“Yeah. Sure,” I said as he opened up his stride. Struggling to keep up with him, I said, “Damn. You’re fast. What’s your mile pace?”
“When I’m tired?” he said. “Because that’s the real question. Not your personal best, but how fast you can go when you’re tired. Down and out.”
“Are you tired now?” I gasped.
Coach shook his head. “Nope. But I am down and out,” he said. I caught him smiling again, and it occurred to me that I was making him feel better, at least a little. I felt emboldened by that notion, enough to increase my speed, hang in there with him.
We fell silent after that, as I lost track of our laps. But somewhere around the three-mile mark, he turned to me and, breathing hard, asked, “So how’s Ryan?”
Ryan was the last thing I wanted to think about now, and I was too winded for a long answer anyway, so I just panted, “He’s fine. Rams tomorrow.”
“Heard about the earrings,” he said, glancing at my ears, although I wasn’t wearing them now.
“Yeah,” I said, rubbing my left side where a cramp was beginning to form. “I tried to give them back … but—”
“I’m sure that didn’t go over,” Coach said, slowing a bit.
“No. He acted like they were a little something out of a gumball machine.”
Coach laughed, then stopped running altogether, leaning down to grab on to his knees. “Yeah,” he panted. “That boy’s so rich he buys a new boat when he gets the other one wet.”
I laughed, making my cramp worse. I felt a little guilty, talking about Ryan behind his back, but told myself that it wasn’t disloyal given that Coach cared about him as much as I did.
“Please tell me we’re done,” I said, wincing.
“Yeah. We’re done,” he said.
After walking another half a lap in silence, we walked through the gate, then up the staircase to the parking lot.
Only when we reached our cars did he finally speak. “Well, thank you, Shea. I feel better now.”
“Thank you, Coach,” I said, feeling light-headed even before I met his gaze. “That was … nice.”
“Yes. It was,” he said, our eyes still locked. He gave me a slow smile, and I could tell he was talking about my company as much as the running.
I hesitated, overcoming another small wave of guilt over Ryan, telling myself that my attraction to Coach would never be reciprocated. It was safe, feeling this way about something that was never going to happen. Frustrating, and a little sad, but also very safe. I looked back down at the ground and said, “I hope we can do it again.”
“Didn’t I tell you I only come out here and run when we play like shit?” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Well, then I hope we never do it again.”
“Me, too,” Coach said. “And you’ll be happy to know …”
“What?”
“That I eat chocolate cake after we play well.” He gave me a little wink.
“Excellent,” I said. “Because I’m not much of a runner. But I’m really good at eating cake.”
Twenty
The week leading up to the LSU game, Smiley gave me my first feature assignment: a three-thousand-word piece on Reggie Rhodes. He gave me very little guidance, just told me he wanted “a lot of flavor on the guy.” His background. His adjustment to the college game. All the hype and whether or not he was living up to it. I breathed a sigh of relief when he ended the meeting abruptly, with no mention of any recruiting violation rumors. I was starting to think that Walker might be out of the woods and I, as a reporter, off the hook. Of course, I’d subscribed to the don’t-ask, don’t-tell philosophy, intentionally avoiding the subject with anyone at Walker.
When I called J.J. to ask for access to Reggie, the two of us danced around the obvious, focusing only on one fact: that I was the first reporter to get the plum interview, the only one Coach trusted to interview his young star in anything other than a postgame press conference.
For two days, I prepared for my conversation with Reggie, reaching out to various people from his life. I talked to his high school coach and principal, his parents, and, of course, Coach. Everyone said variations of the same thing. That Reggie was a rarity. A superstar without Twitter. Tim Tebow without all the ostentatious religion. A good kid. The real deal.
On Tuesday night, I met Reggie at the plush academic counseling center as his tutor wrapped up an American lit session.
“Hey, Miss Rigsby,” he said, standing to shake my hand. He had a soft voice and a friendly gap between his front teeth.