The One & Only(114)

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 reassurance 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 assembled 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? Shit.” 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?

“I can’t stand the thought of anything even remotely bad ever happening to you,” Coach said, squeezing my hand.

I squeezed back, thinking that, although this thing with Ryan had brought us to the moment we were in, our hands clasped in a darkened room, I also had the unsettling sense that it had eroded something. The romantic undercurrent so clear in the final conversation before he’d entered my unlocked apartment was gone. It was as if the blows he’d dealt Ryan had set us back to the long-standing dynamic I had hoped we could transcend.

I released his hand and turned to face him, sitting sideways, one knee bent against the back of the sofa, the other dangling to the floor. “Coach, I appreciate what you did tonight. So much. But I don’t want to be another person in your life that you have to look out for. Protect.”

He turned toward me, touched my cheek, and said, “And why’s that?”

I struggled to explain, wishing I had gone ahead and made the tea so I had something to do with my hands. “Because,” I said. “Because I don’t want to be like … your daughter.”

“You’re nothing like Lucy.”

“You know what I mean. I don’t want you to see me as your daughter,” I said, calibrating my words. “Or someone you mentor. Or a journalist on your beat. Or an old family friend. I don’t want to be your friend at all …”

“You don’t want to be my friend?” Coach said with a beseeching half smile. I couldn’t tell if he was confused, playing dumb, or simply asking me to give it to him straight.

“Well, I do want to be your friend. Of course I want that. But I might …” I looked into his eyes, telling myself not to lose my nerve, hearing his voice in a huddle telling his players to man up. “I might want more than that, too.”