“Do you get the feeling that it’s now or never?” he asked.
“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Why do we feel that way?”
“Because,” he said. “We’re so close. I can’t imagine getting this close again. It could take years. And I’m sixty-one. I don’t have that kind of time.”
“I know,” I said. “You have to be so good … But so damn lucky, too.” I crossed my fingers, stared up at the ceiling of the atrium, and prayed for the hundredth time since that morning.
“You think we’ll pull it off?” he said.
I shrugged, thinking that when it really, truly mattered, I never had a good gut feeling. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have faith in my team, but that I maintained the truest fans always reverted to a doomsday position in the same way that parents always worried about tragedy befalling their children. Love made things feel precarious, and, when you got right down to it, everything in life was tenuous and fleeting and ultimately tragic. Yes, someone would win this game, and two teams in the country would go on to play for a championship in January. And someone would win that game. And a few seniors at one program in the nation would end their careers on a jubilant high note. But for many, many more, the college football season would end in utter disappointment. Even heartbreak. Just like life.
J.J. slapped me on the back and said, “When’s the last time you tossed your cookies like that before a game?”
“The Cotton Bowl,” I said.
“Well, that’s a good sign, no?”
“Yep,” I said, having already thought of that superstitious angle. Because, no matter how pessimistic I was before a big game, I never stopped looking for signs, never stopped praying for the right alignment of stars over the Brazos River.
As it turned out, there was no need to pace, puke, or pray. Because Walker kicked the shit out of Texas. We were faster, sharper, and better on nearly every play. It was an art and a science and a thing of beauty and a glorious act of God, the final scoreboard glowing brighter than the moon: Walker 28, Texas 0.
Buoyant, I sprinted to the press conference, counting down the minutes until I could see Coach, hear him recapping the game with his usual matter-of-fact preamble. When he walked in, he scanned the room as if looking for something or someone. Then he spotted me, standing in the back with a couple of guys from The Dallas Morning News. Our eyes locked, and he threw me a wink. My insides melted, and I couldn’t help but grin back at him.
“Let me guess,” one of the reporters next to me said in a snide voice. “You went to Walker.”
“Yep. And let me guess. You went to UT-Austin,” I said, knowing that he had. The Austin infuriated Longhorn fans, who liked to think of their school as the University of Texas—which his irate expression confirmed.
A few seconds later, the press conference was under way, and I furiously scribbled notes and quotes, waiting until the end to ask my own question.
“Yes? Shea,” Coach said, pointing to me.
“Congratulations on an undefeated regular season,” I began, wanting these to be my first postgame words to him.
“Thank you,” he said, nodding, waiting for the question.
I took a deep breath and said, “So … We all know that you’ve had an exceptionally difficult year … and I was hoping you might say a few words about what this season has meant to you personally.”
Coach nodded, his face somber. “Yes, this year has been enormously difficult and emotional for me and for my children, Lucy and Lawton … My wife, Connie, meant everything to us and this program and community, and there’s been a void without her …” He stopped, blinked, then looked down, seemingly rattled, and, for a few seconds, I regretted the question. But when he looked up again, he had his composure back and said, “So to end the regular season this way means a tremendous amount to me … and I think it is the ultimate tribute to her.” He cleared his throat and continued, “I’d like to thank my players, coaches, and the Bronco nation for making today possible. Thank you.”
Then he smiled, stood, and walked off the platform.
The press conference continued with Mack Brown and a couple of his key players, and I stayed, gathering a few quotes. But I already had what I needed for my story, my angle, and I left as soon as possible to rush back to the press box and write. I was getting faster, and that night, words, sentences, whole paragraphs flew from my fingers, the entire piece written in just under ninety minutes—a record. It was factual reporting, but poetic, too—and I was prouder of it than of anything I’d ever written, concluding with Coach’s quote about Mrs. Carr. I emailed it to Smiley, who wrote back, “Well done. Congrats.”
I wasn’t sure if he was congratulating me on my piece or the game, but I took it as both, and drove straight to the Third Rail, where Lucy, Neil, Lawton, and Ryan were in full celebration, along with dozens of other friends, acquaintances, and former colleagues from Walker. Every bar in town would be jamming tonight, but I couldn’t imagine more of a scene than the one here, as I was pretty sure that word had gotten out that this was Ryan’s new hangout. We all hugged and kissed and hollered and high-fived. I couldn’t remember ever feeling so grateful or euphoric after a ball game. Couldn’t remember a night more thrilling.
Until it wasn’t.
Thirty-two
“Well, well,” Ryan said, tendons appearing in his neck as he stared beyond me. “Look who it is.”
I knew who it was even before I turned around to see Miller, loping toward us, looking as happy as I’d felt only a few seconds before. When he got to the table, I saw the credit card in his hand.
I stood, considering my options. I knew that hugging him hello and whispering in his ear would be problematic, but it was the best chance I had. My only hope.
So I did just that, cutting Ryan off, sidling up to Miller, leaning in and frantically whispering, “Don’t say anything about the other night.”
Of course it backfired, as he was way too dense or drunk to catch on. “What do ya mean?” he asked in a loud voice. Then, holding it out for the world to see, announced, “I have your credit card!”
Ryan stood up, chest swelled, like he was ready to throw a punch. But in the next second, he gathered himself in a way that seemed more sinister than your garden-variety bar fight.
“What do you have there?” he asked me as Miller handed me my card.
“My credit card,” I mumbled, wedging it into my back pocket.
At this point, Lucy gave Miller a hug and said, “Good to see you, Miller. I like you so much more after a big win! Or maybe it’s just that you aren’t dating Shea anymore.” Her voice was playful.
Miller grinned but said, “Don’t be a bitch, Lucy.”
Lucy made a face, put one hand on her hip, and said, “Omigod, did y’all hear that? Miller just called me a bitch.”
“No, I didn’t,” Miller said, still grinning. “I just gave you some really good advice. Don’t be a bitch!” Then he raised his glass, leaned back, and bellowed up at the ceiling, his voice filling the bar, “Fuck Texas!”
At which point, everyone erupted in a chorus of “Fuck Texas!” Except for Ryan—who reached out and grabbed my forearm.
“Can you c’mere for a second?” he said, pulling me by my arm toward the restrooms in the back. Clearly it wasn’t a question or an invitation; it was a command.
“What are you doing?” I said, though I knew exactly what he was doing.
“Care to tell me why Miller has your credit card?” he said as he dragged me along with him.
“I left it at the bar the other night. I told you that,” I said, my heart racing.
“Yeah? So how did he end up with it?”
“I guess he … got it from the bar,” I said.
“I thought you said you didn’t see him?”
It occurred to me to layer my lie with another lie, tell him that Miller had come in after I’d left, but I knew the jig was up. Ryan was way too savvy and determined not to get to the bottom of things. “Okay. He was here. I saw him the
night before your game.”
“So you lied to me?” he said.
“I’m sorry.”
The admission must have both surprised and further outraged Ryan because he shouted, “You’re what?” Then he squeezed my arm harder. I tried to pull away, more concerned about a potential scene than anything else, but I couldn’t break free.
“I’m sorry. He did come into the bar that night … But that was it.” I pulled away again, but like with those Chinese finger traps, the harder I pulled, the tighter his grip became. “I can’t control who walks into a bar!”
He took a step toward me, backing me against a wall. “You freakin’ lied to me!” he yelled, jabbing his finger into my chest.
“I know. And I’m sorry,” I said, cringing as I made eye contact with a girl headed to the ladies’ room. She was staring at us, taking it all in.
“You’re sorry?” he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. “You say that a lot, Shea. Don’t you?”
“But I am sorry,” I said, feeling pathetic and ashamed. Not for lying but for being trapped like this, in a bar no less.
“Bullshit!” he yelled. “You’re not sorry!”
“I am, Ryan. I really am. I only lied because you were so upset about the game … and I didn’t want to make it worse. And nothing is going on … I just saw him at the bar. And he got my credit card. That was it.” I was talking as fast as I could, but nothing seemed to work.
“You just saw him?” he shouted louder as another girl stared, along with the guy she was with.
“I mean we talked … in a group … that was all.” The more I babbled, the more enraged he became. And, at one point, he grabbed my other arm, our chests inches apart, so I had no choice but to look directly into his face, veins bulging everywhere, his features distorted with rage.
“Yet he got your credit card? Huh. And how, exactly, does that work?”
“I left my card. He got it for me. That was it. Do you really think he’d hand me the card in front of you if something were going on?” I was frantic now, my cheeks on fire.
“Yeah,” Ryan said. “I think he would. I think he absolutely loved disrespecting me in front of everyone.”
“Nobody’s disrespecting you,” I said. “Stop being crazy!”
“Crazy?” he said, ratcheting up his grip another notch.
“Ouch,” I said, wincing. “Ryan, that hurts. Let go!”
“I’m not crazy, Shea. You’re the one who got drunk, left your credit card, and let your ex-boyfriend pick it up for you. You’re the one who broke your promise. You’re the one who lied to me. What am I supposed to think?”
“You’re blowing this out of proportion,” I said, sweat trickling down my sides. “Let go!”
“No. Answer me. What am I supposed to think?”
My arm hurt too much to struggle, so I stopped and said, “You’re making a scene.”
“Answer the question. What am I supposed to think?”
I said I didn’t know, my voice coming out in a whimper.
“Okay. I’ll tell you what I think. I think you fucked him. Didn’t you? Admit it, Shea. You fucked him.”
“No.”
“Yes, you did,” he yelled, shaking me.
“No, Ryan,” I said, on the verge of tears. “I didn’t. I swear I didn’t. Nothing happened.”
At this point, Lucy appeared, taking everything in, her eyes wide, horrified.
“What’s going on here?” she said, as Ryan finally released me from his grip.
“Nothing’s going on here,” he said. “I’m out.”
He turned and stormed off, leaving me with Lucy. “What in the world? …” she said. “What just happened? Is this because Miller walked in?”
I got choked up but managed not to cry as I cobbled the story together, downplaying things.
She looked at the red mark on my arm and winced.
“It doesn’t hurt,” I said, wishing I had kept my jacket on.
“Omigod,” Lucy said.
In some kind of shock, I said, “I can see how bad this looks to him. God, I wish I hadn’t lied.”
“That doesn’t excuse this,” she said. “There is no excuse for this.”
“I know,” I said, although I could hear the rationalizations forming in my mind: He has big hands. He doesn’t know his strength. And the most pathetic: It’s my fault.
Lucy’s face twisted in anguish. “Shea, honey … I don’t like this. I don’t like this at all … I think maybe Blakeslee was telling the truth about him. On some level.”
Maybe. On some level. I could see and hear that she was qualifying, too, trying to find a way out for Ryan, not wanting to believe what had just happened. Surely Ryan wasn’t that person. Surely I wasn’t the girl in peril.
“I just want to go home,” I said.
“You can’t drive.”
“I’m okay to drive,” I said. “Honest.”
Lucy nodded reluctantly, then said, “Okay. Call me when you get home. I’m really worried about you.”
“Don’t be. I’ll be fine. I promise,” I said. As if that were something I could will to be true.
As I unlocked my apartment door, my cell rang. I expected it to be Lucy, or maybe Ryan, but it was Coach. His voice was filled with joy as he said hello, reminding me of what tonight was supposed to be about: Walker one step closer to the promised land.
“Hey, Coach,” I said, trying to conjure the elation I’d felt only a short time ago.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“Home.”
“Alone?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well, how ’bout that game, girl?” he said, laughing, giddy. “How ’bout that game?”
“It was great. Awesome. I’m so happy for you. And proud of you,” I said, trying to sound the way I would if I hadn’t just been manhandled.
I must not have done a good job, because he said, “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said, finding my way to the sofa and curling up in a fetal position, the phone pressed to my ear.
“C’mon. What’s going on? Talk to me.”
I took a deep breath and said, “I got into an argument with Ryan. At the Third Rail. That’s all.”
“Oh, boy,” Coach said, suddenly somber. “What about?”
“Same old stuff,” I said. “He still thinks I have a thing for Miller. Which I don’t. Obviously.”
“And he got jealous?”
“Yeah. And really angry … It was bad.”
“What happened? Do you want to talk about it?”
I didn’t really, but I felt that I had to explain, at least in broad strokes. “We were at the Third Rail with Lucy and Neil … celebrating … and …” My voice cracked, but I kept going. “Miller walked in and Ryan got mad and things just turned ugly.”
“Ugly?”
“Yeah,” I said, thinking that word summed it up better than any other. “On Ryan’s end. Miller was his usual happy self.”
“What did Ryan do?”
“You know … he just … lost his temper and acted stupid …”
“Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I said, remembering the way those people in the bar had looked at me. With voyeuristic pity and concern. The opposite of the way people usually looked at me when I was with Ryan. “I’m fine.”
“Do you want me to come over?”
The answer was both yes and no, so I said, “I don’t know …” And then, because I had the feeling that he was just worried about me and trying to do the right thing, I said, “You don’t have to do that. I really am okay.”
“I know I don’t have to. I want to see you,” he said, and, for a few seconds, there seemed to be nothing complicated about our situation. He was simply a man who liked a woman. I could hear it in his voice. I was sure of it, and, despite everything that had happened, I felt a little rush that Coach wanted to share such a special night with me.
“I want to see you, too,” I said.
“All right, then,” he said. “I just need to make a few phone calls, and I’ll be over.”
“Okay,” I said again, frozen in the same position, not even moving the warm phone from my face for several seconds after Coach said goodbye and hung up. I calculated that, with his calls and the drive over, I had at least twenty minutes, just enough time to take a quick hot shower and pull myself together. Fighting an overwhelming sense of fatigue, I willed myself to sit up, text Lucy that I was home safe, then walk down the hall, into my bedroom, then my bathroom, where I began undressing. When I took off my jeans, the credit card fell from my back pocket onto the tile floor. I stared down at it but left it there, then pulled my sweater over my head, both arms, especially my left, throbbing. Then I took off my underwear, staring at my naked self in the mirror. From a straight-on view, I couldn’t see the marks on my arms, which somehow made me feel better. I took a few steps to my shower and turned on the water to the hottest setting, wondering if what had happened in the bar had made me a statistic.
Waiting for the water to get hot, I decided that it was too minor to qualify, then told myself not to be so stupid. Of course it counted. It didn’t matter, though, because, either way, I was going to end things with Ryan the first chance I got. For a lot of reasons. Because he didn’t trust me—and nothing would ever work without trust. Because I didn’t really love him, and I knew I never would. But mostly because he had crossed a very clear line.
I stepped into the shower, breathing in the steam, letting the water stream down over my back, then my face, thinking of how many reports and stories I’d read over the years about girls showering after an “incident.” It had always made sense, but now it really made sense. I hadn’t been seriously injured, but I still felt violated.
After another few minutes, I turned off the water, stepped out of the shower, and wrapped a towel around my body. I glanced back toward the mirror, but it was too steamed up to show my reflection, and I was grateful for that. I took a few deep breaths, thinking about Coach, then walked back into my bedroom.
And that’s when I saw him, sitting there on the edge of my bed.