The One And Only Part 19

"But I think she was waiting for her turn. Someday. There was so much that she wanted to do when Clive retired ... See the world. Live abroad. She talked about Vienna a lot. She loved Vienna."

"Why Vienna?" I asked.

"She lived there for a few years growing up, when her father was in the service ..." My mother's frown turned to a faint smile. "Can you imagine Coach in Vienna?"

"Do they get ESPN there?" I said, smiling back at her.

"Exactly," she said.

My phone buzzed, and I looked down to see a text from Coach: Shea, Don't sweat this story. Stay the course. Onward.

"What is it?" my mom said as I stared down at my phone.

"Nothing," I said. "But I do have to go pack now. I have an early flight to Baton Rouge."

"What's in Baton Rouge?" my mom said, looking confused.

"Um. LSU," I said. "We have a football game to play. Remember?"

Then, as I shooed my mother out of my apartment, I wrote back: Thanks, Coach. Onward.

The next day we hit LSU right in the gut. Three yards and a cloud of dust all day long. But the 273 victory in the blazing hot sun seemed only to add fuel to the media fire, and I could sense that every major paper, sports website, and blog was poised to run some variation of my story, rather than the highlights of our domination over the Tigers. Still, the win felt good, better than most, and I could see in Coach's eyes a renewed determination to make this our year. Despite the investigation, and maybe because of the investigation, this really could be our season to remember. After all, winning was the ultimate f.u.c.k you-everyone in sports knew that much.

"Onward," I whispered to Coach as he was heading into the press conference with Rhodes and Everclear.

He gave me a quick wink in return, then said, "You got it, girl."

A few minutes later, the Q & A began, the first question predictably directed at Reggie about the investigation. Reggie, whose performance was nothing short of outstanding, leaned into the microphone with complete poise as he said, "Um. Yeah. I'm just gonna talk about football today."

Undeterred, the reporter pressed, "Do you know Raymond Matthews?"

I knew from my investigative digging that this was the name of the Cincy booster in question, and could tell by the look on Reggie's face that he knew the name, too.

Coach barked into his mic, rus.h.i.+ng to Reggie's aid. "You heard Mr. Rhodes. Now we're gonna end this thing real quickly if y'all don't keep your questions on the game today."

I bit my lip and looked down at my laptop, typing up the quote, and thinking that there was pretty much nothing s.e.xier in the world than a fired-up Coach Carr.

Twenty-two.

The following week, Smiley finally ran my piece on Rhodes, which only threw fuel on the NCAA-investigation fire, bringing out all the haters who couldn't stand how good we were, now ranked fifth in the country. At 70, we were just past the midway point of our schedule. It was something of a surprise every year, to find ourselves with more games played than remaining, perhaps because fall has a way of sneaking up on you in Texas, deceiving you with its balmy weather. The Sat.u.r.days roll along at a steady clip until you're astounded to realize that November is just around the corner. This season was pa.s.sing especially quickly, with no losses to break up our forward momentum.

Meanwhile, the Dallas Cowboys were looking strong, too, which put Ryan in a mood as upbeat as mine, and the two of us fell into a comfortable, cozy rhythm with several sleepovers a week. I still hadn't attended any of his games, which he had pointed out more than once, but I couldn't help feeling paranoid that Smiley would somehow find fault with our relations.h.i.+p and hold it up as another example of my unbreakable bias. Ryan was a Cowboy, but he'd always be a Bronco, too.

Ryan and I managed to make progress in other ways, though, a set of feminine toiletries taking root in his bathroom, a few articles of clothing hanging in his custom walk-in closet. I even decided to cook for him, a big step. I had stalled on the notion for weeks, partly because he had a personal chef, partly because I hated having him at my place and didn't feel comfortable taking over his fancy gourmet kitchen, but mostly because I didn't want to give credence to my mother's old-fas.h.i.+oned contention that it was critical to cook in a courts.h.i.+p. I had the sense that she just might be right, though, after Ryan made an offhanded remark about Blakeslee's inability to boil water or make toast-and the fact that he "should have known then that things weren't going to work out." In the long run, I didn't think our relations.h.i.+p would come down to my domestic abilities (or lack thereof), but I couldn't help wanting him to like me as much as I liked him. Which was becoming quite a lot.

So one morning before we both left his house for work, I casually mentioned that I'd love to make him my yellow squash and hominy ca.s.serole. "It's almost as famous as you," I quipped.

"Well, all right! I'll give Tre the night off," he said. "My place?"

"Yes. Come home hungry," I said.

He gave me a seductive look and said that was a given, he was always hungry around me. I smiled as he pulled keys from his pocket, removed one from the chain, and handed it to me. "Here. I've been meaning to give you this anyway."

"You sure?" I said, trying to be cool even though I knew I was going to speed-dial Lucy the second I was alone. "You might want to try my ca.s.serole first."

Later that day, after I'd gone to the grocery store and bought all the ingredients for my ca.s.serole, along with chicken to fry, corn bread, and a chocolate mousse pie, I drove to Ryan's house, let myself in the back door, and got to work. By the time he returned from practice, most of the chopping and prep work was done and his kitchen restored to order (another thing my mother had always preached and probably a nugget she got from Connie-no dirty dishes on counters or dirty underwear on the floor, at least until you have the ring on your finger).

"Wow. I'm already impressed," Ryan said, as I handed him a gla.s.s of a pinot noir I'd just opened from his wine refrigerator.

"I hope this isn't too nice of a bottle?"

"The best bottles are in the wine cellar. But nothing's too nice for you," he said with a gallant smile.

"Thank you," I said. Then I raised my gla.s.s and said, "To our winning streaks."

"And to the chef," he said, raising his gla.s.s.

"And to your kitchen," I said, laughing.

Our gla.s.ses touched and our eyes locked before we both took a sip. He nodded approvingly, then leaned down to kiss me.

"How was practice?" I asked when we separated, glancing at the diced onion softening in the heavy iron skillet behind me.

"Not too bad," he said, sitting on a barstool at his counter while I returned to the stove. "Knee's feeling much better." His left knee had been banged up in the Bears game, nothing out of the ordinary, except that every b.u.mp became significant to a quarterback in his thirties. He extended it now, then bent it again, wincing. "MRI came back fine. Just a bad bruise."

"Good," I said, feeling like the nurturing girlfriend and relieved to realize that it was sincere, not an act. I really did worry about him. His knee, his reputation, his surprisingly fragile ego, all of him.

I added the sliced squash, bell peppers, jalapeo, pickling liquid, and oregano to the pan. The mixture sizzled, and, aware that he was watching me, I stood up straighter, stirring for a few seconds before adding the milk, reducing the heat slightly, and covering the pan.

"You really know what you're doing, don't you?" Ryan said, taking another sip of wine, as I rolled the chicken legs and thighs in my specialty batter one last time. "It's hot."

I decided not to tell him this was pretty much the only meal I had mastered. Instead, I c.o.c.ked my head to the side, smiled, and said, "Frying chicken is hot?"

"Yes," he said. "Especially if you took off those clothes and put on a frilly little ap.r.o.n and some stilettos."

"Don't hold your breath on that one. I'll cook for you, but I don't role-play or dress up."

He laughed and said, "Not even as a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader?"

"Especially not as a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader," I said.

Ryan stood, walked over to the stove, and put his arms around my waist. "I'll be back," he said after planting a kiss on the top of my head. "I want to change into something more comfortable-and make a few quick calls. That okay?"

"Sure," I said, happy to be able to concentrate on frying my chicken. Ryan left the room, cellphone in hand, scrolling through his texts as he walked. I had the fleeting, unsettling thought that he might be scrolling through texts from girls, but I told myself not to be paranoid as I transferred the vegetables into a ca.s.serole dish, alternating layers of the mixture with grated cheese, then finished with a topping of crushed chips. I slid the whole dish into the preheated oven, glancing at the kitchen clock, then set the table with china, crystal, and real silver.

About thirty minutes later, just as I was putting the ca.s.serole on the table, Ryan reappeared in what could only be described as loungewear. The matching set was heather gray and the drawstring pants so beautifully cut that they looked custom-made. I gave him a quick once-over, smirked, and said, "That's a pretty sweet getup you got there."

"Getup?" He laughed as I walked over to him and ran my hand down one ultrasoft sleeve, resting for a moment on his shoulder.

"Designer cashmere sweats?" I teased.

"Cashmere-cotton blend," he said, smirking. "With maybe a hint of Lycra. Wears better than straight cashmere."

It sounded exactly like something Lucy would say; in fact, I was pretty sure she had uttered the exact words to me before. I shook my head and said I'd keep that in mind, although I could count on one hand the number of garments in my closet that contained any cashmere.

"So are you ready to eat?" I asked, gesturing toward the banquette at the other end of his kitchen, where I had set the table. I had the feeling that we were playing house as he told me how wonderful everything looked and smelled.

"Let's hope it tastes good, too," I said.

"I know it will," he said, then stopped me on the way to our table and grabbed my hands. "Shea?"

"Yeah," I said, looking up into his face. His expression was earnest and loving.

"I just ... wanted to thank you," he said after a thoughtful beat.

"For what?" I said.

"For making me dinner." Still holding both my hands, he looked in my eyes and said, "This was really sweet of you. I appreciate it. A lot."

I found his grat.i.tude touching, especially considering that he had gourmet dinners prepared for him pretty much every night of the week except for the days he had a four-star training table awaiting him.

"You're welcome," I said, overcome with a feeling of true affection. Perhaps the strongest I'd ever felt for him.

As we sat down to the table, the satisfied feeling lingered, and expanded until I realized what it was. I was happy. Really in-the-moment happy, which has always seemed a completely different animal than retrospectively recognizing that you had been happy, the usual case with me. I could tell Ryan was conscious of the mood, too, because he kept smiling at me, and touching my arm as we talked. Our conversation wasn't particularly deep, but it was easy and intimate, and, every few moments he'd sprinkle in a compliment on my dinner. I could hear my mother-the way to a man's heart is through his stomach-and felt proud in spite of myself, knowing that I had definitely nailed my first meal. Ryan heaped seconds of ca.s.serole onto his plate, calling it "simple yet soulful," while I drank most of our bottle of wine by myself. By the time we finished, I had a strong buzz.

"So," he said, after he cleared our plates and settled back into his seat. "What are you doing for Thanksgiving?"

"Same thing you're doing," I said, thinking that I didn't measure the end of the year the way other people did-in terms of holidays. Instead I thought of it as rivalry weekend versus Texas, followed by bowl season.

"You're playing football?" he asked, smiling, stroking my arm again.

"Ha. No. I'm watching you play on television," I said, thinking that I couldn't remember a Thanksgiving that didn't include the Cowboys. "With my dad. He's coming down with Bronwyn and Astrid." I rolled my eyes, then made a face. I hadn't told Ryan much about my father, other than the basic but bizarre chronology of his three marriages to two women-and a little about my smug half sister. How condescending she was about all things Texas, calling everything "quaint" or "rustic" and buying cowboy boots as if they were exotic souvenirs from a foreign country.

"Well. Would y'all like to watch the game in person? Instead of on television?" he said. "In a suite with my parents? You could invite your mom, too ..."

"That'd be great," I said, as the full weight of the invite sunk in. Not only was he asking to meet my parents, but he was introducing me to his, and our parents to one another. After a short pause, my voice turned coy. "So you want me to meet your parents, do you?"

"Yes, I do," he said the way he made a lot of statements. Definitively and with the utmost confidence.

"Well, okay, then," I said. For one second, Coach flitted into my head, the fact that we often saw the Carrs on Thanksgiving, and how Ryan's plan would certainly preclude that tradition. But I forced him from my thoughts, telling myself to focus, reminding myself that, if I played my cards right, this could be, in Lucy's words, a friggin' fairy tale.

Over the next few weeks, as Walker racked up two more wins over Iowa and West Virginia, Ryan and I stayed in our heightened happy zone, meeting for lunch, going to dinner, staying connected. At some point, things stopped feeling tenuous and started to feel real. So much so that I dropped my defense mechanism of downplaying our relations.h.i.+p to Lucy and my mother-and told them that things were getting serious.

My mom was giddy when I told her that Ryan had included her in his Thanksgiving invite.

"Have you told your dad about Ryan yet?" she asked, practically rubbing her hands together. I knew what she was thinking-that Bronwyn might be married off to a rich guy, but that a famed NFL quarterback trumped a venture capitalist any day of the week.

"No. Not yet," I said, although I was relis.h.i.+ng the moment. As much as I saw Ryan for Ryan, there were times when I was acutely aware of his fame. Whenever his face appeared on television, or we garnered a double take in public, I felt validated, proud. To Lucy's dismay, the news had yet to hit the tabloids other than a tiny blurb on the autism gala in the Dallas social pages, and n.o.body outside the Walker bubble really knew we were together. I hadn't even told Gordon, my only friend at work, because every time I found a casual opening, it still felt like name-dropping. Bottom line, there was no getting around the fact that Ryan was a feather in my cap, a gold star on my helmet. And I was as excited as my mother to break the news to my father.

"Well, what are you waiting for? Tell him!" she said, her brown eyes s.h.i.+ning.

"Do you want to listen on speaker?" I asked. "Maybe we could get Astrid on speaker, too?"

"Oh, that would be perfect!" she said. "Could we?"

"No, Mom," I said, shaking my head. "We cannot. It was a joke."

She looked momentarily deflated but not defeated, as she began to brainstorm what she should wear to the game. "Blue, of course," she mused. "Or should it be teal for Walker?"

"Any blue would be great," I said, throwing her a bone, and imagining just how out of control she'd be if Ryan and I ever, one day in the very faraway future, had a real event to plan.

The next day, I decided to practice telling my dad about Ryan during an intercubicle conversation with Gordon about NFL quarterbacks.

"I would get pistol-whipped in this town, but-" Gordon began in a loud whisper, after I asked him to rank them.

I laughed, knowing where he was headed with his preamble. Born and raised in Philly, Gordon loved the Eagles and had no use for the Cowboys outside of his paycheck. In other words, he was a true professional, while I often felt like I was playing a reporter.

He continued, "I go Aaron Rodgers first, Peyton Manning second, Tom Brady third, then Ryan James."

I felt a pang of loyalty but tried to be objective. "I'll give you Aaron Rodgers. Maybe," I said. "But I put Ryan ahead of Peyton. And he's way ahead of Brady."

Gordon made his arguments, the whole "stats are one thing but it really comes down to winning big games," then had the audacity to suggest that maybe even Brees should be put before Ryan. "That guy can execute like n.o.body else," he said.

"You think Ryan doesn't execute? Really? He's a total executioner," I began, then strategically added, "Of course, I'm biased."

"Everyone in this state is biased," Gordon said. "Especially you Walker alums."

"Yes," I said. "But I'm really biased ... We're actually ... kind of ... dating."

Gordon laughed and kept on typing.

"No. We are. I didn't want to say anything at first ... Because you work on that beat ... And I don't know," I blathered, "it still sort of feels like name-dropping. And for all I know Smiley has some kind of policy against it ... Since Ryan went to Walker and all." I glanced in Smiley's direction, then returned my gaze to Gordon. I had his attention, finally, but he looked incredulous, waiting for the punch line.

"You serious?"

"Yeah. We're dating. We have been for a couple of months ..."

Gordon nodded, finally believing me, then said, "Well, cool. That's awesome."

"Yeah. I guess," I said. And then, "I really like him."