The One And Only Part 16

CCC: Where's the hidden camera? How many fingers am I holding up?

Me: One. As in: number one. Which is how we'll finish the year.

CCC: You give me way too much credit. Always have.

Me: Nope. Not possible. But back to the story. What do you think of Lache?

CCC: That kid can run like small-town gossip.

Me: Can I quote you on that?

CCC: Yes.

Me: What else can I quote you on?

CCC: Tell 'em it's going to be a flesh-on-flesh, in-the-trench battle.

Me: And your strategy?

CCC: Hold on to the ball and score more points than they do.

Me: Sounds simple enough.

CCC: Yes. But don't be fooled. The best things in life only seem simple.

I smiled down at my phone, thinking just how true that was.

The next morning, at 7:58, I filed my first story with The Dallas Post. Twenty minutes later, Smiley stormed over to my cubicle, barking at me to call it up on my screen. I did as I was told, discovering that he-or someone at the copydesk-had already heavily edited the piece.

"Not awful," he said, which felt like high praise. "But you need to tighten it up, lose some of that flowery description, and cut down on the quotes. I get it. They're down a lot of men. Say it once." He pointed over my shoulder as I tried to follow all the electronic changes made in red in the margins.

I nodded and said I understood.

Then, as if he knew how long the first draft had taken me, he added, "And I need it back ASAP. Ten minutes ago."

As he returned to his office, I noticed that the only sentence without a single edit was my lead, lifted directly from my cellphone: According to Walker University's Coach Clive Carr, Sat.u.r.day's contest against Baylor is going to be "a flesh-on-flesh, in-the-trench battle."

Later that day, after I had refiled my first story and worked on the next, I met Lucy at the practice field, like old times. She brought us gourmet sandwiches from her favorite deli, and we sat in the bleachers, talking and watching practice. At least I was watching practice, while she did most of the talking.

"How's Ryan?" Lucy asked as she handed me half of a portobello mushroom, mozzarella, and red pepper sandwich. It was her favorite topic these days, and I was happy to give her a good report.

"He's great," I said, watching a weak-shoulder run drill in progress. Coach was holding a shield at the fifteen-yard line, while his running backs lined up across from him and pressed his outside shoulder to get back up the field. Somehow he managed to look s.e.xy in the process, right down to the way he blew his whistle and bellowed instructions, his voice a little hoa.r.s.e. I looked away from the field, back at Lucy, telling myself to get a grip. Stop looking at her father like that.

"Could I get a little more than 'great'?" Lucy said.

I smiled, thinking that my vague answer was the kind I'd hate if I were doing the interview, and said, "I'm staying over a lot lately. It really is convenient to work."

"The ol' convenience factor, huh? That's the best you can say about it?"

I laughed and said, "Um. I can also say I love his house."

"So, proximity to work and luxurious accommodations? Sounds like the perfect relationship."

I took a sip of Snapple lemonade and said, "What do you want me to say?"

"I want you to say that you're in love."

I gave her a close-lipped smile and shook my head.

"Headed in that direction? Falling ever so slightly?"

"Maybe," I said, reaching up to touch one of my diamond earrings as Coach blew his whistle then asked Barry Canty if he planned on breaking a sweat anytime soon.

I laughed.

Lucy looked at me and said, "What?"

"Your dad," I said. "He's so funny."

"Oh. Yeah." She put down her sandwich and said, "So. I want to talk to you about something else." I knew the look on her face. Something was wrong.

"What?" I said, a knot of worry in my chest.

"It's about Daddy. I think he might be seeing someone."

My stomach dropped as I asked her why she thought that, picturing an attractive lady, in her mid-forties, perhaps a widow.

"Because I was over at his house, and he was on his phone. Texting someone," she said, as Coach transitioned the backs into a pa.s.s protection drill.

"When?" I said.

"Last night," she said. "Around eight."

I felt a rush of relief, then guilt, knowing that he was texting me-and made the split-second decision not to tell her.

"It was weird," she continued. "I asked who he was talking to and he said n.o.body. I mean, n.o.body?"

"Maybe he was surfing the Net?" I said, hating myself for lying to my best friend and confused about why I was doing it. We'd been doing an interview; it was all legit.

"No. He was definitely texting. I saw his screen. And when I tried to look over his shoulder, he flipped it over."

"Maybe he was texting his coaches," I said, biting my lower lip. "You know, top secret stuff about the game."

She gave me a look. "Top secret stuff? He's a coach, not an FBI agent."

Having run out of all plausible explanations-other than the truth-I shrugged.

"Do you think he could be seeing someone?" she asked.

I said no, then asked, "How would you feel if he were?"

"Are you serious?" she asked, as if it were the most ridiculous question in the world.

"I mean-I know you'd be upset, but would you be ... mad?"

She sighed, putting her sandwich down. "Well, how could I be mad?"

"You just could," I said, thinking that the fact that she shouldn't be angry had never stopped Lucy before. On any topic. It was amazing how different we were-yet how much we still loved each other.

"Well, no, I don't think I would be mad. But I think he should wait at least a year before he even thinks about talking to another woman. Isn't that the rule?"

I shrugged, thinking of Mrs. Carr. How she had little rules for everything. No linen or seersucker after Labor Day. Never be early to depart a party, but good heavens, don't be the last to leave. Gift registries are gauche and so is writing "no gifts, please" on an invitation. And my favorite-manners trump etiquette. In other words, you shouldn't put your elbows on the table, but it is far worse to point it out.

"I don't think there's a rule about this, Luce ... I think it depends on a lot of things ..." I said, my voice trailing off.

"I know. And I really want him to be happy," she said. "But, G.o.d, I don't know if I could bear it ... Do you know someone recently asked me about your mother?"

"What about her?" I said.

"Whether I thought she and my dad would get together. You don't think she'd ever be interested in him, do you?" Lucy asked.

"No," I said as quickly as possible.

"Out of respect for my mom?"

I shook my head and said, "I just can't see them together. He'd never go for her. And she likes the slick, suit-and-tie type. Speaking of which," I said, trying to change the subject, "my dad's coming down for Thanksgiving."

"Solo?"

"Of course not. He's bringing Bronwyn and a.s.s Face," I said, my nickname for Astrid.

Lucy laughed. "Did you tell them about Ryan yet?"

"Not yet. And I must confess, I can't wait," I said, smiling.

"Yeah. That will be so satisfying," Lucy said.

I looked down the field at Coach, as he blew his whistle and shouted, "Dammit, Sanders! If I tell you a duck can pull a truck, then shut up and hook the sucker up."

I laughed and wrote the quote down. I knew I probably wouldn't use it, and certainly not without Coach's okay, but I still wanted a record of it to read later, along with our texts that I had yet to delete.

Nineteen.

In a game that was even more ugly than the one Coach predicted, we barely escaped with a win in Waco, beating Baylor 2120. Other than the final score, pretty much everything went wrong for us. We dropped the ball, missed field goals, and got a lot of stupid penalties. I knew from experience that Coach was going to be terse in the press conference, more frustrated with his team for their mental lapses and lack of discipline than happy to come away with a victory.

Sure enough, he came out surly, barking at reporters and barely acknowledging me when I raised my hand. Instead of calling my name, he simply pointed at me and said, "Yep. Question right there."

"Coach Carr," I began nervously, "what did you see in the play where Rhodes fumbled? At the end of the first half?"

"What did I see?" He squinted, as if confused, then replied, "I saw the official call a fumble. That's what I saw." His voice was gravelly from yelling over fifty thousand fans-and probably at his team afterward.

I felt my face turn red but pressed on. "Have you seen the replay? It looked very close as to whether he was down or not."

"Yeah. I saw the replay."

"And? Do you think the right call was made?" I asked, fl.u.s.tered, not able to articulate what I really wanted to know-which was how he felt about his team collapsing after such a pivotal call.

"It was the official's call. And, as you well know, I had already used my challenge on an earlier play. So. They ruled it a turnover, and that was that. It really doesn't make any difference what I think."

I looked at him, thinking it made every difference what he thought about that call, the game, and everything else, too. He stared back at me, waiting, as I forced myself to ask one final question. "Do you think that changed the tide of the game for ..." In the nick of time, I stopped myself from saying "us" and finished the sentence with "you."

Coach crossed his arms and heaved a weary sigh. "There were a lot of plays in this football game. A lot of things we could have done better. Bottom line, we were lucky to get a win. d.a.m.n lucky. Okay. That's all."

He got up abruptly and, without another word, walked off the platform and out the side door, back to the visitors' locker room.

That night, I was in a mood as foul as Coach Carr's and ignored the phone when it rang, not picking up for Lucy, or for Ryan, who was at the Four Seasons in St. Louis, preparing for the Rams game tomorrow. The only person I wanted to talk to was Coach, but I didn't dare call him, knowing the last thing he wanted to do was hear from a reporter who asked him annoying questions. At some point, though, after I had filed my story, I broke down and decided one little text wouldn't hurt. After drafting and deleting at least a dozen versions, I wrote: Sorry about the game and also for the dumb question.

I didn't expect to hear back from him at all, and certainly not right away, but he replied almost instantaneously: It's ok. I'm sorry for snapping at you.

Then, before I could respond, the phone rang. It was him. Shocked, I fumbled it Rhodes-style, then scrambled to scoop it up and answer before it went to voice mail.

"Hey," Coach said. "How are you?"

"Probably the same as you," I said, though my frustration over the game was suddenly supplanted by relief that he wasn't angry at me.

"That was one h.e.l.l of a hollow win," Coach said.

"It was still a win," I said.

Coach made a disgusted sound, then said, "I'd rather play well and lose."

I wasn't sure if I believed him, and I know I didn't subscribe to the notion, especially during a year like this one, but I still murmured my agreement, adding, "That was a terrible call, though."

"Even s.h.i.ttier on the replay. That ref is a joke. And yes, to answer your question, I think that was a game changer. It definitely changed things for those boys. Got in their heads. We do that against a better team, and we're done for."

"Yeah," I said, letting him vent.

"Beyond the painfully obvious fact that we couldn't establish our run," he said, "we just missed a lot of opportunities. What were we in the red zone?"

"O for three."