A national championship season.
It was something I had been dreaming about for nearly thirty years, and, although we’d come close many times and won lots of big bowl games, it wasn’t the same as winning a national championship. Being number one. I couldn’t remember a time when I’d thrown a penny in a fountain or blown out candles on a birthday cake without making that singular, simple wish. But it was different now, the stakes even greater. We were now playing for a higher purpose, I thought, as I squinted at the blanched-white sky and thought of Connie and Coach. The sun beat down on the freshly cut field, but as I wiped sweat from my hairline, a merciful wisp of a breeze kicked up, giving the early evening a certain sweet serenity. The calm before the storm.
I walked along the painted white sideline, then crossed back over to the tunnel and headed for the ancient elevator, taking it up to the press box in search of J.J. It was time to get ready for the onslaught of reporters; in other words, it was time to stop dreaming and start working, the best medicine to ward off pregame jitters. I wasn’t that nervous, though. Not like I usually was. Maybe because nobody really questioned that we were going to beat Rice into submission, if not utter humiliation. Maybe because a winning season really did feel preordained.
A short time later, the gates opened, and all the students and fans poured in, the night unfolding exactly the way it always did. Our team took the field for old-school warm-ups. Walker’s flamboyant marching band geared up, playing their big, bold brass notes. The cheerleaders unfurled their enormous teal W banner and built pyramids to the football gods. Meanwhile the minutes and seconds ticked off the scoreboard in a final, dramatic countdow
n to the fireworks and the national anthem and the coin toss and the kickoff and the season. Like New Year’s Eve in August.
Our first possession was quick and decisive, reminding me of the famed Battle of San Jacinto, only much less bloody. Crisp completion after crisp completion, followed by a gorgeous touchdown. Then, after a sloppy Rice turnover, we had the ball again. On our second down, Reggie Rhodes touched the ball for the first time in a college game, making an impossible catch, then streaking down the field. We all watched, mesmerized, as ten yards turned into twenty, then forty, then sixty. It was an exclamation point of a play, a wake-up call to anybody left in the country who was still calling him overrated. Even the press box got a little rowdy, seasoned reporters chortling with approval. Kid’s got wheels … The real deal … Playmaker.
Midway through the first half, the sun finally drifted behind the stadium, turning the sky a brilliant pink and violet. Touchdowns aside, it was always my favorite moment of a night game, that dramatic crescendo as the velvet curtain fell, and Bo Phelps, our longtime electrician, flipped on the final few breakers, all the auxiliary lights switched to their highest setting. It was soul-soaring, seeing those fifty-two thousand people in full, glowing teal Technicolor. I looked down to the sidelines to find Coach, the only one not yet smiling.
But when I saw him outside our locker room after the game, the 41–zip score in the books, he finally looked happy.
“Must have caught a big cricket,” I said.
Coach smiled, his sideburns and the front of his shirt damp with sweat. “Sure did,” he said. “Now I can let him go. Lucky fella.”
I laughed. “And if we hadn’t won?”
“Fishing bait,” he said, winking.
“Ahh,” I said. “I didn’t know that.”
I knew I had already taken up too much of his time, and that I needed to get back to the press box to hand out stat sheets, but I couldn’t resist another quick comment. “That’s one down,” I said.
“Yup. And twelve to go,” he said—which I knew included the eleven games left on our schedule, plus what we all hoped would be the national championship game. “A very long way.”