I nodded, basking in his final brilliant analysis, as he clapped Miller on the back and said, “All right, then … Good to see you, son. Y’all be safe getting home.”
We promised that we would as he turned to me, hesitating, as if debating whether to give me a handshake or hug or similar backslap. Instead, he put his hand over mine, lowered his voice, and said, “Enjoyed talking football with you, girl.”
Sixteen
It was raining when I walked out of the bar, a light mist that would have felt romantic if I were holding someone’s hand, but instead made me feel more wistful and lonesome than I had in a long time. Lonesome enough to text Ryan when I got in my car, congratulating him on a great game. Before I pulled out of my parking spot, he had written back: Thanks. I think you should come tell me in person. ;)
“Done,” I said aloud. And, a few minutes later, I was on I-35, headed toward Dallas, my thoughts jumbled and racing, yet returning, again and again, to Coach. Our conversation, his eyes, the way I felt sitting near him, whether in his office or back in that bar. It was different from the way I felt with anyone else. He gave me butterflies in my stomach, and, although I’d always chalked it up to nervousness from being so close to greatness, I was starting to worry that it was something more than that. As I drove, a queasy feeling overcame me. I was finally calling my own bluff—and I hated that I couldn’t turn it off, shut it down.
I turned up the radio, shook my head, tightened my grip on the steering wheel, and came up with a battery of excuses. I told myself that I was only confusing my love of football and Walker with an attraction to the head of our program. That, sure, Coach was hot—even a male Sports Illustrated writer had acknowledged as much—and a beautiful man could fluster any woman, even one in a committed, satisfying relationship. That everyone and her sister loved Coach Carr, and I was hardly unique in Walker, Texas. That having a little crush was just the grown-up version of childhood hero worship.
But the more I tried to convince myself, the more the wall of denial crumbled. And this time, there was no stopping the realization that hit me hard in the gut, halfway between Walker and Dallas: I had a thing for Lucy’s dad. A real, undeniable, heart-thudding, romantic thing.
I drove faster, forcing Coach from my mind, focusing on Ryan. How much I truly liked him. How perfect he was. How happy he made me.
I told myself I needed to get a grip—and fast. Coach Carr was the last person in the world I had any business having feelings for. He was too old for me. He had just lost the love of his life. He was my best friend’s father. It was insanity.
The rain fell harder, pelting my windshield, my wipers unable to keep up, the road ahead barely visible. I finally gave up and pulled over to the side of the road, waiting, breathing, denying that I was actually missing him, doing everything in my power not to think of him. But that strategy backfired, as it always does, and it didn’t help matters when Bonnie Raitt’s “I Can’t Make You Love Me,” the most exquisitely sad song ever recorded, came on the radio. Morning will come, and I’ll do what’s right …
At some point after the rain had slowed, I got back on the road. And by the time Ryan buzzed me through his iron gate, I had pulled it together. I smiled when I saw him standing in his doorway in slippers and a black robe open at the chest.
“Hello, beautiful,” he said, as I got out of the car.
“Hi, Ryan,” I said, walking to him.
He stepped off his porch, took my hand, and pulled me out of the light rain.
“What’re you doing here?” he said coyly, kissing my neck.
“I came to congratulate you in person.”
“Why, thank you,” he said, wrapping his strong arms around me and kissing me again, this time on my mouth. I closed my eyes and focused on the feel of his lips and tongue and large hands drawing me closer. Then I let him lead me upstairs to his bedroom, where he made slow, passionate love to me.
Just before sunrise, I awoke in Ryan’s arms, wanting him again. I gently untangled myself so that I could watch him sleep, stare at his gorgeous face.
At some point, his eyes fluttered open, and he gave me a half smile before reaching for me. “C’mere,” he whispered, pulling me closer and kissing the top of my head.
“You were really great last night,” I said.
“Well, I can do better,” he said, running his hand along my hip, now fully awake.
“I meant in the game,” I said with a laugh, then described one of his prettiest plays.
“Wait. Wasn’t that the first quarter?” he asked, becoming more alert.
“Yes. It was pretty early on.”