"By the time I got your messages, it was too late to call."

"You sure you don't mean that it was too early to call? What time did you get in, anyway?"

"Ryan. Please. I'm truly sorry," I said, for what felt like the hundredth time. "I had too much to drink ..."

"What other mistakes do you make when you drink too much?"

"Well, let's see ... I left my credit card at the bar."

"You had a tab open?"

"Yes. Is that a problem? Isn't it better to start my own tab than to have guys buying my drinks?"

"What guys were you talking to?"

I crossed my arms, shook my head, and stared him down, refusing to answer another question. Meanwhile, Ryan lifted the bag of ice and examined his knee, his skin red with cold. Then he tossed the bag onto the floor, sat up, and said, "Look. If you're my girl, I need you to be my girl. And part of being my girl is supporting me the night before a game. I needed you last night. I needed to hear your voice-and you obviously didn't give a s.h.i.t-"

"Don't say that. You know I care. Very much."

"It doesn't seem that way. If you cared, you would have called. Period."

It was the closest he'd come to making a reasonable, calm point-a far cry from Blakeslee's characterizations of his jealous rages. But I still felt unsettled. There was something off about the whole inquisition, and I could only imagine how much worse it would be if he knew Miller really was at the bar.

"You gotta be all in or all out," Ryan said, one of Coach's lines.

I nodded.

"Well?"

"Well, what? I heard you!"

"And? Are you in? Or out?"

I hesitated, just long enough for Ryan to shake his head, disappointed. "That's what I thought."

"I didn't say anything!" I shouted, my frustration building. "Why are you doing this? I know you had a bad game ... but that just happens sometimes. You're still one of the best quarterbacks in the entire league! Don't tell me you let your father get in your head."

"I let you get in my head. The fact that you couldn't take a few minutes to call me."

I stared at him, incredulous that we were really going around in the same circle again. "Okay. Ryan. Once again, I'm sorry. I gave you my word and I didn't follow through. You have a right to be irritated. Even mad. I'm sorry I made you feel bad. It won't happen again."

He stared at me for a long time, then said, "Shea. I love you."

I stared back at him, shocked, my heart racing. I hadn't seen that coming. Not one little bit.

"Are you sure about that?" I said, stalling, but also thinking that part of loving someone was having faith in them.

"Yes. Do you love me?" His voice was quiet, with a needy, insecure edge. It was unfathomable, a complete reversal of anything anyone in the world would imagine was happening between us.

Rather than answer, I stood up and walked over to the sofa, sitting, facing him, one hand on his shoulder, as if the physical contact might suffice as my answer.

It didn't.

"Do. You. Love. Me?" he repeated. "It's a very easy question."

"Yes, Ryan. I do love you," I said, feeling cornered, thinking that it had to be in the running for the least romantic first utterance of I love you of all time. And the worst part was, I was pretty sure I had told another lie. A whopper bigger than pretending I hadn't seen Miller the night before. I nervously dropped my gaze to his knee and said, "Well. Now that we settled that. Do you need more ice?"

He shook his head, then exhaled. "But I do need you, babe. C'mere." He pulled me closer to him, so that my head was on his chest, my body across his. As I listened to his heart beat, I found myself wondering what exactly he needed from me. Because I could remember to call on the nights before games. And I could avoid the Third Rail and contact with Miller. I could probably even learn to love him. But there was one thing I couldn't change and would never give up. Not now, not ever, and I could feel myself starting to panic with every breath he took.

He finally broke our silence and said, "So my dad's a real a.s.shole, isn't he?"

I turned my head so I could see his face, at least half of it. "Yeah," I said, as there was really no way to sugarcoat it. "He sure is."

"And by the way, you were right. He totally bought Cedric's car."

"I figured," I said, relieved that he didn't ask me my source. For the first time, I worried about the ethical implications of not chasing the story, no matter how stale it was.

"And he didn't buy it because he wanted to help Cedric out."

"Right," I said.

"He controls people with his money. It's sick."

"He can't control you, though. Not anymore," I said, feeling my loyalty shift back to Ryan. Maybe I did love him. At least a little bit.

"Yeah," Ryan said, with a faint smile. "I have more money than he does. I think that kills him."

I rolled over so I could see more of his face, propping myself up with one elbow, my eyes resting on his scar. He caught me looking at it and said, "What?"

"How'd you get that scar?" I asked.

He swallowed, then said, "I told you-I got it the night of the state championship. In high school."

"Right. But how?" I said.

He looked at me, and I could tell he was debating whether to tell the truth. Part of me hoped he wouldn't. Because it would make me feel better that I had just lied to him. But I also wanted him to feel better, and I was pretty sure that the truth always brought you closer to peace.

Another few seconds pa.s.sed before he said, "My dad threw a cleat at me. After the game."

"Oh, Ryan," I said.

"I didn't want to tell you before ... But that's what happened."

"I'm so sorry, honey," I said, imagining him that night in the emergency room, getting st.i.tched, lying to the doctor about how it happened, likely with his father right in the room, supervising the whole thing. "That's awful."

"Yeah," he said. "It's okay ... I guess I'm lucky he didn't hurl anything at me tonight." He laughed bitterly.

I reached up to run my finger across his brow, then murmured, "I first noticed it in college ... and I always loved it."

Ryan looked touched. "Why?" he said.

The real reason, at least at the time, was that I always think a vivid scar on a guy is s.e.xy, especially when he's athletic, because you a.s.sume it's a battle scar from a game. But tonight, I liked it for more than that.

"Because," I said. "It's part of you. Part of who you are."

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

He put his hand on my neck, brought my face to his, and gently kissed me. I drew back and looked at him.

"Thank you," he said. It was as if he got the deeper point I was making, that he was connected to his dad, no matter how much he didn't want to be, just as I was connected to mine and to Astrid and to my mother. Neither of us could help our stories, only what we did with them. "Thank you for accepting my flaws ..."

"You don't have to thank me for that," I said. "You know, I might actually love you more when you're throwing an interception than a touchdown."

He smiled but said, "Don't say that."

"But I think it's true," I said.

"Well, that's where we differ," he said, his smile growing wider. "Because I love you more when you don't drop the ball. So to speak."

"Got it," I said. "No more turnovers."

My father and his crew were scheduled to depart the following afternoon, and I hadn't planned on seeing them again, having said my formal goodbyes the night before. But the next morning, as Ryan was leaving for his MRI, my dad called and asked if I had time to meet for brunch or coffee. As I opened my mouth to decline, blame it on work again, he added "Just the two of us." Pleasantly surprised, I told him that would work out just fine.

Thirty minutes later, I arrived at Buzzbrews Kitchen, his suggestion but one of my favorites, and found him already seated in a corner booth, sipping coffee. He looked up from his menu and smiled as I slid in across from him. "Hey, Dad," I said.

"Hi, honey," he said, taking off his reading gla.s.ses and slipping them into the monogrammed pocket of his starched, blue and white checked b.u.t.ton-down shirt. "You hungry?"

"I'm always hungry. I'm your daughter who actually has an appet.i.te. That's how you can tell us apart," I deadpanned, hoping the comment sounded more self-deprecating than snarky, especially given that I'd actually liked Bronwyn the day before.

My dad laughed, and I observed how different he seemed today, more relaxed and natural. "There are a few other differences between my daughters," he said, taking another sip of coffee.

"Yeah. I guess there are," I said, ticking through some of them in my head, plagued by my standard inferiority complex. Although there was really no concrete evidence to suggest that my father compared the two of us, I was pretty sure he did. Dating an NFL quarterback and writing for an esteemed paper helped make up my usual shortfall, but she still had me beat by a comfortable margin.

A few seconds later, a waitress came by to take our order. I had the menu memorized and went with my usual Blazing Huevos, a single banana nut pancake, and a cup of coffee. My dad pretended to be tempted by my selection, murmuring that it sounded really good, but then ordered two scrambled eggs and a side of bacon, no toast or hash browns.

When our waitress departed, I said, "Are you back on Atkins?"

"Always," he said. "As I've said many times, the only way to stay trim is to eat bacon."

I laughed and said, "You're still a little bit Texas, aren't you?"

"Definitely," he said, drumming on the table to the beat of a Vince Gill song playing in the background, as if to tell me that he appreciated country music. He had lived here just long enough for Texas to get in his blood, but not long enough to never want to leave.

"So," I said. "Did you have fun yesterday?"

"Yes. I had a very nice time," my dad said. "Although it would have been a lot nicer if we'd won."

I smiled and said, "We, huh? Thought you were a Giants fan."

"Yes. But Dallas is America's team, right?" my dad said.

"Right," I said, even though it was an expression that had always annoyed me. "So can you believe Mr. James? How awful he was about the loss?"

My dad whistled, then shook his head. "Holy smokes. I really can't ... I feel sorry for Ryan."

I nodded, thinking, Yeah, it's hard to overcome the feeling that your father doesn't love you.

I told myself to quit with the pity party as my dad asked about Ryan's knee.

"It's really sore, but I don't think it's too bad. He's getting an MRI as we speak."

"And how are ... his spirits?" my dad asked as our waitress returned with my coffee and refilled Dad's cup. He added half a packet of Splenda and a dash of milk, then stirred the way he always did, rigorously and noisily, with maximum contact between spoon and cup. It always seemed unexpected when most everything else my father did was so measured and methodical.

"He was really upset," I said, still trying to make sense of everything that had been said and promised the night before.

My dad looked contemplative. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"Is it tough ... dating someone so famous?"

I shrugged, uncertain of what he was asking. "Not really. The media doesn't seem to notice or care," I said. Then, lest he think this fact disappointed me, I added, "Which is nice."

My dad nodded and said, "Only a matter of time ..."

"Mom has her fingers crossed," I said, laughing.

I felt vaguely disloyal for the barb, but he took it in the playful spirit it was intended and said, "Astrid, too. She's hoping that someone runs a piece on Ryan's girlfriend's stepmother."

I smiled but said, "Dad. Please don't call her that. She's your wife, not my stepmother."

I'd exhibited a very poor att.i.tude many times over the years, particularly when I was forced to go to New York as a child, but this was the closest I'd ever come to directly telling my dad how I felt about the situation. His expression changed so drastically that I almost regretted the remark. I wanted to make a point, but didn't want to hurt his feelings.

"I just mean-she didn't raise me ..." I said. Using the term was actually sort of insulting to all the stepmothers out there who played an important role in a child's upbringing. As opposed to Astrid, whose only contributions to my childhood were theater tickets over the holidays, an occasional designer handbag, and really great Fifth Avenue haircuts.

"I understand, honey," he said, sipping his coffee. "I know she can be ... overbearing ... but she means well. She cares about you."

"I care about her, too," I lied. "But sometimes ..." I stopped, losing my nerve.

"Go on ... Sometimes what?"

"Well ... let's just say that I'm glad you asked to see me alone. For a change."

"I know," he said, his body language and posture earnest, apologetic. "It's hard to get a word in edgewise around her."

I just nodded.

"So what else is going on with you?" my dad asked.