The One & Only(80)

“Barbra Streisand?” I teased.

“And Neil Diamond,” he said. “Don’t forget Neil.”

“You going soft, Coach?”

He laughed. “Soft? Is that what you call beating Stanford?”

“Good point,” I said as he ducked into the laundry room and switched off the radio. A pile of T-shirts and boxers were sloppily folded on the dryer along with one lone tube sock. The sight of his clothes, especially that sock, gave me a stab of intense sadness. I hated the idea of him doing his own laundry, being so alone.

I followed him past the pantry and into the kitchen, noticing details that I normally overlook. The tall baseboards, the slight sheen of the taupe walls, the distinctive smell of this house—a clean, and somehow old-fashioned, white-vinegar and woodsy scent. I caught Coach following my eyes, then misreading my thoughts. “I know. It’s messy. Lorna doesn’t come on the weekends.”

“It’s not so bad,” I said, though it was pretty messy. Dishes, several piles of mail, and an open box of raisin bran sat on the counter.

“I was just straightening up when you got here,” he said, closing the box of cereal and sweeping a few flakes from the counter into the cupped palm of his hand. He deposited them in the sink as I pulled our food out of the bag, unwrapping our tacos to determine which were his beef and my chicken.

“Want some plates?” he said.

I shrugged and said that wasn’t necessary, then thought of how refined Connie was, and changed my answer. “Actually, plates might be nice,” I said, reaching up and getting two from the cupboard, thinking that no other woman would know where everything was in his house. Except for Lorna and Lucy, and they didn’t count. I arranged the tacos as artfully as I could, putting his cinnamon twists aside for later, then grabbing a couple of napkins from a drawer next to the flatware.

“I didn’t get drinks,” I said. “Figured you’d have something here.”

Coach nodded, then pulled two frosted mugs out of the freezer, along with a liter of A&W root beer from the fridge. “Or would you rather have a real beer?” he said.

I smiled and said, “Root beer’s perfect.”

“Scoop of vanilla ice cream?” he said.

I laughed, shook my head, and said, “With tacos? No thanks.”

“Vanilla ice cream goes with anything,” he said, pouring the root beer. “But in light of the chocolate cake and cinnamon twists, I’ll skip it, too.”

We both smiled as he carried the glasses over to the family room. He put one glass down on his drink stand, the other on the coffee table, then sat in his usual armchair. I followed him with our plates, handed him his, and sat diagonally next to him on the sofa.

“What a satisfying win,” I said.

He tore open a packet of hot sauce, put it on one taco, and said, “Yeah. Those boys did a fine job today. Executed the plan to near perfection. Now—”

“—if we can beat Texas,” I finished for him.

He nodded, indicating that I got it right, as he flipped the television from Georgia–LSU on ABC to Cal–Oregon State on ESPN, then back to ABC, the tighter of the two contests.

We chatted about both games and the other scores of the day, spending a good ten minutes on Texas. I had only seen the highlights, but Coach filled in the details on their balanced offensive attack and stingy defense.

“It’ll be tough to beat them,” he summarized with a long sigh.

“We’ll get ’em,” I said, wondering if Smiley would fire me if he could see and hear me now. Then again, he had known Coach and I were close when he hired me. He had to have realized I wasn’t going to flip a switch and become unbiased and estranged from all my former friends. And as long as I wrote objective pieces, and kept up public appearances of being impartial, wasn’t this okay? It crossed my mind that Ryan might have the bigger issue with this moment, but I quickly discredited that thought, too. Miller was one thing, but there was no way Ryan would be jealous of his college coach. He loved the man almost as much as I did.


A few minutes later, Coach asked if I’d heard anything more about the investigation.

“Not really,” I said. “Just the usual chat board rumors and speculations … J.J. and Galli seem hopeful that the case will be closed for lack of evidence.”

“That would be nice,” he said.

“Don’t you think this whole thing was cooked up by fans of another team?”

“I do,” Coach replied quickly.

I looked at him, thinking of the alternative theory, and said, “Ryan thinks that all winners, at some point, cheat.”