The One & Only(101)

“And? Do you think they have anything on us?”

I wanted to tell him he wasn’t any part of us. I wanted to tell him to shut the hell up. Instead, something inside me snapped and I said, “Well, I don’t know, sir. I did hear that you bought a car for Cedric Washington. Is that true?”

I glanced at Ryan, who gave me a small nod, though I wasn’t sure if he was confirming the rumor or giving me moral support.

In any event, Mr. James remained perfectly calm as he said, “What’s the statute of limitations on that?”

“I don’t know,” I said, then pressed, “So you did? Buy him a car?”

“I might have,” Mr. James said.

“Honey,” Mrs. James said again.

“What?” he snapped back at her. “Shea asked me a question.”

My father started to whistle, a nervous habit, and even Astrid had caught on that the situation was becoming dire, as she began murmuring to herself how much she loved the wine, then turned to ask Wiley what he had ordered. Wiley filled her in on the vintage and vineyard. He’d been there, of course, with Bronwyn, who also chimed in. Ordinarily it was the sort of thing that irritated me, but I could tell everyone was doing their very best to cast a lifeline to Ryan and me. It was almost touching.

“Where did you hear that, Shea? Or do the questions only go one way?” Mr. James said with a big, fake laugh.

I smiled and said, “I can’t reveal my sources.”

“C’mon. Did you talk to Ced?”

“It’s just a rumor. Just like this entire investigation is built on rumor, conjecture. It’s a house of cards. Like everything else the NCAA is doing these days.”

It was the right thing to say because there was a perceptible shift after that. Or maybe the whiskey was just doing the trick.

“Couldn’t agree more,” Mr. James said, raising his glass.

I didn’t like the idea of being on the same side of an argument with him, but I was more intent on getting through the meal without a full-on explosion, so I kept on with my anti-NCAA rant, lifted mostly from Coach. Meanwhile, Ryan retreated into a dark silence, speaking only when spoken to. I couldn’t blame him, though, and was sure nobody else held it against him either. If anything, as we muddled through dinner, I felt myself growing ever more protective of him—almost as if he were still a little boy getting bullied by his father.

By the end of dinner, when my father suggested that we all return to the Ritz for a drink, I quickly declined. “Ryan needs to get home to rest,” I said.

“Yeah. I need to ice this knee,” he said, as conversation hit another major lull, a rarity with that many people at the table.

When the bill came, all the men fought over it. Mr. James won, and the other three quickly relented, likely accepting it as repentance for his awful behavior. Then we all got up and made our way back to the valet. They brought Ryan’s Porsche first, even though he’d lost his ticket, and Ryan discreetly tipped the valet a twenty. Only then did he turn to me and say, “What are you doing now?”

“What do you want me to do?” I whispered.

“It’s up to you,” he said.

“Do you want to be alone?”

“No,” he said. “I want you to come over.”

“Okay, then. I’ll go get my car at the Ritz and come over.”

Ryan nodded. Then I watched him dig down and scrounge up a last scrap of charm.

“Really great to meet you, sir. And next time,” he said, shaking my dad’s hand, “I’ll make sure you guys see a win.”

“At least give ’em a good game,” Mr. James said. “And not a woodshed beating.”

Ryan ignored his dad but kissed his mother, then Astrid and Bronwyn, and went on to shake Wiley’s hand. Finally he turned to me. “See you in a few?”

“Yes,” I said, leaning up and kissing him, partly for effect, partly because I wanted to, but, more than anything else, because I actually felt sorry for the great Ryan James.





Thirty





Within five minutes of arriving at his house, Ryan transformed into a different person than the one I’d kissed goodbye at the Four Seasons. It was as if he’d flipped a switch, going from forlorn and formal to furious. He was angry at himself, angry at his teammates, angry at his coaches, angry at his father. He wasn’t animated or upset but caustic and cold, as he launched into one articulate diatribe after the other, like a character in an Aaron Sorkin television show. And he did it all from a reclined position on his white sofa, shirtless, with a bag of ice on his bad left knee while I sat on an armchair across from him.

He saved me for last. “And where the hell were you last night?” he asked. “You’ve conveniently managed to evade that question all day.”