Coach said my name, looking far more worried than he’d been in Lucy’s living room.
“Yeah?” I said.
“If I could go back, I would change how I handled everything. I would have done more. I really thought I was doing the right thing, but now I can see that I let that girl down.” He paused for a long beat, then cleared his throat. “The other night, when I walked into your room and saw Ryan there on top of you … It was almost as if I were standing up for both of you …”
I nodded, as if I accepted this explanation, but couldn’t help feeling that throwing a couple of punches in my living room couldn’t fix the past, and I felt myself withdraw from him in a way that scared me.
“Talk to me, Shea,” he said. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”
“I don’t know,” I said. “This is a lot to digest …”
“Are you angry?”
“No,” I said, wishing that it were that simple, knowing that anger has a way of subsiding and passing more quickly than this brand of disappointment.
“Then what?” he said.
I opened my mouth, but couldn’t find the words to describe the disoriented, disillusioned feeling I had. The feeling of questioning everything I had ever believed in. The NCAA investigation was one thing. But this was another matter, one I couldn’t so easily dismiss or explain away.
“I’m really sorry, Shea,” he said.
“I know you are,” I said, thinking of Lucy, then Ryan, wondering if sometimes apologies were simply too little, too late.
“What are you thinking?” he said.
“I’m thinking I better head home now.”
As soon as the words were out, I changed my mind and hoped that he’d protest. I wanted him to say and do all the things that made him a great coach. I wanted him to make everything better the way he always had.
But he simply nodded and said okay. Then he walked me to the door, where he gave me a quick platonic hug, followed by an equally platonic kiss on the cheek, as if he, too, realized that something had shifted between us and was surrendering to a new status quo.
“So, you’re going to Chicago tomorrow?” I said, stalling, feigning normalcy. As if anything had been normal about this entire evening. Even decorating the tree had been a charade set to a Harry Connick, Jr., soundtrack.
“Yes,” he said, also pretending. “I’ll call you from the road.”
“Great.” I nodded as he reached beyond me for the storm door, propping it open with his outstretched arm. I stepped onto the porch, still stalling. Moths danced around the lanterns, and one collided with my cheek. I swiped at its soft, powdery wings, but kept staring at him, waiting for something more.
When he still didn’t speak, I said his name. Clive. There was urgency in my voice, neediness.
“What is it, Shea?” he said softly, still holding the door open.
I didn’t answer, and he pulled me back into the darkened foyer, letting the storm door snap closed. Then he pushed the front door shut, and put his arms around me, this time in a real embrace. “Please don’t go,” he said. “Not yet. Not like this.”
I held on to him as tightly as I could and said, “Why do I feel like we just lost?”
“Because we did,” he whispered into my hair. “We lost because of poor coaching. Bad leadership. This is my fault. I take full responsibility.”
I didn’t debate his statement, believing it to be true. I blamed him for where we were. I blamed him for not reporting the incident. Not doing more. But I still let him lean in and kiss me, softly, then more urgently. His whiskers were rough against my chin, but I kissed him back as hard and frantically as I could, holding on to his neck, clawing at his chest and back, slipping my hand down the back of his jeans. I tried to keep my mind as blank as I could, focusing only on the physical, the sound of his voice murmuring my name. And for a few seconds, it worked. His kisses erased every thought I had, until I heard myself say, “I want you. All of you.”
He kept kissing me, his hands on my back and hips, stomach and breasts, as I made my request again, more clearly. “Make love to me,” I said.
“Tonight?” he said, before moving on to my neck, his breath warm in my ear.
“Yes. Right now,” I said, pulling him from the foyer to the hallway.
We made it a few steps before he said, “Shea … Wait. Slow down.”
“No. Now,” I said, still walking backwards, pulling him toward his bedroom, then changing my mind and guiding him toward the upstairs guest room.
“What’s the rush?” he asked, grabbing my arms, stopping me.