He gave me a circ.u.mspect look and said, "I knew it. You are p.i.s.sed."

"No," I said with a purposeful shrug. "I'm really not."

"It seems like you are."

"It seems like you want me to be."

A chilly standoff ensued, each of us staring at the other, neither speaking until he said, "Look. Let's not talk about her anymore, okay?"

"Okay," I said, thinking that it would be just fine if I never heard her name again.

No such luck. Because later that morning, just as I finally got Blakeslee out of my mind, the phone in my cubicle rang, an unknown Houston number on the screen.

"Shea Rigsby, Dallas Post," I answered, thinking that it hadn't worn off yet. Every time I said my t.i.tle, I felt a little thrill.

"Hi, Shea," a woman's voice on the other end of the line said. I tried to place it, but it didn't sound familiar. "This is Blakeslee Meadows. I don't know if you remember me?"

"Yes," I said, my heart pounding. "How are you?"

"I'm well," she said. "How are you?"

"I'm fine," I said, as it occurred to me that we had never actually had a conversation, only a few pa.s.sing h.e.l.los in college. She had always made it clear that I was beneath her-and I wondered if she felt the same now.

"It's been a while, hasn't it?"

I murmured my agreement, trying to antic.i.p.ate where she'd possibly go from here just as she said, "I'm sure you're wondering why I'm calling you." Her voice was soft and hesitant, and didn't match my memories, her polished photos, or her confident public persona.

"It's about Ryan," she continued.

"Yeah. I figured," I said, lowering my voice and glancing at the cubicles surrounding mine. Murphy's law had quieted the floor down in the one moment that I needed privacy.

"He told me he was seeing you," she said.

"Yeah. He told me that he ... told you," I stammered as Gordon glanced my way. Ever since I'd told him about Ryan, I had the feeling he was more interested in my conversations.

"Right. Well. I debated calling you ... And I know your relationship is none of my business."

I said nothing, thinking this was a pretty major understatement.

"But I just ... I had to ..." Her voice cracked, making her sound both sad and desperate, and I felt an unexpected stab of sympathy. In one instant, she was no longer compet.i.tion, just a girl who had lost her husband, perhaps the one man she'd ever loved. Maybe she still loved him. Maybe that's what this was about. Her trying to get him back. Maybe she was actually manipulating me.

"Are you okay?" I asked, feeling disoriented.

"Yes. Thank you, Shea. I'm fine ..." I heard her take a few deep breaths, and, when she started speaking again, I had the feeling she was reading from a script. "As you know, Ryan and I got divorced about a year ago. It was really hard and very, very sad. I loved him a lot ... and we both really wanted things to work. But they just didn't. They couldn't."

"I'm sorry," I said, waiting for her to continue.

"Thank you ... So anyway ... I know that he started seeing you this summer ... And again, I know your relationship is none of my business ... But ... G.o.d ... this is a really hard thing to say ... And I feel really s.h.i.tty for telling you this ..."

"You can tell me," I said, feeling certain that she was about to confess that he'd cheated on me with her.

Instead she said, "What I'm saying is that Ryan has a really bad temper. Like ... really bad."

"Okay," I said as calmly as I could, mentally switching gears.

"Our divorce is sealed ... confidential ... for privacy ... and I don't want to spread rumors about him, especially since I know you work for a paper now. I would hate for this to get out and hurt his career or reputation or endors.e.m.e.nts ... Or even what he has going with you ... But I just had to tell you ..."

I nodded, now in full-on reporter mode. "Wait. Let's back up," I said slowly. "When you say temper ... what exactly do you mean?"

"Most of the time he's a great guy. Really sweet and ... wonderful," she said, clearly evading the question. "But ... he has a temper."

I waited.

"He gets it from his father," she continued. "Not that that's an excuse. But ... have you met his dad?"

"No. Not yet," I said, thinking of our Thanksgiving plans.

"When you do, watch how Mr. James talks to Ryan's mom. Really to all women," she said. "He's a cla.s.sic misogynist and a horrible father. He put crazy pressure on Ryan when it came to football. If Ryan had a bad game, he'd chew him out. Throw his cleats in the dumpster behind the school. Make Ryan walk home. Five miles in one-hundred-degree heat ... And that was the least of it ... Have you ever asked him about that scar he has on his forehead?"

I knew exactly the one she was talking about. "The one he got the night of the high school state championship. His senior year," I said, showing her how much I knew about him, how close we were.

"Oh, he did get it that night," Blakeslee said. "Because they lost the game. And his father thought the quarterback was to blame."

"s.h.i.t," I said under my breath, feeling sure that she was telling the truth about at least this part of the story.

"And so ... and so it's not all his fault that he is the way he is," she concluded.

"What way is that?" I said, needing her to spell it out for me.

Blakeslee was so quiet I thought we had gotten cut off. But when I said her name, she said, "When he gets angry, he can be really mean. And violent. And scary."

Mean, violent, scary. The words swirled around my head as I reminded myself that Ryan was innocent until proven guilty. I clung to the hope that she wasn't really saying what I thought she was saying, but there wasn't a lot of wiggle room with that lineup of adjectives.

After a long pause, she said, "Has he shoved you yet? Grabbed you too hard?"

"No," I quickly replied. "Never."

"Well," Blakeslee said quietly. "Maybe he has changed. If you believe that people can. I don't think I believe that, though ..."

I waited, as she threw out another loaded question. "Has he asked you to change your clothes? Or gotten upset at you for wearing tight pants or short dresses or low-cut tops?"

"No," I said, comforted by the question, telling myself that she was only being a drama queen. Trying to stir the pot. Were we really discussing cleavage?

But just as I was dismissing her as crazy, she said, "Okay. Well, has he gotten crazy, psycho jealous over ... nothing?"

I thought of Miller, but didn't answer.

"He has, hasn't he?" she said softly.

"Not really. I mean, he can be jealous. But not psycho jealous. Nothing like that," I said.

"Well, be careful, Shea. Because that's how it starts ... You know ... I thought it was me for a long time. Because I wasn't perfect either. I got really jealous over all the girls who are always after him. And sometimes, at first, I tried to make him jealous back ... I told myself that it was my fault for starting trouble. And if I tried harder to be more secure ... or more tolerant ... or just the perfect wife, I could keep him from getting mad. But it didn't work that way. And I know now that it wasn't my fault. And it isn't his dad's fault. It isn't anyone's fault but his own. And I can't believe I'm the only one he's done it to."

Done what to? I wanted to ask. But I didn't because the question felt too personal, the answer too obvious. Instead I said, "Well, thank you for calling and telling me this."

"You're welcome."

Silence. And this time she outwaited me as I babbled, "I ... I guess I don't know what to say ..."

"You don't have to say anything," she said. "And please believe that I'm not trying to hurt your relationship. This is about helping you. And him."

"Okay," I said, now desperate to get off the phone.

"Can I ask you for one favor?" she said.

"Okay," I said again.

"Please don't tell him I called you."

"I won't," I said, even though I didn't owe her my allegiance, especially not over Ryan. Yet I had the feeling that I was going to keep her secret-and didn't have a good feeling about what that meant.

"I just want to move on with my life ... But I had to tell you. I wish his girlfriend before me had said something ... You know?"

I said I did, picturing Tish Termini, Ryan's first serious college girlfriend, a pet.i.te Italian girl who was as beautiful as Blakeslee but in a slightly trashy way. I remembered her well, flaunting her toned, tanned body around campus, wearing colorful push-up bras under white tank tops, and Daisy Dukes paired with cowboy boots. Everyone knew they had a turbulent, on-again, off-again relationship, but I'd never heard a single word about him hitting her. I put it in the column of evidence suggesting that Blakeslee might be lying or exaggerating, realizing that, no matter what, I was going to feel guilty. Either guilty for denigrating Ryan without a chance to defend himself, or guilty for thinking that any woman would lie about something so serious.

"Well. Thank you again for calling, Blakeslee," I finally said.

"You're welcome," she said. And then-"I'm so sorry."

I said goodbye and hung up, thinking about her last words: I'm so sorry. There was something about them that was both poignant and telling. She really did sound sorry, although I wasn't sure if she felt sorry for me, herself, or Ryan.

That afternoon, I went to Lucy's shop to give her the update. I did not editorialize, reporting only the facts of the conversation. What Ryan said. What Blakeslee said. What I said.

The first question she asked cut right to the crux of the matter: "Do you believe her?"

"I don't know," I said. "I don't think so ... But I wonder ... I mean, he did get really jealous over Miller."

"Lots of people get jealous," Lucy said. "Especially at the beginning of a relationship, when people are at their most insecure. Neil used to get so jealous. We look back and laugh about it now. It was ridiculous ..."

"I know. But this was different," I said, remembering the look on Ryan's face when he made me promise not to see anyone but him.

"Are you sure you're not just saying that now that you heard all this mess from Blakeslee?" Lucy asked.

"Maybe," I said.

"You have to remember ... he's probably been burned before. Girls constantly using him. Liking him for the wrong reasons. Just because he's famous and gorgeous doesn't mean that he hasn't been hurt."

"True."

"So if that's true, could you really blame him for being possessive? Or a little insecure? Maybe you should take it as a compliment that he cares."

I nodded, definitely seeing her point.

"Besides, she really could be making the whole thing up," Lucy said. "Don't you have to give him the benefit of the doubt?"

"And a.s.sume she's lying?" I said. "a.s.sume that the woman is lying about domestic violence? That's pretty dangerous terrain, Luce."

"Well, isn't that what our justice system is based upon? Innocent until proven guilty rather than the other way around?" she said, nailing all the highlights of my internal monologue.

I shrugged, staring out the window onto Main Street, a block I knew by heart, store by store, brick by brick.

"How about this for a plan?" she said, talking slowly in her take-charge voice. "How about you give him a chance? And the very first sign, the smallest shove or tiniest hint of a temper ... you end things."

"Okay," I said, wondering how to define a hint of temper.

"Can I discuss this with Neil?" Lucy said. It was a question she always asked, and one I appreciated, but, at this point, it wasn't necessary. I always said yes, viewing Neil as an extension of Lucy in almost all respects.

"Of course," I said.

"And maybe you should talk to Daddy?" Lucy said. "Maybe he has some insight into Ryan."

"Yeah. I don't think so," I said. I was all about finding excuses to talk to Coach, but not about Ryan. And definitely not about this. I wasn't sure exactly why-if it had more to do with unfairly casting aspersions against one of his former players or if I simply didn't want Coach to know the details of our relationship. "I don't want to spread this stuff around-if it's not true," I said.

"Yeah," Lucy said. "And I'm sure it's probably not."

"Me, too," I said, thinking that so much of how we see the world is a matter of interpretation. A matter of wishing and wanting and hoping rather than really deep-down believing.

Twenty-four.

I decided not to worry about Ryan for the time being and focused all my wishing and wanting and hoping on the rest of our season. After beating FSU in Tallaha.s.see, we were so close to reaching the promised land, with only Stanford and Texas in our way. A few days later, we were halfway there, having eked out a 4441 victory over the Cardinal.

"Great win," I said to Coach Carr outside our locker room. I was headed to the pressroom but had stalled here on purpose, hoping I'd see him.

"You like that?" he said, angling his shoulder toward me in a thirty-second private sidebar. The favoritism was obvious to anyone even half paying attention, but n.o.body was. In my peripheral vision, I could see a well-known writer for Sports Ill.u.s.trated barreling toward us, so I kept a stoic expression, nodding, scribbling on my pad as if getting a quote from Coach.

"Call me later," he said.

"What?" I asked.

"You heard me."