The One & Only(109)

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!”