"Well, that's a start," he said. "That's a really good start."

Forty.

The following morning, my mother called and demanded that I come over, right away, complaining of chest pains. So I raced to her house, finding her in her bathroom, wearing one of her many silk robes while putting on individual false eyelashes that she wore nearly every day, no special occasion needed.

"How could you do this?" she shouted when I walked in, spinning away from the counter to face me. I hoped that she was referring to my breakup with Ryan, which I had informed her of via email, but had the feeling that Lucy had spoken to her about last night.

"How could I do what?" I said, cursing myself for believing her wolf crying.

"Clive," she said, shaking her head.

"So you don't have chest pains?"

"I have severe heartache, that's what I have. I honestly thought I raised you better than this."

"Oh, please, Mom," I said, steeling myself for the onslaught to come. "Stop overreacting. You don't even know the facts here."

"Don't play dumb with me, missy! Lucy called me. I know the whole story!" she said.

"What's the 'whole story'?" I said, making air quotes.

"That you and Clive have a ... thing."

"A thing. Right," I said, determined not to discuss anything with my mother. This might be Lucy's business, but it wasn't hers.

"Lucy's your best friend, Shea. She's like your sister," my mom said, using tweezers to pluck another lash out of the white plastic packet. It occurred to me that everything about her was contrived, one big stage direction after another, her anger quieting to a dead calm when she needed to get a lash in place. "This is just wrong. Completely and totally wrong!"

"You're just jealous," I mumbled-because part of me believed there was some truth to that. If someone was going to do a little widower rescuing, it should have been her. And talk about the ultimate in copycatting; if she had Clive, she could really be Connie.

"It is so wrong!"

"How is it wrong, Mom? Tell me how love can be wrong?"

I knew I sounded like a nave, love-struck teenager, but it occurred to me that sometimes nave, love-struck teenagers have it all figured out, and their small-minded, judgmental mothers have it all wrong. Especially the kind who continue to apply false lashes during a supposed crisis.

"It's just ... wrong," she said again. "Clive is like family to us. And Connie was my best friend. It is such a betrayal."

"It's not a betrayal, Mom. Because Connie died." I kept my voice and expression soft to mitigate the harshness of the words. It was the truth, though. Connie was gone; therefore I wasn't taking her husband from her. In fact, I deep-down believed that she would approve of us, maybe even root for us.

"Do you know how that sounds?" my mother said, looking stricken.

"Mom. C'mon. I just meant that this never would have happened if Connie hadn't died. That's all."

"Well, I'm still here. And so is Lucy. And Neil. And Lawton. And Caroline. And it's not fair to any of us what you two are doing."

"Caroline?" I said, crossing my arms. "Really? And what about the fetus? Is it unfair to the fetus, too?"

"What fetus?"

"Lucy's pregnant," I said. "She called to tattle on me, but left out that bit of news?"

"Well, that should show you how hurt she is. And FYI, Shea, pregnant women are emotional ... fragile ... You simply can't do this to her while she's pregnant." She paused, then got herself all riled up again, spinning to face me and point at me some more. "You can't do this at all! Put yourself in her shoes. What if she were dating your father?"

"I'd tell her she deserves better."

My mother was temporarily distracted from her mission by the satisfaction that came with any small paternal diss. "Amen to that." She turned back to the mirror, then said, "He has a very small p.e.n.i.s, you know. Your father."

"Mom."

"Well, he does."

"Great. So I'd tell Luce that she deserves better-and a bigger p.e.n.i.s ... But if Dad and his tiny p.e.n.i.s made her happy, I'd say go for it. I'd get over it."

"I didn't say tiny. I said very small ... And the point is, I don't think Lucy can get over it. It's just ... too much."

"She told you that? She told you that she couldn't get over it?"

"Yes. She told me that she could never accept this and that you had a choice to make."

"A choice? You mean, like an ultimatum?" I said.

"Yes. A choice. And it's simple. You can date Clive," she said, rolling her eyes. "Or you can remain her friend. One or the other. Not both." She raised her hands in the air, as if surrendering, and said, "Hey. Don't shoot the messenger."

"Mom, that expression only works when you're merely delivering a message-not taking sides."

"I'm not on her side. I'm on the side of right. This isn't right. It can't work. You'd be Lucy's stepmother! Your children would be Lucy's half siblings!"

"Who said anything about having children? I don't think I even know if I want children," I said.

"Don't be silly. Of course you want children," she said. "If you can't think of Lucy, think of yourself. Your own future."

"Mom. I've been telling you virtually my whole life. I don't want the same things you want. I'm not you. Do you ever listen to me?" Then I hit her where it really hurt. "Dad understands," I said.

"You told him about this? When?"

"When he was down here. The day after Thanksgiving."

"Oh, that's rich. And I'm sure he supported you one hundred percent, didn't he? I can just hear him. 'Do whatever makes you happy-no matter how much it hurts anyone else!' Like father, like daughter, I guess."

I felt slapped, stung by the comparison, but found myself wondering if it wasn't altogether unfair. Maybe my father and I were alike. Or maybe my mother was just a huge hypocrite. After all, hadn't she stolen my dad from Astrid and Bronwyn to begin with, rationalizing that it was over between them anyway? That she had nothing to do with their breakup? In the end, didn't everyone in the world at some point delude themselves in their own insular narrative?

"Well," I said. "At least Dad owns up to his mistakes ... At least he sees clearly the choices he's made while you're still blaming him for what's wrong with your life. All these years later. Still stuck in the mid-eighties with your wounded damsel routine."

She stared at me, her lips pursed, like an old Hollywood actress, probably a look she'd cultivated from watching too many TCM movies. "You have a lot of nerve, Shea," she said when she finally spoke. Her voice was flat, sad, and devoid of any melodrama. "Your best friend lost her mother. And you go after her father before the one-year anniversary of her death?"

"I didn't go after him. It wasn't like that," I said, staring at my feet, thinking of Coach and Ryan and Tish.

"It's disloyal, Shea. That's the bottom line. Even if you're madly in love with the man, it's still disloyal to Lucy. Especially after everything she and Connie did for you over the years. They gave you a happy childhood." Her voice cracked. "Do you realize that? Do you realize how much we both owe them?"

I didn't answer her question, just turned and walked out the door, a pit in my stomach. Because I knew she was right about that much. And because, of all the things in the world she could have said to me, calling me disloyal hurt the most.

When I got to work about an hour later, I bypa.s.sed my cubicle and headed straight to Smiley's office. "Do you have a minute?" I asked him, popping my head in his half-opened door.

"I have exactly six," he said, glancing at his watch. "Unless you start to bore me. Then it's three."

"Okay," I said, thinking that my future, at least the professional part of it, was going to be decided in the next three to six minutes.

I walked the whole way into his office and closed the door, but didn't take a seat. "I don't think I can work here anymore. At least not on this beat," I said, forcing the words out before I changed my mind.

"What?" Smiley said. "Is this a joke? Are you going to ESPN?"

"No. I just can't be objective," I said, relieved to make the confession. I wasn't sure if I could sacrifice my best friend for love, but my job was another story. "I can't be objective about this investigation. Which I think is a total bulls.h.i.t fishing expedition, by the way. I can't be objective about Walker football. And I definitely can't be objective about Coach Carr."

Smiley dropped his forehead to his palm, closed his eyes with exasperation, then, after taking a few seconds to gather himself, said, "Because you attended the university?"

"Yes, sir. Because I went there. But also because I'm ... sort of having a ... relationship with Coach Carr."

"A relationship?" He spit out the word, his face changing color.

"Yes, sir. I mean ... sort of, yes."

"Oh, h.e.l.l, Rigsby. Don't sir me now. You're dating someone my age."

I resisted the urge to tell him he was much older than Coach and instead said, "I'm sorry I didn't tell you sooner."

"Sooner?" he barked at me. "How long has this been going on?"

"Not very long."

Smiley stared at me, then mumbled something that sounded like Well, f.u.c.k me drunk in the middle of a snowstorm.

"I'm sorry. You took a chance on me and have been fair and good to me and you didn't deserve this. I told you I could be objective, and I can't. Because I really want my team to win. And that's how I will always think of them. As my team. And I hate the NCAA for tainting this season. Or trying to. And I would do anything in my power to protect our program because I believe it to be a really good, decent program led by a really good, decent man. So ... how many minutes do we have left?"

"Just enough for me to fire your a.s.s."

"That's what I thought," I said, turning toward the door. "I'll clean out my desk."

Smiley shook his head and said, "Wait. Not so fast. I have something to say to you. In response to your lofty confession."

I raised my eyebrows, waiting.

"There is no such thing as an objective sportswriter. Anyone in this business loves the game and was a fan first. And whether you're covering a team you love or a team you hate or a team you're indifferent to, you always have a bias because that team's performance always has an impact on your team, at least indirectly. And even when you watch a game that doesn't matter to you whatsoever, because there are zero implications for your team, you still care!" He slammed his open hand onto the desk, and I winced, both from the noise and because it had to hurt. "You may say you don't care, but within seconds, you do care. You go with the underdog. Or the old quarterback making a comeback. Or the young point guard who got over a torn ACL. Or the coach whose wife just died of cancer! You somehow find yourself caring even when you don't give a b.l.o.o.d.y d.a.m.n!"

Smiley was shouting now, and, as I glanced away, I caught Gordon and a half dozen colleagues staring at us through the gla.s.s wall.

Then, calming down a little, he said, "Bottom line, every contest matters-and it should. Somebody is going to win and somebody is going to lose and that matters to the people playing the game so it should matter to us. It matters. Didn't you tell me this very thing when I first met you back at Bob's? That a good reporter will make you care about a random Russian Olympian?"

I stared at him, now thoroughly confused. "Are you saying that n.o.body can really be deep-down objective?"

"Yes. That's exactly what I'm saying."

"And that's okay?"

"Yes."

"So I can keep my job?"

"No. You're definitely fired. Because you, Rigsby, can no longer even pretend to be an objective professional. The one thing I asked of you. I told you to keep your mouth shut in the press box and pretend to be objective."

"I know," I said, thinking that even if I didn't have feelings for Coach Carr, I was always one unbridled cheer away from losing my job.

Smiley looked at me and said, "I heard you were dating Ryan James. That wasn't true?"

"Yes, sir. It was true," I said. "We were dating. But we're not anymore."

"Jesus H. Christ," he said. "Burning a lot of journalistic bridges in the state of Texas, aren't you?"

"I guess so," I said. It occurred to me to defend myself, explain that both relationships had unfolded naturally and not because I have a thing for famous sports figures, but I decided it wasn't really pertinent at the moment. Instead I said, "I'll go clean out my desk now."

Smiley said, "Well, look on the bright side."

"What's that?"

"You can put that awful teal b.u.mper sticker back on your car."

That evening, I considered all the constructive things I could do. I could start looking for a new job. I could clean my apartment. I could go work out. Instead I called Miller and asked him to meet me at the Third Rail for a beer. He immediately agreed, and, although I was grateful for his friendship, any friendship, it made me realize just how alone I was without Lucy. The loss was more than a void; it was a gaping hole in my heart and life.

"What happened?" he asked, after taking one look at me. "You look like s.h.i.t."

"Why, thank you," I said, thinking that if disheveled, unshowered Miller was telling me I looked like s.h.i.t, it had to be pretty bad.

"Seriously. Have you been crying?"

"No. It's just the mascara," I said. "It always smears on me. I don't know why."

"That's why you gotta go waterproof," Miller said knowingly.

I laughed and said, "How do you know about waterproof mascara?"

"Because I listen," he said in his faux touchy-feely voice. "Because, unlike a lot of guys, I care about women and their needs."