The One & Only(93)

I hung up, awash with mixed feelings. On the one hand, I really was sorry. I’d told Ryan I was going to do something—and I hadn’t done it. I had been on the receiving end of such empty promises with Miller and others before him, and knew how frustrating it could be. I also knew how much Ryan liked to control everything that happened on the night before a game, so I was sure his nerves had compounded his irritation. Bottom line, I had been insensitive and thoughtless.

At the same time, though, it all seemed a bit overblown. So I hadn’t called him during a two- to three-hour window on one random night? Big deal. Why couldn’t he just say good night and go to bed, already? Was it really necessary to leave that many messages? Was it really worth getting that upset?

As the room began to spin, I moved more squarely into the defensive camp. It wasn’t like we’d had firm plans that I had blown off. I just forgot to call him. I mean, seriously, didn’t he have more important things to worry about? Like the Philadelphia Eagles? Get over it, already.

My phone rang, and I scrambled to answer, expecting it to be Ryan and dreading the confrontation. Instead, I saw CCC lighting up my phone. My stomach kept fluttering, but now for a very different reason.

“Hello?” I said, my voice hoarse.

“Well, well, well,” Coach said. “Someone doesn’t sound quite as peppy as she did last night.”

I tried to laugh, but my throat was too dry and it came out a small groan. “Yeah. I guess not.”

“You feeling okay?”

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m sorry about last night.”

“Nothing to be sorry about,” Coach said—which somehow made me resent Ryan’s guilt trip more. If anything, Coach should be the one annoyed with me. Would Ryan have preferred a nice drunk dial at midnight? “We just need to get your car.”

“We?” I said, curling into a ball and feeling overcome with that dreamy feeling he always gave me, especially when he used pronouns like we and us.

“Yes. We. That is, if you’re okay to drive now?”

“I didn’t have that much to drink,” I said. “You must think I’m a total lush …”

“Nah. Two benders in eight months does not a lush make.”

“Two?”

“Heisman Trophy night. Was that the last one?”

“Oh, yeah,” I said, no longer embarrassed about that call. “Yeah. That was the last one.”

“So. Let’s schedule the next one for after the season. You and me. In January.”

“Okay. Yes. January,” I said, thinking of the national championship game. I reached over and knocked on my wooden nightstand. “It’s a date. Just you and me.”

I could feel his smile coming over the phone, and I beamed back at him.

“Okay,” he said after a few intimate seconds. “I’ll be over around nine.”

“You will?” I said, excited.

“Yeah. Someone has to take you to get your car. Don’t you need it today? To get to the game?”

I said yes, sitting up and checking the time. It was nearly 8:30—which gave me thirty minutes to look presentable.

“Okay. Get up,” he said. “Get the blood pumping. You’ve got a big day ahead of you. Big game. Big meeting.”

“Right,” I said, wondering how I was going to get through it all.


Thirty minutes later, after I had showered, thrown on some jeans and a sweatshirt, and half dried my hair, there was a brisk knock at the door. I ran to open it and found Coach, wearing a Walker warm-up suit and a ball cap, holding a large coffee from Bunki’s.

“Happy Thanksgiving, girl,” he said, raising the coffee.

“Oh, right. I forgot. Happy Thanksgiving,” I said, taking the hot to-go cup from his outstretched hand. “Thank you.”

“Figured you needed some coffee but then realized … I don’t even know how you take it.”

Even. The word suggested that he should know, that we had passed that point in our relationship.

“Plain. Black,” I said, which was the way he drank it, too.

“Well, you’re in luck … I hope I got the donuts right, too,” he said, holding up the bag, then placing them on the small table right inside my door.

“Glazed?” I guessed, knowing that was his favorite.

He winked and patted the bag. “Yep.”

“Do you wanna come in for a second?” I asked, still feeling forward but not nearly as bold as last night.

“I would, but we need to hurry. You need to be on the road soon for a one o’clock kickoff.”

“I know,” I said, grabbing my keys and purse as we headed out the door. He took my coffee as I locked the door, then handed it back to me as we walked down the flight of stairs, our footsteps echoing in the stairwell. Once on the sidewalk outside my building, he glanced around, then lowered the bill of his cap.