“Yes, I do,” he said the way he made a lot of statements. Definitively and with the utmost confidence.
“Well, okay, then,” I said. For one second, Coach flitted into my head, the fact that we often saw the Carrs on Thanksgiving, and how Ryan’s plan would certainly preclude that tradition. But I forced him from my thoughts, telling myself to focus, reminding myself that, if I played my cards right, this could be, in Lucy’s words, a friggin’ fairy tale.
Over the next few weeks, as Walker racked up two more wins over Iowa and West Virginia, Ryan and I stayed in our heightened happy zone, meeting for lunch, going to dinner, staying connected. At some point, things stopped feeling tenuous and started to feel real. So much so that I dropped my defense mechanism of downplaying our relationship to Lucy and my mother—and told them that things were getting serious.
My mom was giddy when I told her that Ryan had included her in his Thanksgiving invite.
“Have you told your dad about Ryan yet?” she asked, practically rubbing her hands together. I knew what she was thinking—that Bronwyn might be married off to a rich guy, but that a famed NFL quarterback trumped a venture capitalist any day of the week.
“No. Not yet,” I said, although I was relishing the moment. As much as I saw Ryan for Ryan, there were times when I was acutely aware of his fame. Whenever his face appeared on television, or we garnered a double take in public, I felt validated, proud. To Lucy’s dismay, the news had yet to hit the tabloids other than a tiny blurb on the autism gala in the Dallas social pages, and nobody outside the Walker bubble really knew we were together. I hadn’t even told Gordon, my only friend at work, because every time I found a casual opening, it still felt like name-dropping. Bottom line, there was no getting around the fact that Ryan was a feather in my cap, a gold star on my helmet. And I was as excited as my mother to break the news to my father.
“Well, what are you waiting for? Tell him!” she said, her brown eyes shining.
“Do you want to listen on speaker?” I asked. “Maybe we could get Astrid on speaker, too?”
“Oh, that would be perfect!” she said. “Could we?”
“No, Mom,” I said, shaking my head. “We cannot. It was a joke.”
She looked momentarily deflated but not defeated, as she began to brainstorm what she should wear to the game. “Blue, of course,” she mused. “Or should it be teal for Walker?”
“Any blue would be great,” I said, throwing her a bone, and imagining just how out of control she’d be if Ryan and I ever, one day in the very faraway future, had a real event to plan.
The next day, I decided to practice telling my dad about Ryan during an intercubicle conversation with Gordon about NFL quarterbacks.
“I would get pistol-whipped in this town, but—” Gordon began in a loud whisper, after I asked him to rank them.
I laughed, knowing where he was headed with his preamble. Born and raised in Philly, Gordon loved the Eagles and had no use for the Cowboys outside of his paycheck. In other words, he was a true professional, while I often felt like I was playing a reporter.
He continued, “I go Aaron Rodgers first, Peyton Manning second, Tom Brady third, then Ryan James.”
I felt a pang of loyalty but tried to be objective. “I’ll give you Aaron Rodgers. Maybe,” I said. “But I put Ryan ahead of Peyton. And he’s way ahead of Brady.”
Gordon made his arguments, the whole “stats are one thing but it really comes down to winning big games,” then had the audacity to suggest that maybe even Brees should be put before Ryan. “That guy can execute like nobody else,” he said.
“You think Ryan doesn’t execute? Really? He’s a total executioner,” I began, then strategically added, “Of course, I’m biased.”
“Everyone in this state is biased,” Gordon said. “Especially you Walker alums.”
“Yes,” I said. “But I’m really biased … We’re actually … kind of … dating.”
Gordon laughed and kept on typing.
“No. We are. I didn’t want to say anything at first … Because you work on that beat … And I don’t know,” I blathered, “it still sort of feels like name-dropping. And for all I know Smiley has some kind of policy against it … Since Ryan went to Walker and all.” I glanced in Smiley’s direction, then returned my gaze to Gordon. I had his attention, finally, but he looked incredulous, waiting for the punch line.
“You serious?”
“Yeah. We’re dating. We have been for a couple of months …”