“You look phenomenal,” he said, leaning down to kiss my cheek, his hand on my back. “Wow.”
“Thank you. You look great, too,” I said, shaking off my pregame jitters, as he guided me over to the couches and introduced me to his friends, Sandy and Barry, explaining that Barry was on the board of the autism charity, and Sandy was last year’s gala chair. I said hello as Barry stood and shook my hand, and Sandy complimented my dress. I told her I loved hers, too, as we all sat down and Barry asked what I wanted to drink. I glanced at the low cocktail table between us, noting that the guys were drinking scotch, Sandy white wine. I hesitated, the way I always did when it came time to order a drink, thinking that, at thirty-three, it was high time I had a go-to signature beverage, like Lucy. “Belvedere and soda with a twist,” she always said so decisively, prettily. No floundering about or jumping around from beer to wine to tequila.
“Shea drinks whiskey,” Ryan proudly announced.
“How did you know about my whiskey habit?” I said under my breath.
He winked and said, “That’s one of those things you don’t forget. Girls who drink whiskey. Girls who pack heat. Girls who go commando. Girls who truly understand the game of football.”
“Good Lord, Ryan,” Sandy said, laughing. “That’s quite a list!”
“Yeah. But I think there’s a difference between understanding the wishbone formation and packing heat without panties,” I quipped.
“Nah. I’m with Ryan. Significant overlap,” Barry said.
“I’m wearing underwear,” I said.
“That’s too bad,” Ryan whispered in my ear.
I smiled and asked Barry what he was drinking.
“Macallan thirty,” Barry said, holding up his rocks glass. I could tell he knew it would impress me, but it wasn’t off-putting. Not nearly as offensive as those who casually name-drop a vintage.
“Thirty?” I said, wondering how much that set him back, and if it could possibly be worth it.
“Yep. It’s crazy smooth,” Ryan said, while Sandy quizzed me on how I could stand something so strong. “It’s like drinking … nail polish remover.”
I laughed and said it was absolutely nothing like nail polish remover—but that I should probably stick with wine tonight. Ryan ignored me and told the waitress that I’d like a double shot of “this good stuff.”
“On the rocks?” she asked, giving me a once-over.
“No. Neat,” Ryan answered for me, which puzzled me a little since he and Barry were both drinking theirs on ice.
Thinking he had his reasons and I wasn’t going to nitpick, I smiled and thanked him, reminding myself to be careful. I had an hour drive home tonight, and ending up on Ryan’s couch was out of the question. His bed was even more out of the question, which Lucy had taken great pains to remind me of. She had already sent me two texts. One simply said: Do NOT get wasted; the other: Guys like girls they have to work for. Don’t be a lobby ho. I laughed after I read that one, remembering that it was I who had taught her the terminology, coined for the girls in low-cut tops and knee-high boots who sat around in the players’ hotels, waiting for them to come down for the team bus.
“So. Ryan tells us you went to college together,” Sandy said as I noticed that her accent was the girl version of Ryan’s. High-class all the way. So high-class that she could afford to skip the airs. I decided I liked her.
“Yes,” I said. “We met in our freshman comp course.”
“But we knew each other through football, too. Shea’s best friends with Coach Carr’s daughter,” Ryan said.
“And you’re from Walker?” Sandy asked.
I said yes, all my life except for the first two months.
“Shea works for Walker now,” Ryan added. “In the athletic department.”
I nodded, then confided that I had had an interview with the Post earlier today. “And get this,” I said, turning to fix my gaze on Ryan. “It’s for the Longhorn beat.”
Ryan slapped his thigh and belted out, “Traitor! Damn traitor!” He laughed a big, confident laugh. “Does Coach Carr know about this?”
I said yes, but didn’t tell him that it had been Coach’s idea in the first place and instead asked Barry and Sandy where they had gone to school.
“I went to SMU, Barry went to Rice,” Sandy said, adding that they were Walker fans, too, because of Ryan.
I refrained from telling them my opinion: if they were fans of all, they were fans of none. Instead I stuck to safer terrain and asked where they had grown up.
“Right here in Dallas,” Barry said. “We both went to Highland Park High.”