Shit, I said aloud, now vaguely remembering placing the calls.
Ryan heard me and said, “You okay?”
I walked back to the bed, my phone in hand, and said, “Did I talk to anyone last night?”
Ryan laughed and said, “Yeah. You called Coach. You were hilarious.”
“Hilarious how?” I asked, my heart racing as I saw that one call to Coach Carr had lasted nearly eleven minutes. I crossed my fingers that I was funny-hilarious, not foolish-hilarious as I got back in bed and pulled the sheet over me. “What did I say?”
“On which topic?” Ryan said, sitting up, exposing a torso so cut that it didn’t look real. “Your tirade against the Longhorns? Your stance on women in the locker room? Or your declaration of undying love for him?”
“What?” I said, my voice hoarse. “I said that?”
“You said he was your favorite person in the world. Something like that.”
“I don’t love him in that way,” I said.
“Well, no shit. He’s an old dude.”
“He’s only fifty-five,” I said.
“Well, still. I knew what you meant.”
“But I really said that to him?” I said.
“Yup,” Ryan said, seemingly enjoying my misery as he imitated my slurred voice. “ ‘Yermyfaaaavoritepersoninthewholewiiiiideworld.’ ”
“Oh, God. Why did you let me call him?” I said, burying my face deeper into the covers, every part of me burning with humiliation.
“There was no stopping you. You were on fire.”
“On fire? What else did I say?” I asked.
“You went through pretty much every Heisman Trophy since Jay Berwanger won the damn thing in 1935 and asked Coach who he thought really should have won. You put him on speaker for that segment.”
“Did he …?”
“Play along? Oh, yeah. He played your little game. Let’s see … You both agreed that Herschel Walker should have beat out George Rogers in ’eighty-two.”
“ ’Eighty,” I corrected. “He did win in ’eighty-two.”
“Right. Whatever. But according to you, he shouldn’t have won that year. Eric Dickerson should have … And you thought Chuck Long should have beaten Bo Jackson, but Coach disagreed on that one … You said Ki-Jana Carter or McNair should have beaten Salaam, and you both agreed that Peyton Manning should have won in ’ninety-seven.”
“Did we discuss you?” I asked.
“Nope. I was a complete footnote. Until after you hung up,” he said, peeling back the covers and kissing the side of my face. His breath was warm in my ear, and I couldn’t help feeling aroused even as my focus remained singular.
“What else?” I said. “What else did I say to Coach?”
“You talked about the job. For the Post. Coach told you that you were crazy not to take it. You said you didn’t get it yet. He said you would. You said you didn’t want to leave Walker. God knows why. He said you could commute back and forth between Walker, Dallas, and Austin. Blah, blah, blah. Then I told you to say goodbye.”
“And did I?”
“Nope. You rambled some more.”
“About?”
“What else?” he said.
“Football?”
He kissed me again, this time on the mouth, then rolled me onto my back. “You have a one-track mind,” he said, covering my body with his. “I think you love the game more than I do.”
I kissed him back, my body battling my mind.
“And I think,” he whispered, “you like football more than sex.”
“So we didn’t …?” I asked, hopeful.
“Hell, no,” Ryan said. “You passed out on me. Besides, I’m a gentleman … But there’s still plenty of time …”
He kissed me more urgently, cupping my breast with his large hand. I kissed him back, but mentally pumped my fist, relieved. It was ironic, really—and the way it often was with whiskey. You were never quite sure whether to blame it or give it credit. I’d make that final call after I spoke to Coach.
“You want to now?” Ryan asked.
“Talk football or have sex?” I asked.
“Both,” he said, breathing hard, his voice low. “I can play your little Heisman game while I’m inside you …”
“Oh, yeah?” I said. “Who won in ’sixty-eight?”
“Is this a test?” he said as I felt him grow hard against my leg.
“Yeah,” I said, pushing back against him, but feeling confident that he’d fail.
“Steve Spurrier,” he said.
“Nope. Try again.”
“Archie Griffin.”