The One & Only(23)

“You would have hit him with your eyes closed,” I said.

He made a modest face, as if to say maybe, maybe not, while I sneaked a quick once-over. Always clean-cut and smartly dressed, Ryan looked especially good tonight, in a navy sport coat with a white polo, dark-washed denim, and brown suede loafers. From a wealthy oil family in Midland, he had always reeked of old money and good taste, even before he turned pro and started raking in his own millions. Both George Bushes had attended Ryan’s grandiose wedding to his now ex-wife, Blakeslee Meadows, a gorgeous socialite from Houston who transferred to Walker from SMU, in the opinion of many, so she could marry Ryan. Her plan worked, and the two were engaged just days after the Cowboys drafted him as the first overall pick. Lucy had gone to the wedding, along with her parents, and said she’d never seen anything like it—Blakeslee’s family’s ranch crawling with Secret Service agents, celebrities, and regular people who were so beautiful that they looked like celebrities. I wasn’t invited, which didn’t hurt my feelings but surprised me a little, not because Ryan and I were that tight in college but because I would have thought we were friendly enough for me to make a nine-hundred-person cut. Lucy told me to take it as a compliment, that Blakeslee must have seen me as competition. I told her that was preposterous. I might have had a few attributes that certain guys appreciated, but I was no Blakeslee, that was for sure, and Ryan was way out of my league, the biggest man on campus when we were in school, and now an NFL star. Big fish, big pond. I’d even heard a tabloid rumor that Giselle had flirted with him at a party in Hawaii during Pro Bowl weekend last year, which led to an exchange of terse words with Tom Brady. When I thought about it, I was pretty sure Ryan was the only person on the planet who could rile Tom Brady, both on the field and off. It was yet another accomplishment in a long list.

I stepped out of the way as a cameraman turned to get a close-up of Ryan for all the viewers at home. Clearly accustomed to the spotlight, he pretended not to notice the bright lights in his face, and kept right on talking to me as if we were alone.

“I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak at Mrs. Carr’s funeral,” he said under his breath. “I had to be … in and out.”

I nodded, fighting a wave of sadness at the mention of Mrs. Carr, then said, “By the way. Great game against the Steelers a few months back. It’s not easy to get a win at Heinz Field.”

He smiled. “You watched?”

“Of course,” I said. “That was quite a scramble you had at the end there …”

He gave me a funny look and said, “So, how have you been, Shea?”

“Fine. Good,” I said, thinking that, since college, nothing had really changed in my life. “You know. Same old …”

“You still working with J.J.? In sports information?”

I held up the press pass, dangling around my neck, and smiled. “Yep.”

“And how’s Miller?” he asked. “Is he here tonight?”

“Probably somewhere. Haven’t seen him, though … We broke up,” I said, surprised that Ryan even knew we were together in the first place.

“Oh?” Ryan said. “I’m sorry to hear that …” His voice trailed off.

“Yeah. It’s okay. It had just … run its course …”

He nodded and said, “That happens.”

After an awkward pause, I said, “I’m sorry about your divorce.”

“Yeah. Thanks. At least we didn’t have kids … So, you know … clean break.”

He smiled, putting me at ease, as I remembered the tabloid story I’d read about Blakeslee getting custody of their three-year-old sheepdog, Sasha. They had fought over her, but Ryan had finally relented, based mostly on his travel schedule. Then, a week after Blakeslee took custody, Sasha ate a poisonous mushroom and died.

I tried to think of something clever to say, but came up blank. “Well, I better get to the press box. It was great seeing you.”

“You, too,” Ryan said.

As I turned to go, he reached out and touched my arm. “Do you have a card on you?”

“Sure don’t,” I said. Although I was wearing a rather unfortunate and unfeminine outfit—a Walker golf shirt and khakis—I hadn’t resorted to wearing a fanny pack or carrying a wallet in my back pocket. Besides, I was sure Ryan was just being polite to a fellow alum.

“Well, here,” he said, reaching for his wallet, covered with embossed, interlocking Gucci Gs. He pulled out a card with the Cowboys logo, an all-caps QUARTERBACK below his name, and said, “Here’s my cell. Call me if you ever want to get together. Grab a bite or something.”