The One And Only Part 34

"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.

Thirty-three.

I jumped and made a small gasping sound, the kind I make when I spot a roach in my apartment.

"Your door was unlocked," Ryan said, holding up his hand as if to calm me. "So I came in."

"I see that," I said, turning my back on him to grab a pair of sweats and a T-shirt from my chest of drawers. I dropped my towel to the floor, dressed as quickly as I could, then faced him again.

"I'm sorry, Shea," he began, looking docile, distraught. His complete about-face caught me off guard and took the edge off my anger.

"It's fine," I said, though it wasn't. "Let's just forget it."

I knew that neither of us could do that. That he couldn't forget the lie about Miller any more than I could forget what he'd done to me, but I just wanted to get rid of him. Even if Coach weren't on his way over, I'd had enough of him for one night. I searched for the right combination of words as he stood and walked calmly toward me. Without thinking, I held my breath and backed up one step, then another.

His face fell. "Shea. Baby. Please tell me you aren't scared of me. I would never hurt you. C'mon. You know me. You know that."

He sounded so sweet, so persuasive that I almost believed him. "I'm not scared of you," I said. "But you did hurt me."

It was a compromise between my head and my gut. I didn't want to let him off the hook completely, but I also didn't want to put myself in the full-blown victim category.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he said.

I considered this, deciding that his intent was relevant; maybe he didn't know his own strength. Then I shook my head, flip-flopping again. "But you did," I said.

He took another step forward, then reached out and gently touched my left arm, exactly where he'd first grabbed me. "Does it ... does it really hurt?"

"Yes. It does. And there's going to be a bruise there tomorrow. I guarantee it. You think that's okay?" I said, my voice rising as I spoke more quickly. "To put your hands on a girl like that? Like you're in a d.a.m.n football game? It's not okay, Ryan. You outweigh me by a hundred pounds. It's not okay."

He shook his head. "You're right. I'm sorry, baby."

"Don't call me baby," I said, feeling a fresh swell of anger. "I'm not your baby."

"Shea. I'm sorry ... Just like you're sorry about Miller."

I threw my hands in the air, then put one on my hip. "Don't even put those things in the same category," I said. "What I did and what you did. And I'm not sorry about Miller. I didn't do anything with Miller. I'm sorry I lied to you about him. But I lied because I was sick of discussing him. He is a nonissue." I slapped the back of my hand into my palm for emphasis.

"I believe you," he said.

"Do you, though?"

"Yes. I do."

"Good. Thank you," I said, aware that the seconds were ticking down toward Coach's arrival. Ryan reached out, his long arm encircling my waist, pulling me closer to him as he leaned down to try to kiss me.

I said his name in protest, but he persisted. "C'mon, babe," he said. "Kiss me. Let's make up. Can we? Please?"

I turned my head, suddenly repulsed by his natural scent-one I'd felt neutral about before tonight. "Can we please just talk about this tomorrow? I'm really tired."

Ryan's face darkened, his eyes narrowing. "Why? Are you planning on company? Is Miller on his way over here to comfort you?"

Something inside me snapped as I shouted, "Dammit, Ryan. Get out! Get out now!"

He stared at me calmly, shaking his head. "So it's like that?"

"Like what?"

"You trying to turn this around. You lie to me like you did. And now this is about me holding your arm a little too hard?" He sneered, then laughed, as if mocking me, and I suddenly hated him.

"Shut up, Ryan. And get the f.u.c.k out of my house. This relationship is over."

"Oh, it's over?" he said, laughing again. "Because you have a better option?"

"Yes," I said, wanting to hurt him now, with words, my best weapon. "I do, actually."

"Okay, then," he said. "Go do your thing. Go f.u.c.k Miller."

"f.u.c.k you," I said, pointing at him, jabbing at his chest with my finger as he'd done to me outside the restroom at the Third Rail. When I got no reaction, I jabbed harder. He blocked me, and I swung. It was as if I wanted him to hit me. To prove Blakeslee's claim true. To justify my decision to end things with the great Ryan James.

But when I got my wish, and he reached out with his crazy-quick reflexes, easily catching both of my wrists in his hands, then pushing me down onto the bed, I regretted it.

"Get off me!" I said, breathing hard, struggling as he held me down with more force than was necessary. And then, suddenly, I was scared. Really scared.

"Get off me!" I said again, moving my head from side to side, crying. "Get off me, Ryan. I mean it!"

He loosened his grip just enough for me to start struggling again, and I might have screamed something, too. I can't recall exactly what happened after that, and have no idea if several seconds or several minutes pa.s.sed. All I remember is looking up and seeing Coach Carr in the doorway of my bedroom, his silhouette backlit.

I don't know what he saw or heard, but it must have been clear that I wasn't a willing partic.i.p.ant in whatever was happening because he then yelled, "What the h.e.l.l's going on in here? Get off her!"

Ryan leapt to his feet and headed for the door, but Coach blocked him like a sc.r.a.ppy defensive end, his hand on Ryan's shoulder. "You're not going anywhere."

Ryan said, in so many words, that he begged to differ and pushed his way past Coach, toward my living room. I sat up, and Coach looked at me for a beat, as if to determine if I was okay. Then he turned and followed Ryan. I stayed put, frozen on my bed, listening to Coach shouting, "What the h.e.l.l were you doing in there? You might as well tell me, because she's going to tell me!"

Ryan said something in response, but I couldn't make it out, other than the word liar.

"Shea Rigsby is not a liar. You're the liar, Ryan. And I'd take back that Cotton Bowl championship and sit your a.s.s if I could."

Ryan said something that sounded like "Sure you would, Coach."

Then I heard sounds of two grown men fighting, followed by a loud crash of furniture hitting the wall. That's when I got off the bed and ran down the hall and saw Coach on top of Ryan, pounding him amid an overturned end table and a scatter of magazines. He hit him three times, maybe four, until Ryan said, "So I guess you're sleeping with her, too?"

Coach popped him once more for good measure.

Ryan didn't throw a punch back. He just laughed, the same way he'd laughed at me in the bedroom, as blood trickled down his face. "You know what, Coach? It's what I've always thought about you," he said, sitting up, catching his breath. "You're a hypocrite. You see what you want to see when you want to see it. It's all terribly convenient, isn't it?"

"You're a disgrace," Coach said, grabbing his knees to catch his breath. "An absolute disgrace."

"Well, maybe I am," Ryan said, now on his feet and almost to the door. "Maybe I am. But then what's that say about you? Huh, Coach?"

He looked at me over his shoulder, shook his head, and was gone.

Thirty-four.

"Are you okay?" Coach asked after he had righted my table and we'd both found our way to my sofa. He was still winded and disheveled, his shirt untucked, wrinkled, and a little bloodstained.

"Yeah. I'm okay," I said, staring straight ahead, both hands tucked under my thighs. The only light in the room came from the hallway and the orange glow of a streetlamp working its way through the slatted plastic blinds covering my windows. "Are you?"

"Yeah," he said. "My first fight in thirty-five years. If you can call it that ..."

"Yeah. I'm pretty sure you can call it that," I said. I made myself look at him, taking in his sh.e.l.l-shocked expression. It was as if he was still processing everything.

"He never took a swing back at me ..."

Coach seemed to be talking to himself, but I offered a theory. "Maybe he was afraid of you."

He snorted. "Yeah. I don't think so. An NFL player in his prime? And an old coach?"

"You're not old," I said reflexively.

"Feel old now," Coach said under his breath, staring down at his knuckles, a cut on his middle finger.

Several long seconds pa.s.sed before he spoke again. "Well. He deserved what he got."

On the face of things, it was a plain statement of opinion. There was no rise in his voice suggesting a question, but I knew he was asking me something. I could tell he was looking for rea.s.surance that he hadn't overreacted. That he'd done the right thing.

"Yeah. He did deserve it," I said, hoping that would suffice.

"What exactly happened?" Coach asked. "Leading up to ... what I saw? Will you tell me?"

"Yes, I'll tell you," I said. "But let me make some tea first ... do you want some?"

"No, thank you," he said.

I could feel his eyes on me as I stood and walked to my kitchen, filled my kettle with water, turned on a gas burner, then a.s.sembled a mug, a tea bag, and a large spoon because the little ones were all in the dishwasher that I'd forgotten to run. All of this, and I didn't even want tea. I was stalling. The last thing I felt like doing was reliving what had happened back at the bar, much less in my bedroom, but I knew that it could only make Coach feel better to know the truth. He deserved to know the truth. So I turned off the stove and went back to the sofa, sitting a little closer to him this time, but still half a cushion away.

"I changed my mind," I said, glancing at his profile.

"About what?"

"The tea," I said.

Then I told him everything, uncensored, right down to the call from Blakeslee. When I finished, he reached across the sofa for my hand. I met him halfway, our pinkies grazing.

"Thank you," I said, realizing I hadn't said it yet.

"Don't thank me. I just did ... what any man would do. Neil, Miller, anyone."

"Maybe. But you're not Neil or Miller. You're his coach," I said, the unfathomable part of tonight starting to sink in. I could accept who Ryan was more easily than I could swallow what had happened between the two greatest legends in the Walker program.

Coach covered my hand with his, and I flipped mine over, our palms touching. "His former coach. That was a long time ago."

"Still. I feel bad for putting you in this position," I said, processing that we were actually holding hands. It was as if the trauma of the evening had dulled my reaction time, caused a tape delay.

"You didn't do anything wrong ... And what position do you mean, exactly? The position to defend you? s.h.i.t." Coach shook his head. "You don't know how grateful I am that I walked in when I did."

"I'm sure nothing terrible would have happened," I said, thinking that it was a Catch-22. I didn't want Coach to regret hitting Ryan-for his sake-but I also didn't want to exaggerate what had happened. Ryan was a bully with a terrible temper-but he wasn't a full-blown criminal. Surely he wouldn't have really hurt me. Or would he? Why, in the face of violent proof, did I still want to believe that he wasn't that bad?