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“I just do, Coach, I can’t explain it any other way.”
Coach shook his head, but his gaze softened somewhat. Somewhat. “And your gal, this reporter girl?”
“Tatum?” Shane said. The very word was making his heart hammer, to say nothing of the sexy picture he clung to as if it was his very heart. “What about her?”
“What’s gonna happen to her once this news story about you breaks and all the little girls on campus come running to your door? What about your reporter gal then, huh, Dixon?”
“That ain’t gonna happen, Coach,” Shane insisted.
“The hell it won’t, Kid. I’ve been doing this a long time, and every time one of these Rookie Roundup pieces comes out,bam, instant arm candy. You and your gal pal up for that kind of relationship challenge?”
“I am, I know that much.”
Coach sighed, shook his head, and no doubt had he been a smoking man, would have tamped down his cigarette in a full ashtray to make it clear how thoroughly, utterly, predictably disappointed he was. “And your lady friend? Does she know what she’s in for when coeds galore start throwing themselves at your feet?”
“Come on, Coach.”
“I’m serious, Kid. I’ve seen it happen time and time again. That kind of thing is hard on a relationship. That is, if that’s what this is.”
“A relationship?” Shane puffed out his chest, as if to prove it. “Sure it is. I know it is. It must be.”
“Has to be? What’s that mean?”
“Because if it isn’t, then, well … then I’m wrong about just about everything I’m feeling right now, Coach.”
“Jesus, Kid.” Coach smiled at last, fists finally unclenching for the first time since Shane had stumbled into his office. “It must be real, because, don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re not that good of an actor.”
“I’m not acting, Coach. Honest.”
Coach sighed, nodding toward the door at his back. “I hope not, Dixon. Because being an athlete on this campus means a lot of temptation. You’ve already proven you can’t resist one pretty lady, now you’ve gotta resist hundreds of ‘em at one time. You sure you’re up for that?”
Shane stood at last, wobbly on his feet but sure where it mattered the most: his heart. “I know I am, Coach. I have to be.”
“Yeah, how’s that?”
Shane stood with one hand on the doorknob. “Because the last thing I wanna do is break Tatum’s heart, that’s how I know.”
Coach paused, lips pursed, then nodded. “Well, that’s a good start, Kid. We’ll see how you do a week from now when this story is out and every chick on campus wants a go at you.”
Shane’s voice was as firm as his convictions. “Next week, next month, next year, the answer’s gonna be the same, Coach. If that’s not love, I’m not sure what is.”
Epilogue
Tatum
“Coach.”
Tatum nodded at the burly, ruddy-faced man who stood just below the stadium steps, regal in his forest-green coaching shorts and stretched-to-the-seams yellowSycamore Statet-shirt. A crooked ball cap, much like those Shane always wore, cast shadows across his apprehensive eyes.
“Ripley.”
Tatum blushed at the old grump’s use of her last name. It might not have sounded like a term of endearment to most, but in Coach’s world, first names were for strangers. Last names were for players, or at the very least, friends of players. Maybe even friends, period.
She was even more honored considering the dustup Shane had told her about, and the fallout from their relationship after blurring the lines between reporter and subject, professional and player. The fact that Coach could still look at her, let alone talk to her, meant they’d been good for their words and played it low-key now that the story had come out.
Tatum offered up a foil-wrapped cylinder, still warm despite her long walk from the hot dog cart out front to the stadium’s back entrance, and now to the foot of the towering bleachers. In the distance, high overhead, a lone figure toiled, little but a glimmer in the late afternoon sun. “Double relish and onions, Coach, just the way you like it.”
He took the wax paper container begrudgingly, as if perhaps it held a ticking time bomb, or in this case, another lurid bedroom photo of she and Shane, sweaty skin and sleepy eyes and bruised lips. “Them chips barbecue, Missy?”
