Me: Nope. Not possible. But back to the story. What do you think of Lache?
CCC: That kid can run like small-town gossip.
Me: Can I quote you on that?
CCC: Yes.
Me: What else can I quote you on?
CCC: Tell ’em it’s going to be a flesh-on-flesh, in-the-trench battle.
Me: And your strategy?
CCC: Hold on to the ball and score more points than they do.
Me: Sounds simple enough.
CCC: Yes. But don’t be fooled. The best things in life only seem simple.
I smiled down at my phone, thinking just how true that was.
The next morning, at 7:58, I filed my first story with The Dallas Post. Twenty minutes later, Smiley stormed over to my cubicle, barking at me to call it up on my screen. I did as I was told, discovering that he—or someone at the copydesk—had already heavily edited the piece.
“Not awful,” he said, which felt like high praise. “But you need to tighten it up, lose some of that flowery description, and cut down on the quotes. I get it. They’re down a lot of men. Say it once.” He pointed over my shoulder as I tried to follow all the electronic changes made in red in the margins.
I nodded and said I understood.
Then, as if he knew how long the first draft had taken me, he added, “And I need it back ASAP. Ten minutes ago.”
As he returned to his office, I noticed that the only sentence without a single edit was my lead, lifted directly from my cellphone: According to Walker University’s Coach Clive Carr, Saturday’s contest against Baylor is going to be “a flesh-on-flesh, in-the-trench battle.”
Later that day, after I had refiled my first story and worked on the next, I met Lucy at the practice field, like old times. She brought us gourmet sandwiches from her favorite deli, and we sat in the bleachers, talking and watching practice. At least I was watching practice, while she did most of the talking.
“How’s Ryan?” Lucy asked as she handed me half of a portobello mushroom, mozzarella, and red pepper sandwich. It was her favorite topic these days, and I was happy to give her a good report.
“He’s great,” I said, watching a weak-shoulder run drill in progress. Coach was holding a shield at the fifteen-yard line, while his running backs lined up across from him and pressed his outside shoulder to get back up the field. Somehow he managed to look sexy in the process, right down to the way he blew his whistle and bellowed instructions, his voice a little hoarse. I looked away from the field, back at Lucy, telling myself to get a grip. Stop looking at her father like that.
“Could I get a little more than ‘great’?” Lucy said.
I smiled, thinking that my vague answer was the kind I’d hate if I were doing the interview, and said, “I’m staying over a lot lately. It really is convenient to work.”
“The ol’ convenience factor, huh? That’s the best you can say about it?”
I laughed and said, “Um. I can also say I love his house.”
“So, proximity to work and luxurious accommodations? Sounds like the perfect relationship.”
I took a sip of Snapple lemonade and said, “What do you want me to say?”
“I want you to say that you’re in love.”
I gave her a close-lipped smile and shook my head.
“Headed in that direction? Falling ever so slightly?”
“Maybe,” I said, reaching up to touch one of my diamond earrings as Coach blew his whistle then asked Barry Canty if he planned on breaking a sweat anytime soon.
I laughed.
Lucy looked at me and said, “What?”
“Your dad,” I said. “He’s so funny.”
“Oh. Yeah.” She put down her sandwich and said, “So. I want to talk to you about something else.” I knew the look on her face. Something was wrong.
“What?” I said, a knot of worry in my chest.
“It’s about Daddy. I think he might be seeing someone.”
My stomach dropped as I asked her why she thought that, picturing an attractive lady, in her mid-forties, perhaps a widow.
“Because I was over at his house, and he was on his phone. Texting someone,” she said, as Coach transitioned the backs into a pass protection drill.
“When?” I said.
“Last night,” she said. “Around eight.”
I felt a rush of relief, then guilt, knowing that he was texting me—and made the split-second decision not to tell her.
“It was weird,” she continued. “I asked who he was talking to and he said nobody. I mean, nobody?”