The One & Only(98)

“No. I really cannot,” I said. Then, realizing that I wasn’t helping matters, I added, “But all the greats have games like this … Eli Manning does this once or twice a season—and he’s a two-time Super Bowl MVP.”

“Yeah. Well, I’d give Ryan some leeway, too, if he had a ring,” Mr. James snapped back.

Christ, I thought, grinding my teeth. You really are an asshole. But instead I said, “He’s only human … He’ll bounce back.”

Mr. James made a grumbling sound while I stood next to him in silence, filled with that sickening, sinking feeling that comes with getting your ass kicked. Only this was even worse because, with every shitty possession, I felt responsible. What if it did come down to Ryan’s lack of sleep? What if that threw him off his game, which in turn threw the whole team off? I didn’t want to give myself that sort of credit—or blame—but it was hard not to consider the possibility. As FOX went to a commercial, I said to Mr. James, “Do you think maybe he doesn’t feel well? Or didn’t get a good night’s sleep?”

Mr. James looked at me and said, “Hell, he didn’t get something … I haven’t seen him look this bad in years.”

I sighed, shifted my weight from foot to foot, then nervously checked my phone, which I’d wedged into my back pocket. There were two new texts, one from Lucy, saying: Oh noo!!!! Terrible game! I’m so sorry!!! and one from Coach: Wow. What’s going on up there?

Lost in anxious thought, I must have mumbled something to myself, because Mr. James looked at me and said, “What’s that?”

“Nothing,” I said, making uneasy eye contact. “I just got a text from Coach. That’s all.”

He looked at me confused, and I realized that he probably thought of “Coach” as Coach Garrett now, head coach of the Cowboys. So I said, “Coach Carr.”

“And? What’s he saying? That he can’t believe his guy is responsible for such a shit show?”

I shook my head, feeling a swell of anger, and said, “No. That’s not what he’s saying at all.”

“Well?” he said, staring me down, his voice dripping with disgust. “What, then?”

“He just said … that it’s not Ryan’s day,” I said, holding my ground, knowing that was what Coach would say. He understood the mental component of this game, especially for quarterbacks, and never got pissed at his guys as long as they were doing their best. And it seemed clear to me that Ryan was doing his best. If anything, he seemed to be trying too hard. Forcing plays, out of his usual rhythm. Sometimes it just happened—and there wasn’t anything you could do about it. I hated Ryan’s father for not knowing that—or not giving a damn. All these years of watching his son and he still hadn’t figured out that Ryan wasn’t a machine.

Then, as if proving that exact statement—that Ryan’s body wasn’t robotic—we watched him try to field a bad shotgun snap on a third and eighteen. He stumbled and went down, lying on the ground as the Eagles pounced on the ball. I knew even before they showed the replay that it was his knee. His bad left knee, already heavily braced. I felt instantly nauseated, the way I always am when someone gets hurt in a game—especially when knees are involved, the most vulnerable parts of any athlete’s body.

I held my breath and prayed as I watched all the color drain from Mr. James’s tanned face. “God dammit. No,” he said. The stadium fell as silent as a stadium can be, as Mrs. James came scurrying back to her husband in an absolute panic. One sling-back heel slipped off her foot, and she kicked it away, hobbling awkwardly with one shoe until abandoning the second.

“How bad is it?” she said to no one in particular, breathless.

“How the hell should we know?” he snapped at her.

“Did you see the replay? Who hurt him?” she said, her voice shaking.

“Your boy tripped. Nobody touched him,” Mr. James said, disgusted.

She ignored his tone and said, “Shea, what did you see? What happened?”

“I can’t tell,” I said, watching the replay for the third time, feeling cold with dread. I babbled some more, explaining that it didn’t look too serious, and they were probably using the injury time-out for everyone to get a breather. But what I didn’t tell her, and what I also knew to be true, was that even the very smallest movements could result in catastrophic injuries. That knees were funny things that way. But she didn’t wait for me to finish my answer, running back to the front of the suite to be just a little closer to her son. I was torn, wanting the closer-up view on the television but also wanting to see him in the flesh.