After graduation, when I went to work for my alma mater, I no longer gave the subject much thought. I took for granted that Coach was the sun, and that everyone else, myself included, orbited around him. It's just the way it was in Walker, Texas.

Then, about three years ago, Sports Ill.u.s.trated did a big cover story on Coach Carr t.i.tled "The Little School That Could: How Walker Runs With-and Beats-the Big Dogs of College Football." In the piece, Alex Wolff talked about our quiet and quaint campus, our small and h.o.m.ogenous student body. Considering that we had the fourth smallest student body of any Division I school-ahead of only Tulsa, Rice, and Wake Forest, none of which were synonymous with football-Wolff marveled at our ability to land players from lower-income areas around the country, given our high academic standards, preppy students, and location in a sleepy town with more churches than bars, halfway between Waco and Dallas. He threw out some of the usual theories about our huge endowment, state-of-the-art facilities, and idyllic red-brick campus, but ultimately chalked it up to Coach Carr's charisma and recruiting "wizardry."

I knew from watching Coach in action that he actually embraced our Achilles' heel, finding a way to spin the negative into a positive with parents of his recruits, especially the mothers, who in most cases made the final decisions about where their sons would play. It was a central part of his pitch. After charming everyone in the living room-and often the entire neighborhood-he'd explain, usually once the kid was out of earshot, that there was plenty of fun to be had, but not so much that a kid could get himself in trouble. He'd then highlight Walker's staggeringly high graduation rate and the fact that it was virtually unheard of for any of his players to end up on SportsCenter for anything other than football. In Coach's entire tenure as head coach, there'd been no scandals-only a smattering of honor code violations, a couple of pranks gone wrong, and a few DUIs. Walker was a squeaky-clean program where Coach Carr turned good kids into even better men. And he did all of this while winning, season after glorious season. As Wolff so eloquently explained: If a kid signs with Walker, odds are he is going to leave with a diploma, some bowl-game hardware, and more than a fair look from scouts, an irresistible combination from Clive Carr, the beloved coach straight out of central casting. The Knute Rockne of our generation, as rugged as Clint Eastwood, eloquent as Perry Mason, and handsome as George Clooney.

I remember reading that paragraph, then staring down at the photos of Coach Carr-a candid shot of him standing stoically on the sidelines with his headset and hat, and another more styled, staged portrait of him on the Magnolia Quad-and thought, Oh, please.

Everything Wolff wrote was true, but I still felt a familiar stab of annoyance that I had to share my idol, my coach, with the ma.s.ses. I remember rolling my eyes, then shoving that magazine into a drawer, along with coupons and paper clips and wedding invitations I'd forgotten to RSVP to.

Right before I slammed the drawer shut, I spotted Miller's number on a c.o.c.ktail napkin that he'd given me the week before, on another drunken night out. I'd blown him off after Lucy labeled him a loser, and I decided she was probably right. But that morning, right after I ate a bowl of grits and a greasy biscuit, I picked up the phone and called him. He answered on the first ring, we went out that night, and we'd been dating ever since.

Only now, with Mrs. Carr's death as a wake-up call, I realized just how stuck I'd become, how much of a rut I was in. Something really had to be done. I had to find a way to mix things up. Move forward.

I was thinking about all of this one afternoon as I took a long walk around the Walker grounds. Although I was on campus virtually every day including the weekends, I typically only pa.s.sed between my office in the old field house and the student union center, where I picked up my lunch. In fact, I couldn't remember the last time I had strolled without purpose, maybe since I had been a student myself a dozen years before. I did an entire loop around the tree-lined grounds, from Wait Chapel on the quad, down to the dorms, over to the science and business centers on the banks of the Brazos River, then past the pillared mansions on Greek Row. I walked and walked, thinking about Mrs. Carr and Coach and Miller, my job and my life.

Then, right when I got back to my office, I saw a note on my desk: Coach Carr would like to see you. I stared at it for a few nervous seconds, wondering what he wanted. Likely he just wanted to talk about the small feature Lucy had asked me to write on her mother's life for our hometown paper. I had given Coach a very polished draft a few days ago, with a note that said, Let me know what you think. Happy to make any changes. That had to be why he wanted to see me, I decided, as I got up and made my way to the other end of the field house, out the back door, and across the parking lot to the modern, gleaming new football complex. Crossing the marble lobby, I took the spiral staircase up three flights, admiring the shrine to the Broncos, gla.s.s cases filled with trophies and banners and photos, then entered the security code to open the doors leading to the coaches' wing.

When I arrived at the huge corner office, I found Mrs. Heflin, Coach's longtime secretary and gatekeeper, manning her post. "Go on in, hon," she said, jovial as ever.

I glanced uneasily at the closed door, usually a sign that he didn't want to be disturbed.

"Don't worry. He's expecting you," Mrs. Heflin said.

I nodded, but still knocked quietly, tensing as I heard his familiar bellow to come in. I pushed the door open to find Coach sitting at his desk, listening to Trace Adkins's "This Ain't No Love Song."

"Come on in, girl!" he said, looking up from a depth chart, the starting players listed at the top, the secondary players' names handwritten below. "Have a seat."

I sat on the brown leather sofa facing his desk and glanced around at all the framed photos, newspaper articles, and inspirational messages decorating his office. I never got tired of looking at them.

"Morning," he said, as Brad Paisley started singing "She's Everything." I loved Coach's taste in music, and loved that he still listened to the radio rather than the iPod filled with country songs that Lucy had recently given him, explaining that he liked being surprised by what came on next.

"Good morning," I said, avoiding his eyes as Brad sang, She's everything to me.

"So. I read your piece," he said, pulling it out of a drawer.

The copy was clean, with no marks that I could see, but his expression was blank enough for me to question the direction I had taken. Was it too quirky or colorful? Coach Carr liked things simple and to the point. No bells and whistles, he always said.

"I can change it. It was just my first draft," I fibbed. "So if there's anything you don't like ..."

He cut me off. "No changes. It was perfect."

I lowered my head and thanked him, my cheeks warming.

"Walker is lucky to have you. So am I."

I smiled, but noticed that, although his words were promising, his expression was somber, troublesome. It was the way he looked at a player who was about to lose his starting spot.

"Thanks, Coach," I mumbled.

"When J.J. retires, you'll be poised to be one of the youngest sports information directors at a major football school in the country," he said. "It's a great position for a lot of folks."

"Coach," I said. "Why do I feel like you're getting ready to fire me?"

He laughed and told me not to be ridiculous. "And besides, I can't fire you. You don't report to me."

I refrained from pointing out that he could pretty much do anything he wanted-that our athletic director might technically be in charge, but everyone knew Coach held all the power around here. Instead I said, "Is there a but?"

He smiled, then paused and said, "But ... is this really ... your pa.s.sion?"

"It's a great job," I said. But I knew what he was getting at. It was almost as if he had read my mind.

"No doubt. It's a h.e.l.l of a job. And for some, the perfect calling. J.J. loves juggling all the b.a.l.l.s ... He's an administrator who loves sports. All sports ... But is this really what you were born to do?"

"What do you mean? I love football," I blurted out, realizing my error immediately. Football was such a small part of what I worked on, as Walker had fifteen other sports.

"Right," he said. "And I know you love writing, too. But your job really isn't about football or writing. It's about keeping stats. Going to men's cross country meets and women's volleyball games. Drafting routine press releases, churning out media guides. At the end of the day, it's a PR job, not a writing job."

"I get to write sometimes. I loved writing this," I said softly, gazing down at my hands.

"I know, girl. I know," he said. "That's my point."

I nodded, but still couldn't look at him.

"You should be writing," he said.

"I do write," I said.

"Writing full-time. You wrote more in high school and college than you do now."

"Yeah. Silly pieces for the school newspaper," I said, fixing my eyes directly above his head at a shelf filled with photos that had come from our department, various action shots from over the years, including one from my senior year, of Ryan James, standing on the sidelines with one finger thrust in the air, his arm around his beloved coach.

"They were professional-caliber pieces, Shea. Unlike any student work I've ever seen."

I felt a chill as I dropped my eyes to meet his. "Thank you," I said, forcing myself not to look away.

"And besides ... You shouldn't limit yourself to Walker. There's a big world outside this place."

It was an odd statement coming from a man whose entire life revolved around Walker, and I was unable to resist making the point, a bold one for me. "What about you? You turned down the Bills."

As soon as the words were out, I realized that the comparison was ridiculous. He was the head football coach. He was Walker.

He shrugged and said, "I could never live in Buffalo. Too d.a.m.n cold. And I love the college game."

"Well, I love Walker," I said.

He stared me down. Then, just when I couldn't bear it another second, he removed a folded slip of paper from his top drawer and reached across the desk to hand it to me. I unfolded it and stared down at a 214 phone number and, below it, a name. Frank Smiley.

"You know him, right?" Coach said.

I nodded. I had only talked to Smiley a few times, in pa.s.sing at press conferences, but I knew exactly who he was-the sports editor of The Dallas Post, the only major newspaper left in Texas with a legitimate sports section, covering sports like they covered hard news. Smiley was a brash curmudgeon of an old-timey reporter who openly pined for the good ol' days. Back when guys didn't s...o...b..at, and college athletes actually went to cla.s.s and graduated after four years, and boosters didn't buy sports cars, and networks didn't call the shots, and money didn't drive the conferences, and rivalries really meant something, and players stayed with a franchise for life, and coaches stayed put, too. His pressroom demeanor was legendary, as he always knew how to get a coach to really say something by asking just the right question in just the right tone. Somehow you liked the guy even when he was p.i.s.sing you off, and you wanted to give him something because you couldn't be bland around a guy that colorful. He was a pro, no doubt.

"He's looking for a reporter," Coach said.

"For which beat?" I asked, folding my arms across my chest, thinking that I was pretty sure Smiley was not looking for a female reporter with no experience.

"I don't know," Coach said. "I didn't get the details. He just mentioned that he lost two guys to ESPN and another to some sports website ..."

"I can hear the rant now."

Coach smiled, then imitated him perfectly. "Doesn't anyone get their hands dirty in the morning anymore?" he said, referring, of course, to the ink on papers.

"I do," I said, holding up my hands, palms out.

Coach winked at me, then pointed to the stack of newspapers on his desk. "Anyway. Smiley asked if I knew anyone." He looked at me purposefully.

"Well?" I stonewalled. "Do you?"

"I sure do."

"And who's that?" I asked, playing dumb while I panicked inside.

"You."

I didn't hesitate. "I have a job."

"Right," Coach said. "But this one is better. And if you get it, you should take it. Even if that means you have to say a few nice things about other programs."

I smiled and said, "No way. That's a deal breaker."

"Shea," he said, his face all business. "Call Smiley. This could be a great opportunity for you."

I had the feeling he was thinking about Connie, probably something about the brevity of life, the importance of seizing the day, all the things that I'd been obsessing over lately. I nodded, knowing that he was right, and there wasn't a chance in h.e.l.l I could refuse this interview. Or anything Coach Carr asked me to do.

"Okay," I said. "I'll call him."

"Good," he said, leaning back in his chair with a satisfied expression. "Oh. And another thing?"

"Yeah?" I said, as Kenny Chesney crooned Come over, come over, come over in the background.

"How do you really feel about Miller?"

I shrugged, my answer clear.

"Yeah. That's what I thought ... And between you and me, Lucy's right ... you're too good for that boy."

I stared at him, shocked, as he held my gaze and winked. "Didn't expect that one, did you?"

"No, Coach," I finally said. "I certainly didn't."

I smiled at him and shook my head, touched by his concern but inexplicably embarra.s.sed. After all these years, the hero worship still surfaced at unexpected moments, fl.u.s.tering me.

"Good enough, then." He gave me a close-lipped smile, then looked back down at his depth chart, signaling that our meeting was over.

I stood up and silently excused myself, not wanting to break his concentration or waste a second more of his time. As I walked past Mrs. Heflin, then back over to my office, I thought about what I should wear to my first real interview. And, more pressing, how exactly I was going to break the news to Miller.

Four.

Over the next week or so, I could feel the dissatisfaction with my life mounting, as I became more certain of the changes I needed to make. Yet I kept stalling, feeling stuck. I didn't call about the job with the Post, and I continued to spend time with Miller. All the while, I did my best to avoid Coach, lest he confront me about my lack of progress.

I don't know what I was so afraid of-failure, rejection, or being alone-but something was holding me back. Keeping me in limbo.

Then, the following Friday night, Miller and I went to see an action flick, sharing popcorn, Twizzlers, and a jumbo c.o.ke for dinner, a typical date night for us. Afterward, he drove me back to my place, his seat reclined, one hand on the steering wheel, some stoner band blaring on the radio. I hated Miller's music and silently put it on the list of "Why We Aren't Good Together" that had been lingering in my head since the indictment in Coach's office. As I turned down the music, I randomly asked Miller if he was glad he went to Walker. I'm not sure what made me ask the question, other than the hope of baiting him into a wrong answer. If he said anything disloyal about our school, I'd have something else to put on my list. If his answer was too curt or uninteresting, I could put that on my list, too: poor conversationalist.

"Sure," Miller said, his head bobbing to the ba.s.s. "Why wouldn't I be?"

"Oh, I don't know. Sometimes I think it was a little small," I said, leading the witness.

"Maybe," Miller said noncommittally.

"Was there anything you didn't like about it?"

"The foreign language requirement," he said. "That was some real mierda."

"Mierda?" I said. "I took German."

"s.h.i.t," he translated, pushing the sleeve up on his plaid flannel shirt, pretty much the staple of his wardrobe, in addition to T-shirts and jeans. To look at him, you'd never know that he once played college ball or currently coached. With s.h.a.ggy hair to match his grunge clothes, he looked more musician than athlete.

"Well ... how did you feel about playing for Coach Carr?" I asked.

"Wait. Are you writing some article about former players?" Miller asked.

Delusions of grandeur, I thought, as I shook my head and said, "No, Miller. I was just ... wondering."

"Oh," he said. "Well, I didn't like losing my starting spot to Ryan James ... But I'd rather play backup QB for Coach than start for some jacka.s.s."

I laughed, realizing that my strategy was backfiring. Miller really did crack me up, even when he wasn't trying. He was so easy to be around. In over three years, we hadn't had a single fight, although I knew that said as much about my personality as about his. I avoided conflict at pretty much any cost.

"And I got this," Miller said, pointing down to his hulking Cotton Bowl ring. He winked. "Works wonders with the ladies."

I rolled my eyes, and, although I never cared much for jewelry of any kind on a man, I did love how big his hands were and that he could still throw a football fifty yards from his knees.