"I can't stand the thought of anything even remotely bad ever happening to you," Coach said, squeezing my hand.

I squeezed back, thinking that, although this thing with Ryan had brought us to the moment we were in, our hands clasped in a darkened room, I also had the unsettling sense that it had eroded something. The romantic undercurrent so clear in the final conversation before he'd entered my unlocked apartment was gone. It was as if the blows he'd dealt Ryan had set us back to the long-standing dynamic I had hoped we could transcend.

I released his hand and turned to face him, sitting sideways, one knee bent against the back of the sofa, the other dangling to the floor. "Coach, I appreciate what you did tonight. So much. But I don't want to be another person in your life that you have to look out for. Protect."

He turned toward me, touched my cheek, and said, "And why's that?"

I struggled to explain, wishing I had gone ahead and made the tea so I had something to do with my hands. "Because," I said. "Because I don't want to be like ... your daughter."

"You're nothing like Lucy."

"You know what I mean. I don't want you to see me as your daughter," I said, calibrating my words. "Or someone you mentor. Or a journalist on your beat. Or an old family friend. I don't want to be your friend at all ..."

"You don't want to be my friend?" Coach said with a beseeching half smile. I couldn't tell if he was confused, playing dumb, or simply asking me to give it to him straight.

"Well, I do want to be your friend. Of course I want that. But I might ..." I looked into his eyes, telling myself not to lose my nerve, hearing his voice in a huddle telling his players to man up. "I might want more than that, too."

"You might?"

My heart pounded in my ears, my throat burned. "I do want more than that. I definitely want more than that. And I'm telling you this now ... at this moment ... not because you just burst into my apartment and defended me ..."

He was staring at me so intently, nodding slightly as I spoke, as if connecting with every word. It emboldened me to keep going even before he said, "Please. Go on."

"I'm telling you this right here, right now because ... I have to. I can't stand it another second. No matter what you think-and I really have very little idea about that-I need you to know that I have feelings for you."

I took a breath so deep that it felt more like a sob, and he gave me another tender nod, permission to continue. "And maybe it's wrong," I said. "Because of Mrs. Carr ... Or because you're too old-"

"Hey, now," he said, cracking a small smile.

"Too old for me. Not too old," I qualified. "Although what's a couple of decades in the scheme of life? Not much ... But the age difference aside, maybe I shouldn't feel this way because you're my best friend's father. Because let's face it-Lucy would freak if she heard this conversation."

Coach murmured his agreement.

"But I have never been more sure of my feelings. More sure of anything. And I had to tell you ..."

It was the bravest thing I had ever said to anyone, and possibly the dumbest, too, especially given what we'd both just been through, but I felt enormous relief getting it all out. A burden lifted.

"So that's it," I finished. "That's all I wanted to say."

Coach looked rattled but not unhappy.

"Coach? Say something."

He shook his head, as if at a complete loss, but shifted toward me, closing the gap between us completely, then putting his hand on my shoulder. "Maybe you should start calling me Clive," he whispered.

Then he pulled me toward him, wrapping both arms around me.

His breath in my ear made me shiver, and he held me closer.

"Okay. Clive," I said, breathing him in.

"This is crazy," he said.

"As crazy as you coming over and roughing up your only Heisman Trophy winner?" I murmured.

"Maybe not that crazy," he said. "But still crazy."

"I don't care," I said.

"Neither do I."

"I want you to kiss me."

"I want to kiss you," he said. "I will kiss you. But not tonight."

"Why not?"

"Because enough has happened tonight."

I pulled back a few inches. If he wasn't going to kiss me, I wanted to see his eyes. "You mean beating Texas or Ryan?"

He smiled, then cupped my face in his hands. "Both," he whispered, a current flowing between us, more intense than any kiss I'd ever known. "But for now, just know that ... your feelings aren't one-sided."

"They aren't?" I said.

He shook his head.

"When did you know?" I said. "When did you feel it?"

"There you go. Miss Reporter."

I smiled. "Tell me."

"Oh, I don't know. I felt something during that Trivial Pursuit game at the lake. Then that first time you asked me a question at a press conference. That one about Reggie's fumble ... You were so cute and nervous."

"You hated that question."

"I pretended to ... And then the night we went running over at the track?"

I nodded, waiting.

"I had a hunch then, too. And the night you brought over Taco Bell." He whistled and shook his head. "I was definitely attracted to you all those times. I felt something ... But as far as knowing for sure?" he said. "Not until tonight."

"When tonight?" I said, thinking that it made a difference. Was it when he came in to rescue me? Or was it only right now, in this quiet aftermath?

"After the game," he said. "After the press conference. After all the commotion and noise, when I was finally alone, at home. I sat down in my chair, picked up my phone, and saw all the texts and missed calls. Dozens and dozens of 'em ... But I realized that there was only one person I wanted to call. Only one person I wanted to see."

I smiled, feeling shy and unsteady, wondering if this was actually happening. It was surreal-and as sweet as a hundred undefeated regular seasons.

Coach smiled back at me and said, "G.o.d, you're beautiful, Shea."

I remembered to breathe, then told myself yes, this was finally, really happening.

Thirty-five.

By noon the next day, I was still in bed, and Ryan had already called me five times. His tone was erratic, sometimes even in the course of a single voice mail. First he was sad and sorry, then angry and accusatory, then calm and rational, then self-pitying, then so very sorry again. The only constant from message to message was the cold feeling that overcame me every time I heard his voice, even when he was telling me how much he cared for me. He sounded so convincing, so earnest, so sorry, but I had the chilling sense that he would say or do anything to get what he wanted.

From my hiding place under the covers, I deleted every message, every pleading text, every saccharine lie. It felt like a solid start, but after going to the bathroom and inspecting his purple fingerprints left on my arms, I knew that I had to do something more than pa.s.sively erase voice mails. As much as I didn't want to see him, I knew I had to look him in the eye, hand him those diamond earrings, and tell him never to contact me again. I hated the idea of burning bridges, terminating a long-standing friendship, but I didn't see any other way.

Deep down, though, I found myself wondering if I would be so unwavering without Coach as my safety net. What if he hadn't come over last night and confided his feelings? Would I still be deleting Ryan's messages? Or would I be slowly caving, rationalizing, paving the way to give him one more chance, and maybe one after that? Would I be telling myself that we were still on that slippery slope? That everyone makes mistakes and deserves forgiveness? Would I be anointing myself as his savior, telling myself I could do what Blakeslee could not?

My phone rang again. I felt a wave of anger as I reached for it on the bed next to me, relieved to see that it was only Lucy. I wasn't ready to talk to her, but I answered, knowing that she deserved an update.

"Hey, sweetie," she said. Her voice was so warm and nurturing that I went from not wanting to talk to feeling desperate to tell her everything. Almost everything.

"Where are you?" I said.

"In the car with Neil and Caroline. Where are you?"

"In bed."

"Alone?"

"Yes, of course alone ... Can you come over?" I said, before I lost my resolve to confide in her-at least all the parts about Ryan.

"Sure," she said. "I'll just drop them off first ... Are you okay?"

"Yeah," I said. "I just need to talk ..."

"Okay. I'll be right there."

We hung up, and I took a deep breath. Then I called Coach, who answered on the first ring.

"Good morning," I said, fleetingly worried that I had overblown the best parts of last night.

But then he said, "Yes, it is a good morning," and, instantly, I felt better.

"Undefeated regular season," I said.

"Yep. But it won't mean anything without one more win," he said, as I realized that he had already turned the page, gone from celebration to preparation.

"Did you go to church?" I asked.

"Nope. Slept in. I think I dreamed about you ... And I never dream. At least I never remember my dreams."

"Oh?" I said. "And what happened in your dream?"

"We sat on your sofa ... I held your hand in mine ... We talked."

I smiled my first smile of the day. "Did we kiss?"

He laughed and said, "Almost. We came very close."

I hugged my knees, curling up into a tighter ball under my blanket, listening to the silence crackle on the line. Then he cleared his throat and asked if I'd heard from Ryan.

"Yeah," I said. "But I haven't talked to him. He's just left a bunch of messages."

"And what's he have to say for himself?" Coach said.

"About what you'd expect. That he's sorry ... That it won't happen again." I hesitated, then added, "Oh. And that you grossly overreacted."

"Ha. Right. He's lucky I'm so old."

"I told you. You're not old," I said as firmly as I could. We had our obstacles, but I was determined not to let age be among them.

"I'm a lot older than Ryan. And you."

"I don't care about that," I stated clearly for the record. "And neither should you ..."

"I don't really care about it," he said. "But we do need to talk about that ... There are some long-term concerns there ..."

I had a feeling he was referring to babies and motherhood, things I wasn't worried about, but I let it go for now. Instead, I addressed a far more pressing problem, and told him Lucy was on her way over.

"Oh, yeah?" he said.

"Yeah. I'm going to tell her about last night. I mean ... Ryan coming over and everything ... But I'm not going to tell her that you were here ..."

He was so quiet that I thought we'd lost our connection.

"Are you there?" I said, feeling guilty for scheming, preparing to lie to Lucy.

"Yeah, I'm here ... I heard you ... and I think that's a good idea."

"I feel bad. Keeping something so big from her, but ..."

"Don't feel bad. It's just not the right time to tell her about us."

I felt a burst of affection and excitement and hope. A thrill that there was an us to talk about. "Right," I said. "We will. Eventually."

"Definitely," he said. "When the time is right."