"Congratulations on an undefeated regular season," I began, wanting these to be my first postgame words to him.

"Thank you," he said, nodding, waiting for the question.

I took a deep breath and said, "So ... We all know that you've had an exceptionally difficult year ... and I was hoping you might say a few words about what this season has meant to you personally."

Coach nodded, his face somber. "Yes, this year has been enormously difficult and emotional for me and for my children, Lucy and Lawton ... My wife, Connie, meant everything to us and this program and community, and there's been a void without her ..." He stopped, blinked, then looked down, seemingly rattled, and, for a few seconds, I regretted the question. But when he looked up again, he had his composure back and said, "So to end the regular season this way means a tremendous amount to me ... and I think it is the ultimate tribute to her." He cleared his throat and continued, "I'd like to thank my players, coaches, and the Bronco nation for making today possible. Thank you."

Then he smiled, stood, and walked off the platform.

The press conference continued with Mack Brown and a couple of his key players, and I stayed, gathering a few quotes. But I already had what I needed for my story, my angle, and I left as soon as possible to rush back to the press box and write. I was getting faster, and that night, words, sentences, whole paragraphs flew from my fingers, the entire piece written in just under ninety minutes-a record. It was factual reporting, but poetic, too-and I was prouder of it than of anything I'd ever written, concluding with Coach's quote about Mrs. Carr. I emailed it to Smiley, who wrote back, "Well done. Congrats."

I wasn't sure if he was congratulating me on my piece or the game, but I took it as both, and drove straight to the Third Rail, where Lucy, Neil, Lawton, and Ryan were in full celebration, along with dozens of other friends, acquaintances, and former colleagues from Walker. Every bar in town would be jamming tonight, but I couldn't imagine more of a scene than the one here, as I was pretty sure that word had gotten out that this was Ryan's new hangout. We all hugged and kissed and hollered and high-fived. I couldn't remember ever feeling so grateful or euphoric after a ball game. Couldn't remember a night more thrilling.

Until it wasn't.

Thirty-two.

"Well, well," Ryan said, tendons appearing in his neck as he stared beyond me. "Look who it is."

I knew who it was even before I turned around to see Miller, loping toward us, looking as happy as I'd felt only a few seconds before. When he got to the table, I saw the credit card in his hand.

I stood, considering my options. I knew that hugging him h.e.l.lo and whispering in his ear would be problematic, but it was the best chance I had. My only hope.

So I did just that, cutting Ryan off, sidling up to Miller, leaning in and frantically whispering, "Don't say anything about the other night."

Of course it backfired, as he was way too dense or drunk to catch on. "What do ya mean?" he asked in a loud voice. Then, holding it out for the world to see, announced, "I have your credit card!"

Ryan stood up, chest swelled, like he was ready to throw a punch. But in the next second, he gathered himself in a way that seemed more sinister than your garden-variety bar fight.

"What do you have there?" he asked me as Miller handed me my card.

"My credit card," I mumbled, wedging it into my back pocket.

At this point, Lucy gave Miller a hug and said, "Good to see you, Miller. I like you so much more after a big win! Or maybe it's just that you aren't dating Shea anymore." Her voice was playful.

Miller grinned but said, "Don't be a b.i.t.c.h, Lucy."

Lucy made a face, put one hand on her hip, and said, "OmiG.o.d, did y'all hear that? Miller just called me a b.i.t.c.h."

"No, I didn't," Miller said, still grinning. "I just gave you some really good advice. Don't be a b.i.t.c.h!" Then he raised his gla.s.s, leaned back, and bellowed up at the ceiling, his voice filling the bar, "f.u.c.k Texas!"

At which point, everyone erupted in a chorus of "f.u.c.k Texas!" Except for Ryan-who reached out and grabbed my forearm.

"Can you c'mere for a second?" he said, pulling me by my arm toward the restrooms in the back. Clearly it wasn't a question or an invitation; it was a command.

"What are you doing?" I said, though I knew exactly what he was doing.

"Care to tell me why Miller has your credit card?" he said as he dragged me along with him.

"I left it at the bar the other night. I told you that," I said, my heart racing.

"Yeah? So how did he end up with it?"

"I guess he ... got it from the bar," I said.

"I thought you said you didn't see him?"

It occurred to me to layer my lie with another lie, tell him that Miller had come in after I'd left, but I knew the jig was up. Ryan was way too savvy and determined not to get to the bottom of things. "Okay. He was here. I saw him the night before your game."

"So you lied to me?" he said.

"I'm sorry."

The admission must have both surprised and further outraged Ryan because he shouted, "You're what?" Then he squeezed my arm harder. I tried to pull away, more concerned about a potential scene than anything else, but I couldn't break free.

"I'm sorry. He did come into the bar that night ... But that was it." I pulled away again, but like with those Chinese finger traps, the harder I pulled, the tighter his grip became. "I can't control who walks into a bar!"

He took a step toward me, backing me against a wall. "You freakin' lied to me!" he yelled, jabbing his finger into my chest.

"I know. And I'm sorry," I said, cringing as I made eye contact with a girl headed to the ladies' room. She was staring at us, taking it all in.

"You're sorry?" he said, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "You say that a lot, Shea. Don't you?"

"But I am sorry," I said, feeling pathetic and ashamed. Not for lying but for being trapped like this, in a bar no less.

"Bulls.h.i.t!" he yelled. "You're not sorry!"

"I am, Ryan. I really am. I only lied because you were so upset about the game ... and I didn't want to make it worse. And nothing is going on ... I just saw him at the bar. And he got my credit card. That was it." I was talking as fast as I could, but nothing seemed to work.

"You just saw him?" he shouted louder as another girl stared, along with the guy she was with.

"I mean we talked ... in a group ... that was all." The more I babbled, the more enraged he became. And, at one point, he grabbed my other arm, our chests inches apart, so I had no choice but to look directly into his face, veins bulging everywhere, his features distorted with rage.

"Yet he got your credit card? Huh. And how, exactly, does that work?"

"I left my card. He got it for me. That was it. Do you really think he'd hand me the card in front of you if something were going on?" I was frantic now, my cheeks on fire.

"Yeah," Ryan said. "I think he would. I think he absolutely loved disrespecting me in front of everyone."

"n.o.body's disrespecting you," I said. "Stop being crazy!"

"Crazy?" he said, ratcheting up his grip another notch.

"Ouch," I said, wincing. "Ryan, that hurts. Let go!"

"I'm not crazy, Shea. You're the one who got drunk, left your credit card, and let your ex-boyfriend pick it up for you. You're the one who broke your promise. You're the one who lied to me. What am I supposed to think?"

"You're blowing this out of proportion," I said, sweat trickling down my sides. "Let go!"

"No. Answer me. What am I supposed to think?"

My arm hurt too much to struggle, so I stopped and said, "You're making a scene."

"Answer the question. What am I supposed to think?"

I said I didn't know, my voice coming out in a whimper.

"Okay. I'll tell you what I think. I think you f.u.c.ked him. Didn't you? Admit it, Shea. You f.u.c.ked him."

"No."

"Yes, you did," he yelled, shaking me.

"No, Ryan," I said, on the verge of tears. "I didn't. I swear I didn't. Nothing happened."

At this point, Lucy appeared, taking everything in, her eyes wide, horrified.

"What's going on here?" she said, as Ryan finally released me from his grip.

"Nothing's going on here," he said. "I'm out."

He turned and stormed off, leaving me with Lucy. "What in the world? ..." she said. "What just happened? Is this because Miller walked in?"

I got choked up but managed not to cry as I cobbled the story together, downplaying things.

She looked at the red mark on my arm and winced.

"It doesn't hurt," I said, wishing I had kept my jacket on.

"OmiG.o.d," Lucy said.

In some kind of shock, I said, "I can see how bad this looks to him. G.o.d, I wish I hadn't lied."

"That doesn't excuse this," she said. "There is no excuse for this."

"I know," I said, although I could hear the rationalizations forming in my mind: He has big hands. He doesn't know his strength. And the most pathetic: It's my fault.

Lucy's face twisted in anguish. "Shea, honey ... I don't like this. I don't like this at all ... I think maybe Blakeslee was telling the truth about him. On some level."

Maybe. On some level. I could see and hear that she was qualifying, too, trying to find a way out for Ryan, not wanting to believe what had just happened. Surely Ryan wasn't that person. Surely I wasn't the girl in peril.

"I just want to go home," I said.

"You can't drive."

"I'm okay to drive," I said. "Honest."

Lucy nodded reluctantly, then said, "Okay. Call me when you get home. I'm really worried about you."

"Don't be. I'll be fine. I promise," I said. As if that were something I could will to be true.

As I unlocked my apartment door, my cell rang. I expected it to be Lucy, or maybe Ryan, but it was Coach. His voice was filled with joy as he said h.e.l.lo, reminding me of what tonight was supposed to be about: Walker one step closer to the promised land.

"Hey, Coach," I said, trying to conjure the elation I'd felt only a short time ago.

"Where are you?" he asked.

"Home."

"Alone?"

"Yes," I said.

"Well, how 'bout that game, girl?" he said, laughing, giddy. "How 'bout that game?"

"It was great. Awesome. I'm so happy for you. And proud of you," I said, trying to sound the way I would if I hadn't just been manhandled.

I must not have done a good job, because he said, "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I said, finding my way to the sofa and curling up in a fetal position, the phone pressed to my ear.

"C'mon. What's going on? Talk to me."

I took a deep breath and said, "I got into an argument with Ryan. At the Third Rail. That's all."

"Oh, boy," Coach said, suddenly somber. "What about?"

"Same old stuff," I said. "He still thinks I have a thing for Miller. Which I don't. Obviously."

"And he got jealous?"

"Yeah. And really angry ... It was bad."

"What happened? Do you want to talk about it?"

I didn't really, but I felt that I had to explain, at least in broad strokes. "We were at the Third Rail with Lucy and Neil ... celebrating ... and ..." My voice cracked, but I kept going. "Miller walked in and Ryan got mad and things just turned ugly."

"Ugly?"

"Yeah," I said, thinking that word summed it up better than any other. "On Ryan's end. Miller was his usual happy self."