then pulled two frosted mugs out of the freezer, along with a liter of A&W root beer from the fridge. “Or would you rather have a real beer?” he said.
I smiled and said, “Root beer’s perfect.”
“Scoop of vanilla ice cream?” he said.
I laughed, shook my head, and said, “With tacos? No thanks.”
“Vanilla ice cream goes with anything,” he said, pouring the root beer. “But in light of the chocolate cake and cinnamon twists, I’ll skip it, too.”
We both smiled as he carried the glasses over to the family room. He put one glass down on his drink stand, the other on the coffee table, then sat in his usual armchair. I followed him with our plates, handed him his, and sat diagonally next to him on the sofa.
“What a satisfying win,” I said.
He tore open a packet of hot sauce, put it on one taco, and said, “Yeah. Those boys did a fine job today. Executed the plan to near perfection. Now—”
“—if we can beat Texas,” I finished for him.
He nodded, indicating that I got it right, as he flipped the television from Georgia–LSU on ABC to Cal–Oregon State on ESPN, then back to ABC, the tighter of the two contests.
We chatted about both games and the other scores of the day, spending a good ten minutes on Texas. I had only seen the highlights, but Coach filled in the details on their balanced offensive attack and stingy defense.
“It’ll be tough to beat them,” he summarized with a long sigh.
“We’ll get ’em,” I said, wondering if Smiley would fire me if he could see and hear me now. Then again, he had known Coach and I were close when he hired me. He had to have realized I wasn’t going to flip a switch and become unbiased and estranged from all my former friends. And as long as I wrote objective pieces, and kept up public appearances of being impartial, wasn’t this okay? It crossed my mind that Ryan might have the bigger issue with this moment, but I quickly discredited that thought, too. Miller was one thing, but there was no way Ryan would be jealous of his college coach. He loved the man almost as much as I did.
A few minutes later, Coach asked if I’d heard anything more about the investigation.
“Not really,” I said. “Just the usual chat board rumors and speculations … J.J. and Galli seem hopeful that the case will be closed for lack of evidence.”
“That would be nice,” he said.
“Don’t you think this whole thing was cooked up by fans of another team?”
“I do,” Coach replied quickly.
I looked at him, thinking of the alternative theory, and said, “Ryan thinks that all winners, at some point, cheat.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Does he cheat?”
I smiled. “That’s what I asked him.”
“And?”
“He said he doesn’t have to.”
Coach rolled his eyes, flipped the channel, flipped it back.
I hesitated, feeling a little uneasy as I continued. “Ryan said that someone bought Cedric Washington that Escalade he drove back in college. He implied that it was a bribe. So that he’d come to Walker …”
“Someone, huh?” Coach said. “You mean someone like Ryan’s daddy.”
“Are you serious?” I said, feeling my eyes grow wide.
Coach nodded. “Well, that was the rumor. He wanted a top-notch receiver for his son to throw to.”
“But … So … You knew about that?” I stammered. My heart sank a little, hearing him toss out the theory so casually. Maybe Ryan was right—maybe I was naïve.
“I knew that was the rumor. As I said, I don’t know for sure … I have no idea where Ced got that truck. I know he didn’t buy a damn Escalade from his paper route in the Third Ward,” Coach said, as I remembered Cedric lovingly referring to his neighborhood in Houston as “the Trey.” Come to think of it, he reminded me of Reggie, with an outgoing personality and an affable way of bridging the gap between the children of privilege at Walker and the blue-collar athletes. Everyone had rooted for him—there was even an impromptu pep rally on the quad the spring of our junior year when the Falcons drafted him as the seventh overall pick. He had done well in the NFL since then, still playing for Atlanta, married with three or four children—and maybe a fleet of Escalades.
“Did you ever ask Cedric about the car?” I pressed. “Or Mr. James?”
Coach Carr seemed a little defensive as he answered. “I asked Ryan about it. I asked his daddy. They