"No."

I stared at him, frozen, out of questions.

"Does this ... change things?" he asked softly.

I started to say no, because I wanted it to be the truth. But then I thought of Tish. It had changed everything for Tish. It had also changed everything for Ryan. Maybe even for Blakeslee and me. h.e.l.l, it had changed the course of history. If Coach had believed Tish's story, at least enough to report it, the trajectory of Ryan's entire career would have been different. Even if ultimately cleared of the charges, he likely wouldn't have won the Heisman the following year, or gone nearly as high in the draft. It would have hurt Walker, too. Without Ryan on the field, we certainly wouldn't have won the Cotton Bowl; and, without that win, we might not have had the recruiting cla.s.ses in the years that followed, success begetting success. Walker might not be on the brink of a championship this season, and Coach and I might not be sitting here tonight, in his kitchen.

Coach said my name, looking far more worried than he'd been in Lucy's living room.

"Yeah?" I said.

"If I could go back, I would change how I handled everything. I would have done more. I really thought I was doing the right thing, but now I can see that I let that girl down." He paused for a long beat, then cleared his throat. "The other night, when I walked into your room and saw Ryan there on top of you ... It was almost as if I were standing up for both of you ..."

I nodded, as if I accepted this explanation, but couldn't help feeling that throwing a couple of punches in my living room couldn't fix the past, and I felt myself withdraw from him in a way that scared me.

"Talk to me, Shea," he said. "Tell me what you're thinking."

"I don't know," I said. "This is a lot to digest ..."

"Are you angry?"

"No," I said, wishing that it were that simple, knowing that anger has a way of subsiding and pa.s.sing more quickly than this brand of disappointment.

"Then what?" he said.

I opened my mouth, but couldn't find the words to describe the disoriented, disillusioned feeling I had. The feeling of questioning everything I had ever believed in. The NCAA investigation was one thing. But this was another matter, one I couldn't so easily dismiss or explain away.

"I'm really sorry, Shea," he said.

"I know you are," I said, thinking of Lucy, then Ryan, wondering if sometimes apologies were simply too little, too late.

"What are you thinking?" he said.

"I'm thinking I better head home now."

As soon as the words were out, I changed my mind and hoped that he'd protest. I wanted him to say and do all the things that made him a great coach. I wanted him to make everything better the way he always had.

But he simply nodded and said okay. Then he walked me to the door, where he gave me a quick platonic hug, followed by an equally platonic kiss on the cheek, as if he, too, realized that something had shifted between us and was surrendering to a new status quo.

"So, you're going to Chicago tomorrow?" I said, stalling, feigning normalcy. As if anything had been normal about this entire evening. Even decorating the tree had been a charade set to a Harry Connick, Jr., soundtrack.

"Yes," he said, also pretending. "I'll call you from the road."

"Great." I nodded as he reached beyond me for the storm door, propping it open with his outstretched arm. I stepped onto the porch, still stalling. Moths danced around the lanterns, and one collided with my cheek. I swiped at its soft, powdery wings, but kept staring at him, waiting for something more.

When he still didn't speak, I said his name. Clive. There was urgency in my voice, neediness.

"What is it, Shea?" he said softly, still holding the door open.

I didn't answer, and he pulled me back into the darkened foyer, letting the storm door snap closed. Then he pushed the front door shut, and put his arms around me, this time in a real embrace. "Please don't go," he said. "Not yet. Not like this."

I held on to him as tightly as I could and said, "Why do I feel like we just lost?"

"Because we did," he whispered into my hair. "We lost because of poor coaching. Bad leadership. This is my fault. I take full responsibility."

I didn't debate his statement, believing it to be true. I blamed him for where we were. I blamed him for not reporting the incident. Not doing more. But I still let him lean in and kiss me, softly, then more urgently. His whiskers were rough against my chin, but I kissed him back as hard and frantically as I could, holding on to his neck, clawing at his chest and back, slipping my hand down the back of his jeans. I tried to keep my mind as blank as I could, focusing only on the physical, the sound of his voice murmuring my name. And for a few seconds, it worked. His kisses erased every thought I had, until I heard myself say, "I want you. All of you."

He kept kissing me, his hands on my back and hips, stomach and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, as I made my request again, more clearly. "Make love to me," I said.

"Tonight?" he said, before moving on to my neck, his breath warm in my ear.

"Yes. Right now," I said, pulling him from the foyer to the hallway.

We made it a few steps before he said, "Shea ... Wait. Slow down."

"No. Now," I said, still walking backwards, pulling him toward his bedroom, then changing my mind and guiding him toward the upstairs guest room.

"What's the rush?" he asked, grabbing my arms, stopping me.

"This might be our only chance."

He stared into my eyes, then nodded, as if he got it. Because everyone who loves sports knows that sometimes you only have one shot. Sometimes you don't have the luxury to think or wait or plan. Sometimes you have to reach out and seize your moment. Your best, last, or only chance. And maybe this was ours. If I couldn't get over what happened years before. If Lucy couldn't get over what was happening now. This thing could be over before it ever really began.

I think he understood all of this, but he still shook his head and said no.

"Why not?" I asked, filled with a range of emotions. Disappointment and confusion and guilt. Always guilt. "Because of Lucy?" I glanced down the hallway toward his bedroom. "Or Connie?"

"No. Because of you. Because of us. Because we have some things to work through. We have to be disciplined. We have to be patient."

"And what if we can't work through them?" I asked.

"We will," he said.

"How do you know?" I searched for answers in his eyes and the lines around them. He was every bit as rugged and s.e.xy as he always was, but he looked older than he usually did. He looked his age. Too old for me, I thought for the first time.

"I don't know. But I'm hopeful that we can."

"Oh, you're hopeful?" I said, a caustic edge in my voice that scared me.

"Yes."

"Well, I'm angry," I said, finally acknowledging the emotion I'd been suppressing.

"At me?"

"Yes," I said, shocked by the emotion, the very notion that I could be angry at Coach. "You should have reported it. You should have at least helped her report it."

"Yes ... I should have ... I know that now ... But, Shea ... I honest to G.o.d didn't think he raped her. I still don't."

I looked at him, thinking this was the wrong response, feeling a fresh wave of indignation, this time on Tish's behalf. "That's not the point," I said. "That wasn't up to you to decide."

"I thought it was," he said. "So I decided."

"What about Cedric's Escalade?" I said, now pacing along the runner in his hallway.

"What about it?"

"You know. The car that n.o.body in Cedric's life could possibly afford," I said, shifting into full-on investigative reporter mode.

"Is that a question?" he said, adopting his p.r.i.c.kly press conference voice. "Or an accusation?"

"Did you really think that was okay? For Cedric to be given a car? Just because he was poor-and a good kid? That means you can break the rules? Or did you just want him to play for Walker that badly?"

He opened his mouth to respond, but I kept going. "And what about Reggie? What do you really know about this current investigation? What are you covering up? Because I want to know the truth. I want to know what you'd do to win," I said, pointing at him.

His eyes went from hurt to p.i.s.sed, the hue of blue actually seeming to change, deepen. "Well, I wouldn't let a girl get raped, if that's what you're getting at ..."

"But you'd look the other way, wouldn't you?" I demanded, my voice shaking. I hated myself for asking these questions, but I'd hate myself more for not asking them.

"Look, Shea. If even one percent of me-even half a percent-believed that Ryan had hurt that girl, I would have reported it ... And I sure as h.e.l.l wouldn't have let you go out with him. Think about it."

"I am thinking about it," I said, staring at him, my arms crossed.

"And?" he said, raising his voice.

I took a deep breath, now on the verge of tears that I managed to blink back. "From the time I was a little girl, watching that SMU death penalty press conference, I really thought you were different. I thought you were one of the good guys. Unlike the other coaches. Unlike my own father. You were one of the few who would never cheat. One of the few who didn't believe that winning was ... everything. The only thing," I said, quoting Vince Lombardi, his hero.

Coach shook his head and said, "Wow. And you think making love would have fixed this?" He motioned in the s.p.a.ce between us, our huddle of two.

"Just tell me," I said.

"Tell you what? What do you want to know?"

"I want to know ... is winning everything to you?"

"Do you think it is, Shea? Is that what you think?"

"Did you choose not to report the incident because of the Cotton Bowl? What if the season had been over? Or what if Ryan had been a redshirt? Or a benchwarmer? Would you have handled it differently? Would you have taken her more seriously?"

"I chose not to report the incident because I didn't believe that girl," he said, now shouting and pointing back at me. "Listen, Shea. I am the head coach of a major football program-"

"Which means you have a responsibility-" I jumped in, my voice as loud as his.

"Yes! A responsibility to ninety guys. If I had sat Ryan, I would have penalized eighty-nine other guys who had worked their a.s.ses off all year, some of them for four years. I would have penalized their families and friends. I would have punished my coaching staff and every Walker student and alum. Every man, woman, and child who gives to this program. Gives their blood, sweat, tears, dollars, time, hearts. I could have ruined Ryan's football career. Changed his entire future."

"But if he raped her-"

"And what if he didn't! Can you really picture him doing that, Shea?"

I hesitated and then shook my head. "No. I can't imagine him doing such a thing," I said quietly. "But I still would have reported it ... Just to be on the safe side."

"Well, good for you, Shea. Good for making that decision with fifteen years of hindsight and a whole lot more information than I had. Thank you for that cla.s.sic bit of Monday morning quarterbacking. Just like those idiots who call in to my show."

"This is different from questioning a play in a game ..."

"I know that, Shea. And I also know that I made a mistake. A terrible mistake. I don't believe he raped her, but now ... I do believe he did something to her ... And I know I should have done more for her ... And I'm manning up and admitting that to you. I would change it if I could. But I can't."

"What about trying to fix what happened?" I said.

"How?"

"By apologizing to Tish?"

"I've already done that. Would you like to read the letter? It's back there on my desk. Go read it! Go on! Then tell me what else I should do. Turn myself in? Penalize my current team, which had nothing to do with this? Bring down the program, fifteen years later? Is that what you want? If that's what you want-go ahead and do it yourself. You're a reporter. Write the story. Write the d.a.m.n story, Shea. Include what Ryan did to you. Write all of it! I'll give you a h.e.l.l of a quote!"

I stared at him, speechless, more confused than ever.

Coach finally spoke. "I'm not perfect, Shea. I never claimed to be perfect. The media did that. The media loves a black and white story ... But guess what? It's never black and white. Never. I'm not the saint they made me out to be. And I'm not the demon they'd love to portray if they knew ... this."

"This what?" I said, because he was gesturing between us again.

"Well, for starters, if they knew that I'm involved with a girl I practically raised. My daughter's best friend. A reporter on my beat covering an NCAA probe into my program ..."

"I'm going to resign," I said. Although this was the first moment that such a thought had occurred to me, I was suddenly sure of the decision.

"You're doing no such thing," he said. "Because that's the least of it ... That's a nothing little sidebar compared to this Paterno story we have going here. Forget the dubious rape allegation. There's still an a.s.sault and battery charge that I swept under the carpet on the eve of the Cotton Bowl."

"This is nothing like Paterno and Penn State," I said.

"They'll say that it is."

"It's not true."

"The truth doesn't matter."

"You don't believe that. Of course it matters."

"Well, then, you listen here, Shea. You listen good. Because I'd stake my life on what I'm about to tell you ... That decision I made in my office fifteen years ago? ... It was wrong ... But it had nothing to do with winning a football game. It has never been about winning a football game."

"What's it about?" I said, my voice cracking.

"It's about loyalty. It's about commitment to the people you love. Your wife. Your family. Your friends. Your team. It's about giving it your all and doing the very best you can with what you have, in every moment you're in. And that's what I did that night in my office. That's what I do on the football field. And that's what I'm doing right now as I defend myself to the woman I love."

"You love me?" I said, my heart pounding in my ears.

"Yes, I love you. I'm madly in love with you. I want you more than anything. And a whole h.e.l.l of a lot more than winning a football game. Even a national championship."

"I believe you," I finally whispered, my knees weak. "I believe in you."