other one wet.”
I laughed, making my cramp worse. I felt a little guilty, talking about Ryan behind his back, but told myself that it wasn’t disloyal given that Coach cared about him as much as I did.
“Please tell me we’re done,” I said, wincing.
“Yeah. We’re done,” he said.
After walking another half a lap in silence, we walked through the gate, then up the staircase to the parking lot.
Only when we reached our cars did he finally speak. “Well, thank you, Shea. I feel better now.”
“Thank you, Coach,” I said, feeling light-headed even before I met his gaze. “That was … nice.”
“Yes. It was,” he said, our eyes still locked. He gave me a slow smile, and I could tell he was talking about my company as much as the running.
I hesitated, overcoming another small wave of guilt over Ryan, telling myself that my attraction to Coach would never be reciprocated. It was safe, feeling this way about something that was never going to happen. Frustrating, and a little sad, but also very safe. I looked back down at the ground and said, “I hope we can do it again.”
“Didn’t I tell you I only come out here and run when we play like shit?” he said.
“Oh, yeah,” I said. “Well, then I hope we never do it again.”
“Me, too,” Coach said. “And you’ll be happy to know …”
“What?”
“That I eat chocolate cake after we play well.” He gave me a little wink.
“Excellent,” I said. “Because I’m not much of a runner. But I’m really good at eating cake.”
Twenty
The week leading up to the LSU game, Smiley gave me my first feature assignment: a three-thousand-word piece on Reggie Rhodes. He gave me very little guidance, just told me he wanted “a lot of flavor on the guy.” His background. His adjustment to the college game. All the hype and whether or not he was living up to it. I breathed a sigh of relief when he ended the meeting abruptly, with no mention of any recruiting violation rumors. I was starting to think that Walker might be out of the woods and I, as a reporter, off the hook. Of course, I’d subscribed to the don’t-ask, don’t-tell philosophy, intentionally avoiding the subject with anyone at Walker.
When I called J.J. to ask for access to Reggie, the two of us danced around the obvious, focusing only on one fact: that I was the first reporter to get the plum interview, the only one Coach trusted to interview his young star in anything other than a postgame press conference.
For two days, I prepared for my conversation with Reggie, reaching out to various people from his life. I talked to his high school coach and principal, his parents, and, of course, Coach. Everyone said variations of the same thing. That Reggie was a rarity. A superstar without Twitter. Tim Tebow without all the ostentatious religion. A good kid. The real deal.
On Tuesday night, I met Reggie at the plush academic counseling center as his tutor wrapped up an American lit session.
“Hey, Miss Rigsby,” he said, standing to shake my hand. He had a soft voice and a friendly gap between his front teeth.
“Hi, Reggie,” I said, surprised that he remembered me, although we’d talked a few times during my old job. “What are you working on?” I pointed down at his notebook.
“Huckleberry Finn,” he said, smiling as he shut his books and slid them into a nylon messenger bag at his feet.
“You like it?” I said.
“The CliffsNotes are real good,” he said, nodding seriously before breaking into a big grin. “Nah. I’m just playin’. I do like it. We were just discussing that scene where Huck plays the trick on Jim with the leaves on the raft. You know, making him think he was dreaming everything?”
I nodded although I only vaguely recalled the scene.
“And then Jim says that part about how trash is what people are who put dirt on the heads of their friends and make them feel ashamed?” Reggie shook his head. “And then Huck works himself up to go apologize, humble himself to a … excuse my language … nigger?”
I flinched, hearing the vile word spoken aloud, but was able to maintain eye contact, transfixed by Reggie’s take on the scene and impressed by his ability to engage an adult, talk about literature instead of himself. I nodded, waiting for him to continue.
He whistled and said, “Man. That’s some powerful stuff right there. Powerful. You can see how Twain humanizes Jim.