“I know, girl. I know,” he said. “That’s my point.”
I nodded, but still couldn’t look at him.
“You should be writing,” he said.
“I do write,” I said.
“Writing full-time. You wrote more in high school and college than you do now.”
“Yeah. Silly pieces for the school newspaper,” I said, fixing my eyes directly above his head at a shelf filled with photos that had come from our department, various action shots from over the years, including one from my senior year, of Ryan James, standing on the sidelines with one finger thrust in the air, his arm around his beloved coach.
“They were professional-caliber pieces, Shea. Unlike any student work I’ve ever seen.”
I felt a chill as I dropped my eyes to meet his. “Thank you,” I said, forcing myself not to look away.
“And besides … You shouldn’t limit yourself to Walker. There’s a big world outside this place.”
It was an odd statement coming from a man whose entire life revolved around Walker, and I was unable to resist making the point, a bold one for me. “What about you? You turned down the Bills.”
As soon as the words were out, I realized that the comparison was ridiculous. He was the head football coach. He was Walker.
He shrugged and said, “I could never live in Buffalo. Too damn cold. And I love the college game.”
“Well, I love Walker,” I said.
He stared me down. Then, just when I couldn’t bear it another second, he removed a folded slip of paper from his top drawer and reached across the desk to hand it to me. I unfolded it and stared down at a 214 phone number and, below it, a name. Frank Smiley.
“You know him, right?” Coach said.
I nodded. I had only talked to Smiley a few times, in passing at press conferences, but I knew exactly who he was—the sports editor of The Dallas Post, the only major newspaper left in Texas with a legitimate sports section, covering sports like they covered hard news. Smiley was a brash curmudgeon of an old-timey reporter who openly pined for the good ol’ days. Back when guys didn’t showboat, and college athletes actually went to class and graduated after four years, and boosters didn’t buy sports cars, and networks didn’t call the shots, and money didn’t drive the conferences, and rivalries really meant something, and players stayed with a franchise for life, and coaches stayed put, too. His pressroom demeanor was legendary, as he always knew how to get a coach to really say something by asking just the right question in just the right tone. Somehow you liked the guy even when he was pissing you off, and you wanted to give him something because you couldn’t be bland around a guy that colorful. He was a pro, no doubt.
“He’s looking for a reporter,” Coach said.
“For which beat?” I asked, folding my arms across my chest, thinking that I was pretty sure Smiley was not looking for a female reporter with no experience.
“I don’t know,” Coach said. “I didn’t get the details. He just mentioned that he lost two guys to ESPN and another to some sports website …”
“I can hear the rant now.”
Coach smiled, then imitated him perfectly. “Doesn’t anyone get their hands dirty in the morning anymore?” he said, referring, of course, to the ink on papers.
“I do,” I said, holding up my hands, palms out.
Coach winked at me, then pointed to the stack of newspapers on his desk. “Anyway. Smiley asked if I knew anyone.” He looked at me purposefully.
“Well?” I stonewalled. “Do you?”
“I sure do.”
“And who’s that?” I asked, playing dumb while I panicked inside.
“You.”
I didn’t hesitate. “I have a job.”
“Right,” Coach said. “But this one is better. And if you get it, you should take it. Even if that means you have to say a few nice things about other programs.”
I smiled and said, “No way. That’s a deal breaker.”
“Shea,” he said, his face all business. “Call Smiley. This could be a great opportunity for you.”
I had the feeling he was thinking about Connie, probably something about the brevity of life, the importance of seizing the day, all the things that I’d been obsessing over lately. I nodded, knowing that he was right, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I could refuse this interview. Or anything Coach Carr asked me to do.
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll call him.”
“Good,” he said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied expression. “Oh. And another thing?”
“Yeah?” I said, as Kenny Chesney crooned Come over, come over, come over in the background.