hating myself for lying to my best friend and confused about why I was doing it. We’d been doing an interview; it was all legit.
“No. He was definitely texting. I saw his screen. And when I tried to look over his shoulder, he flipped it over.”
“Maybe he was texting his coaches,” I said, biting my lower lip. “You know, top secret stuff about the game.”
She gave me a look. “Top secret stuff? He’s a coach, not an FBI agent.”
Having run out of all plausible explanations—other than the truth—I shrugged.
“Do you think he could be seeing someone?” she asked.
I said no, then asked, “How would you feel if he were?”
“Are you serious?” she asked, as if it were the most ridiculous question in the world.
“I mean—I know you’d be upset, but would you be … mad?”
She sighed, putting her sandwich down. “Well, how could I be mad?”
“You just could,” I said, thinking that the fact that she shouldn’t be angry had never stopped Lucy before. On any topic. It was amazing how different we were—yet how much we still loved each other.
“Well, no, I don’t think I would be mad. But I think he should wait at least a year before he even thinks about talking to another woman. Isn’t that the rule?”
I shrugged, thinking of Mrs. Carr. How she had little rules for everything. No linen or seersucker after Labor Day. Never be early to depart a party, but good heavens, don’t be the last to leave. Gift registries are gauche and so is writing “no gifts, please” on an invitation. And my favorite—manners trump etiquette. In other words, you shouldn’t put your elbows on the table, but it is far worse to point it out.
“I don’t think there’s a rule about this, Luce … I think it depends on a lot of things …” I said, my voice trailing off.
“I know. And I really want him to be happy,” she said. “But, God, I don’t know if I could bear it … Do you know someone recently asked me about your mother?”
“What about her?” I said.
“Whether I thought she and my dad would get together. You don’t think she’d ever be interested in him, do you?” Lucy asked.
“No,” I said as quickly as possible.
“Out of respect for my mom?”
I shook my head and said, “I just can’t see them together. He’d never go for her. And she likes the slick, suit-and-tie type. Speaking of which,” I said, trying to change the subject, “my dad’s coming down for Thanksgiving.”
“Solo?”
“Of course not. He’s bringing Bronwyn and Ass Face,” I said, my nickname for Astrid.
Lucy laughed. “Did you tell them about Ryan yet?”
“Not yet. And I must confess, I can’t wait,” I said, smiling.
“Yeah. That will be so satisfying,” Lucy said.
I looked down the field at Coach, as he blew his whistle and shouted, “Dammit, Sanders! If I tell you a duck can pull a truck, then shut up and hook the sucker up.”
I laughed and wrote the quote down. I knew I probably wouldn’t use it, and certainly not without Coach’s okay, but I still wanted a record of it to read later, along with our texts that I had yet to delete.
Nineteen
In a game that was even more ugly than the one Coach predicted, we barely escaped with a win in Waco, beating Baylor 21–20. Other than the final score, pretty much everything went wrong for us. We dropped the ball, missed field goals, and got a lot of stupid penalties. I knew from experience that Coach was going to be terse in the press conference, more frustrated with his team for their mental lapses and lack of discipline than happy to come away with a victory.
Sure enough, he came out surly, barking at reporters and barely acknowledging me when I raised my hand. Instead of calling my name, he simply pointed at me and said, “Yep. Question right there.”
“Coach Carr,” I began nervously, “what did you see in the play where Rhodes fumbled? At the end of the first half?”
“What did I see?” He squinted, as if confused, then replied, “I saw the official call a fumble. That’s what I saw.” His voice was gravelly from yelling over fifty thousand fans—and probably at his team afterward.
I felt my face turn red but pressed on. “Have you seen the replay? It looked very close as to whether he was down or not.”
“Yeah. I saw the replay.”
“And? Do you think the right call was made?” I asked, flustered, not able to