The One & Only(99)
Then, suddenly, Ryan got up by his own power and limped off the field with the help of only one trainer, to the applause and enormous relief of eighty thousand fans. Except for Ryan’s own father, who still seemed more pissed than anything else. I took a few steps away from him, now standing in the middle of the suite, with really no view whatsoever of the field or the television, as another text came in from Coach.
CCC: It’s not torn. He’d be on a stretcher.
Me: I know. But Mrs. James is freaking out.
CCC: And let me guess. Mr. James is guns-a-blazing blaming Ryan?
Me: Yep.
CCC: He’s going to demoralize that boy. Worse than he already has.
Me: I know. Now I really wish you were here.
I meant for Ryan’s sake, but also for mine, and Coach took it that way, writing back: Me, too. Miss you, girl.
I stared down at my phone, hesitating, then slowly typing: I miss you, too. Then I put my phone back in my pocket and walked to my seat, avoiding the worried stares from my parents. I don’t think I watched another play after that, my eyes fixed on the sidelines, as if staring at the blue number twelve on my boyfriend’s back would somehow turn the terrible tide.
Twenty-nine
The Cowboys ended up losing by twenty-eight, their worst defeat ever on Thanksgiving Day. The only ones who stuck around our suite until the very ugly end were the people who had come with me. Mr. and Mrs. James, along with my mother, hit the road with a couple of minutes left on the clock. There obviously wasn’t enough time for Dallas to come back, but it still felt disloyal.
“You ready?” my dad said as both teams cleared the field and disappeared down their respective tunnels.
I shrugged, nursing my third drink of the day, wishing I had an actual buzz, anything to dull the loss and the worry I felt over Ryan’s injury—and what he was going to say to me when we finally spoke.
“Really no hurry,” I said. “Either sit here or in traffic.”
“Okay. Well … What’s the plan, exactly?” my dad asked as it occurred to me that, for once, I was the one in charge.
“We’re meeting at Café on the Green at five-thirty,” I said, having intentionally left our plans vague until this moment.
Unfamiliar with Dallas, Astrid gave me a questioning look as I said, “Private dining room at the Four Seasons. Relax.”
She smiled and said, “Perf.”
I couldn’t help rolling my eyes at Astrid as Bronwyn said, “Mom doesn’t understand that only teenagers have any business abbreviating adjectives … Presh, fab, jeal. And my least favorite—totes.”
“Totally isn’t an adjective, though, is it?” Wiley said as Astrid laughed, seemingly proud to be compared to a vapid youth.
“It totes isn’t,” I said. “Adverb.”
My phone rang, and I jumped, thinking it might be Ryan, but it was only Gordon shouting hello in a din of testosterone.
“You in the locker room?” I said.
“Headed in now … Sorry about the game,” he said, which I appreciated given that he was an Eagles fan. “Tough day for your boys.”
“Yeah. Sometimes you get the bear …” I began, one of Coach’s sayings. “And sometimes the bear gets you.”
“Ha. Right,” Gordon said. “Well, looks like I’ll be talking to your guy in a minute here.”
“Any word so far on his knee?” I asked.
“Nothing official. They won’t know for sure until later, but the buzz is that they think it’s minor. Have you talked to him?”
“Not yet,” I said. “You’ll probably hear before I do … So let me know …”
“Will do,” he said.
I hung up, realizing that everyone was staring at me.
“Who was that?” Astrid nosily demanded.
“My colleague,” I said. “On the Cowboys beat.”
My dad nodded, looking intrigued, then asked a few questions about Gordon’s background. I gave him the rundown on his traditional, esteemed journalistic path—NYU, then the Newhouse School at Syracuse for his grad degree, then a string of small-town papers until he landed this gig. My dad seemed to get my implication, saying, “You really scored big with this job, didn’t you?”
“Yes,” I said. “I feel very lucky.”
“It’s not about luck,” my dad said. “You’re good.”
“And I know Coach,” I said. “That’s as good as a grad degree.”
“I’m telling you,” Astrid said, looking straight at me. “That man is hot.”
An hour later, after we had stopped off at the Ritz for Astrid to “freshen up,” and my mother had called to tell me she would not be joining us for dinner, I had yet to hear from Ryan, even after texting him twice. I couldn’t imagine that he’d blow me off altogether, though I was starting to panic that that was a real possibility. But when we arrived at the Four Seasons, I was relieved to see Ryan’s Porsche in the primo valet spot, a couple of guys in uniform admiring it. As much as I understood guys and sports, I would never understand their love of cars.