The One and Only

  “Mason jars,” I said, annoyed at myself for bringing Coach up. It was like an involuntary reflex, and I wondered when Ryan was going to catch on. He was so perceptive, and given his jealous tendencies, I was surprised that he hadn’t yet. But the fact that he had not also underscored how far-fetched the whole notion of Coach and me was. I had revisited the look that Coach Carr gave me in his house at least a hundred times and had gone from feeling starry-eyed to foolish. Surely, it had to have been in my head.

  I changed the subject as quickly as I could and asked Ryan if he was ready for the game tomorrow. He said yes, then detailed some of the reasons: great practice, sound strategy in place, knee feeling good, Philly’s secondary sucks. I never tired of the inside scoop, and never would, but the starstruck feeling had finally, mostly, faded, replaced with the belief that I belonged in his world.

  “What are you going to do tonight?” Ryan asked. There was an edge in his voice tipping me off that the Third Rail might be the wrong answer—and that I probably shouldn’t confide that I was suddenly craving beer freshly poured from a tap as opposed to one opened from my refrigerator.

  So I said, “Oh, I don’t know. Not much. Just laying low.”

  “Good girl,” he said in a way that was equal parts condescending and nurturing. I decided to focus on the latter, especially when he asked me for the tenth time if I had my VIP parking pass, and then reminded me that the tickets were under my name at will call.

  “Yes. Thank you,” I said.

  “Are you sure you don’t need a couple more?”

  “I’m sure. Thank you,” I said, thinking that, for a pampered star with multiple assistants, housekeepers, personal chefs, trainers, and sports psychologists on his staff, he really could play the caretaker, too.

  “You’re ready to meet my folks?” he said.

  “Yes. I can’t wait,” I said. The statement was true, but it had as much to do with curiosity about his father and a sick need for one-upmanship over Astrid and Bronwyn as anything else.

  “Good,” Ryan said. “It’ll be a fun day. If we win.”

  “You will,” I said. “All right. I better hang up before I rear-end someone. I’ll text you before nine.”

  “No. Call me,” he said.

  “Okay,” I said, bristling just a bit. I told myself that I was being completely unfair to him. He simply wanted to say good night before he went to bed. That was it—and it was sweet. A sign of a good boyfriend. A great boyfriend. I told myself to go home and get some rest. That I might not be playing football, but that I had a pretty big day tomorrow, too.

  Yet I couldn’t resist the magnetic pull of the Third Rail, and forty-five minutes later, I was saddled up to the bar, ordering a Blue Moon on draft with extra oranges. The place was unusually packed, and I knew, or at least recognized, a good dozen people, including several girls from my high school class. In the way of small towns, most had stayed put in Walker after graduation, many not bothering with college at all, so it wasn’t unusual to bump into classmates. But around the holidays, there were always a few homecoming surprises—faces you hadn’t seen in years.

  That night, I spotted Michelle Sheffield, a girl in the class behind me whom I’d always really liked and who now lived in San Francisco. We gave each other a big hug, then exchanged updates. I told her about my job at the Post, while she shared that she was practicing patent law. It was refreshing to discuss jobs—rather than mommy updates, which was the typical conversation when I ran into someone from Walker.

  I glanced at her bare ring finger and said, “So you’re still single?”

  “Yep,” Michelle said.

  “Me, too,” I said.

  She smirked and said, “Yes, but I hear you have a boyfriend.”

  I nodded.

  “So it’s true? You really are dating Ryan James?”

  I tried to smile modestly.

  “Wow. That’s so cool. How did that happen? Did you meet him through your job?”

  “We went to college together,” I said. “So we’ve been friends for a while now.”

  “What’s he like?”

  “He’s cool … He’s … really nice.”

  She stared at me, waiting for more, so I added, “He’s very intense. Competitive. Focused. What you would expect of a quarterback playing at that level.”

  “Does he get recognized everywhere you go?”

  “Yeah. But we really don’t go out that much. He lays pretty low during the season. We mostly just stay in and watch movies. Stuff like that. Although he’s pretty outgoing and extroverted … Very smart. He’s great,” I finished.

  “That’s soo cool,” Michelle said again. “Do you think you’ll get married?”

  I shrugged and said, “Oh, who knows? He just got divorced—so I can’t imagine that that would happen for a long time, if at all … Though we are doing the whole meet-the-parents thing tomorrow. But enough about Ryan James. You’re the one with the glamorous California life.”

  Michelle smiled and gave me her updates, as we ordered another round, and then another, playing pool and bumping into various other friends and acquaintances. It was a nice commingling of groups from high school and Walker. At some point, I spotted Miller with a bearded hipster type and went to say hello. Miller introduced me to his friend Lion, explaining that he was an artist, originally from Boston, now teaching a sculpture class at Walker after a gig at UCLA. Clearly Miller had met him through his professor girlfriend, and I thought how amusing it was that someone like Miller had found his way into an academic clique.

  “Hey. You’re a sculptor, huh? That’s cool,” I said, shaking his hand, always grateful for new blood. “Welcome to Walker.”

  “Lion has a kid,” Miller announced, seemingly mystified, as if he’d told me that Lion was once a conjoined twin.

  Lion caught it, too, laughing. “Yeah. Crazy, huh?”

  “Forgive him. Miller can’t imagine responsibility greater than getting the mail,” I said.

  “Shit. I forgot to get the mail again!” Miller said.

  Lion laughed and said, “Well, I couldn’t imagine it either … I just found out about him four years ago. His mother never told me she was pregnant.”

  “Wow. How old is he now?”

  “Ten.”

  “Damn. You’re kidding me,” I said, grateful, not for the first time, to be a woman. It was the one bit of news that could never be sprung on you.

  “Nope. But it’s all cool now. Charlie’s a great kid.”

  I nodded, telling him he needed to bring his son to a Walker football game.

  “And a Cowboys game,” Miller said, grinning, as Michelle returned from the bathroom. Within seconds, he was working her over, cracking her up.

  “Don’t you have a girlfriend?” I said, now buzzed.

  “Yeah. But she’s a freethinker,” Miller said with a wink. “She’d love Michelle here. If you get my drift.”

  I rolled my eyes and muttered, “Pig.”

  “How’s your boyfriend? You two engaged yet? I heard you’re meeting his parents.”

  “I am meeting his parents. But, no, we’re not engaged,” I said, thinking it was the worst part about living in a small town—word traveled fast. About everything.

  “Your dad coming in?” Miller asked.

  I nodded. “He’s here already. I’m avoiding him as we speak.”

  “Maybe Ryan’s going to ask him for your hand.”

  “You’re an idiot,” I said.

  He playfully slapped my ass and said, “You love it.”

  I punched his shoulder as hard as I could but recognized that I wasn’t as offended as I probably should have been. He was harmless—always had been.

  “Ow!” Miller yelled, then turned to Lion and Michelle and said, “Shea dumped me for Ryan. But it’s all good. I get it. I’d dump me for Ryan, too. I mean, gym teacher—or pro quarterback?”

  Michelle laughed, and I could tell she was into him.

  “We broke up because you??
?re an idiot. End of story.” I smiled, and he grinned back at me.

  “It’s cool,” he said. “I’m not really the marrying kind.”

  Michelle got into the fray after that, trying to psychoanalyze him and, thereby, all bachelors, while I ordered shots of Jack—with beers for chasers. It occurred to me as I started a tab that it wasn’t the wisest decision to tie one on the night before meeting my boyfriend’s parents, but I was already impaired enough to come up with a handful of rationalizations.

  So I kept going, drinking, laughing, playing pool, even dancing, feeling merrier by the minute, full of goodwill toward all, even background players and characters two degrees removed. We all had Walker in common, in one way or another, a point I made over a boisterous, heartfelt toast.

  “Do you realize,” I began, feeling much more profound than the words that escaped my lips, “that we all either come from this town or now live in this town?”

  “Whoa,” Miller said, mocking me. “That is quite an observation. Since we’re all getting shitfaced in this shit box of a town.”

  “It’s not a shit box,” I said. “It’s about to be the home of the best team in college football coached by the most amazing, incredible …”

  “Aw, please!” Miller shouted over me. “Here we go again!”

  “What?” I said, wobbling a little as I looked up at him.

  “The hero worship. Fuck. It never ends.”

  “Shut up,” I said.

  But Miller was as drunk as I was and kept shouting, pontificating to his audience. “Coach Carr! That’s who she’s really in love with. Not me. Not Ryan. But Coach Cliiiiive Carr.”

  Michelle gave Miller an incredulous snort and said, “That’s Lucy’s dad. Her best friend’s dad.”

  “So?”

  “He’s way too old for her,” Michelle added.

  “Shea doesn’t mind,” Miller said, shaking his head. Then he pointed at me and said, “See? Look at her. Look at her face.”

  Whatever had been on my face, I instantly changed to an exaggerated scowl.

  “She’s in love with Lucy’s old man. Always has been. Always will be. I saw them in here one night together.” He looked at me and said, “You gonna deny that?”

  “We were working,” I said. “I’m a reporter. He coaches the team I cover. We have a working relationship.”

  “The hell.”

  I denied it again, as strenuously as I could, but, in my impaired state, a small part of me loved what Miller was saying about us. So the next words out of my mouth were “You know what? I’m going to call him now and tell him what you’re saying about him.”

  Then I walked across the bar and out the door. The crisp night nearly knocked some sense into me, but not enough, apparently, because I dialed Coach’s number.

  “Qué pasa?” he said, his voice chipper.

  “I’m at the Third Rail,” I announced. “You should come over.”

  He laughed and said, “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?” I said. “You did it before.”

  “That was a Monday night. That was an exception. Probably shouldn’t have done it that night.”

  “But I want to see you,” I said.

  “I want to see you, too,” he said. Plain as that.

  Shocked, I said, “Well, then. Come over.”

  “I can’t.”

  “Then I’ll come over there,” I said, staring up at the sky. “Do you know there’s a full moon tonight?”

  “It’s not full. Not quite,” he said. “How much have you had to drink?”

  “A few …”

  “Then you can’t drive.”

  “I’m not. I wouldn’t. I’m going to take a cab. To your house.”

  “No. You can’t do that. People will talk.”

  “And why would they talk? Nothing’s going on. Is there?” my voice rose in a flirting, leading lilt.

  He laughed and said, “Okay, girl. Stay put. I’m coming to get you.”

  “I’m ready,” I said. “Come and get me.”

  “I’ll be there in ten. Go around to the Monroe Street side … and be careful.”

  “What about my car?” I said.

  “You can get it tomorrow.”

  “Okay.”

  “Stay put.”

  “Okay … Coach?”

  “Yeah, girl?”

  “Hurry,” I whispered.

  Ten minutes later, long enough for me to say goodbye to my friends and lie about calling a cab, Coach pulled onto Monroe, slowed, stopped, and waited for me to open the passenger door. I climbed in, leaned over to pat his arm, and gave him a big, silly grin.

  He smiled back at me but then said, “So, tell me the truth. How much did you really have to drink?”

  “A few,” I said, putting on my seat belt. “A lot.”

  He shook his head. “I wish you wouldn’t do that. I’ve told you before—you should always be in control.”

  “I am in control.”

  He glanced over at me and said, “Oh? You sure about that?”

  “Very sure about that,” I said, suddenly remembering my credit card, still at the bar. I texted Miller and said, My tab’s still running. Have one on me!!

  He wrote back right away. Will order a round for the whole bar. Cheers!

  “What an ass,” I slurred, smiling.

  “Who’s that?”

  “Miller,” I said. “But nah … he’s not so bad.”

  “No,” Coach said. “He’s not so bad. Just wasn’t right for you.”

  “Who is?” I said coyly.

  He smiled but didn’t answer. When we got to the stoplight on Jefferson, he turned on the radio, found Rascal Flatts singing “These Days,” and started drumming on the steering wheel. When the light turned green, he went straight instead of turning right toward his house.

  “Where are you going?” I asked him.

  “I’m taking you home.”

  “But I wanted to go to your house.”

  Coach shook his head. “You need to sleep. Besides, we all know what happened last time you came over.”

  “What happened?”

  “Lucy,” he said. “Remember?”

  “Did you get an earful, too?” I said.

  “Oh, yeah. I was interrogated.”

  “What did you tell her?”

  Coach cracked a smile, glanced at me sideways, and said, “You really are quite the little reporter, aren’t you?”

  “I’m not little,” I said, puffing out my chest and running my hands through my hair to make it fuller. “I’m … statuesque.”

  He grinned. “That you are,” he said, glancing down at my legs before returning his eyes to the road.

  I reached over and turned up the radio as Carrie Underwood and Brad Paisley’s “Remind Me” came on, announcing how much I loved the song, then joining in, despite my terrible singing voice. “If you still love me, don’t just assume I know!”

  A few seconds later, we pulled in to my complex. “Which unit are you?”

  I pointed straight ahead. “That one.”

  He parked in a guest spot but let the song end before he turned the ignition off, staring straight ahead, his face serious. Then he got out of the car, came around to my door, and opened it. Still sitting, I looked up at him, our eyes locking. “What?” I asked, without moving, just staring.

  He reached down, took my hand, and gently pulled me out of the seat.

  “I don’t think Luce would like this very much either,” I said.

  “Me giving you a safe ride home?”

  “No. You taking me by the hand.”

  “She’d understand that it’s for your own drunk good,” he said, leading me over to the cement path lined with trodden-down white and purple pansies.

  “I’m meeting Ryan’s parents tomorrow,” I offered, out of the blue. “And he’s meeting mine.”

  “And you’ll be hungover.”

  “Worth it.”

  “How do you figure?”

&
nbsp; “Because you’re here,” I said. “Holding my hand.”

  He smiled but dropped my hand, moving his arm around my waist, guiding me toward the open-air staircase, then up two flights to my door. I fumbled in my purse for my keys, found them, and slowly unlocked the door. Then I walked in, holding the door open, hoping he’d follow me. He did, and, before he could change his mind, I closed it behind him, then dead-bolted it. Amused, he shook his head, then peered around my dark living room, his eyes resting on the framed article he’d given me, leaning on my mantel.

  “Looks good,” he said.

  “I love it,” I said.

  “I’m glad.”

  “I love that it’s from you.”

  Coach nodded. “Good. Now go to bed.” He pointed down the dark hall toward my bedroom.

  “I’m not sleepy,” I said.

  “Count sheep.”

  I made a face.

  “But first drink some water and take a couple Tylenol.”

  “Okay,” I said. “But one question first.”

  “One question.”

  “Why do you think Lucy doesn’t want us to spend time together?”

  “I don’t know what makes Lucy tick.”

  “Take a guess. Or I’m going to ask another question.”

  He smirked, looked up at the ceiling, then reached out and took my hand again.

  “Because,” he said, squeezing it, taking one step closer to me. “Because I think she knows.”

  “She knows what?” I said, inhaling his aftershave. My heart swelled, and I felt dizzy—dizzier than I already was—as I imagined how easy it would be for me to lean in and kiss him.

  “Nope,” he said, pulling back his hand and shaking his finger at me. At first I thought he meant no, I couldn’t kiss him, but then he said, “You said one question. And I answered it. Now. To bed. Go.”

  His face was in a shadow, but I heard in his next deep breath that he was feeling something. We both stood frozen, staring, waiting, for a long few seconds, before he turned around, undid the dead bolt, and opened the door.

  “Goodbye, girl,” he breathed, now standing in the doorway.

  “Goodbye, Coach,” I said as the door closed behind him.

  I exhaled, pressed my cheek and palm against the metal door, and closed my eyes. His voice came back from the other side. “Lock the door and go to bed.”