room for follow-up, and, to her credit, she tried to turn the conversation back to me, and seemed more interested in my new job than in Ryan.
“Do you like it?” she began. “Is it what you thought it would be?”
“Yes—and pretty much,” I said as everyone listened to my answer. “It’s tough operating on such tight deadlines, but I really do like it. I like concentrating on one sport, one team.”
Bronwyn nodded, and I could hear respect in her voice when she said, “How many other women sports reporters are there?”
“At the Post, specifically?”
She nodded.
“None,” I said.
I caught my dad’s proud smile in the rearview mirror—which pleased me more than it should have.
“Did Ryan help you get the job?” Astrid chimed in.
“No,” I said. “He had nothing to do with it.”
Wiley asked a few questions about the quickly growing obsolescence of newspapers—and whether I thought we’d be completely online at some point in the near future—until Astrid managed to hijack the conversation and manipulate it in a completely unrecognizable direction. As she blathered on, I reread Ryan’s messages, trying to detect aggression in them, relieved not to find any. They were decidedly controlling, high-maintenance, and self-righteous, but I didn’t see any of Blakeslee’s accusations embedded anywhere. Of course I still hadn’t listened to his voice mails, and wondered why this was. Did I not want to find damning evidence right before meeting his parents? Was I just too exhausted? Or did I simply not care enough? As I stared down at my phone, a new message popped onto the screen. It was from Coach: Tell your dad I said hi.
I typed back: Will do.
I kept staring at my phone, willing another message to appear. It finally did. How do you feel? Any better?
Me: Yes, much. The coffee and donut helped. Thanks again.
CCC: Of course. You at the stadium yet?
Me: Almost.
I looked up from my phone and said, “Dad. Coach Carr says hi.”
“How is he doing?” Astrid asked with exaggerated sympathy.
“Fine,” I said.
“Is he dating yet?”
I told her no as tersely as I could.
“What about your mother?”
“What about her?” I snapped.
“Do you think they’ll get together?”
“God, no.”
“I told her that already,” my dad said.
“Why not? They’re close friends—and I have always thought he was so sexy.”
“Astrid. Please stop,” I said.
It only fueled her fire. “You don’t think he’s sexy? Way sexy—in that rugged Texas football coach way … Though that’s not really my type.” She patted my dad on the hand.
“Astrid,” my dad said, exasperated. “Connie just passed away in February.”
“That’s plenty of time to move on,” she fired back.
“Drop it,” my dad said.
“What? Are you jealous?” Astrid said, as we approached the stadium. “Would it bother you if they got together?”
“No,” my dad said. “I just don’t see that happening.”
I glanced back down at the phone as another text from Coach appeared: Enjoy the game.
Thanks, I typed. Then paused and added a very bold I wish I were watching with you.
CCC: You and me both …
I grinned down at the phone, lost for a moment, putting images to the ellipses as we pulled into the VIP parking lot at AT&T Stadium.
When we got to the Jameses’ suite, Ryan’s parents were already there along with a handful of couples about their age. I recognized them right away, both from seeing them in the stands during college and because Ryan looked so much like his father. Mr. James made a beeline for me, effusively greeting me with a two-armed bear hug. It wasn’t what I expected, and I could tell Bronwyn and Astrid were impressed. If there was any suspicion of exaggeration, Ryan’s dad had just dispelled it with one big Texan embrace.
“Honey! Come meet Shea!” he hollered to Mrs. James, who approached me with a similar measure of ebullience.
“We’ve heard so much about you!” she said.
Mr. James nodded. “Ryan just thinks the world of you. He said you know more about football than any girl he’s ever met.”
“Well, that’s very sweet,” I said, ignoring the obvious sexist undertones and taking the comment in the spirit it was intended. “I love the game.”
“And he loves you,” Mr. James said.
Astrid’s mouth literally fell open.
“He’s a great guy,” I said, milking the moment for all it was worth, then turning to make the necessary introductions. My father, Mr. James, and Wiley all hit it off right away, finding endless business overlaps in their respective financial worlds, while Astrid did her best to impress Mrs. James, dropping her own version of important names, labels, locales.