Free The One & Only: A Novel by Emily Giffin Page B

annual spring game, which also counted as our fifteenth and final NCAA-permitted spring practice. More than thirty thousand fans turned out for the glorified scrimmage, also televised on ESPN2, offering the first glimpse of our team minus the recruits. Technically I was working, making my usual rounds between the press box and the sidelines, ensuring that everything was running smoothly. But because nothing was really on the line, it was more party than game, a two-sided showcase of our offensive and defensive talent. We looked good, more fluid and crisp than I’d ever seen us play in March—a sentiment that I heard paraphrased behind me in a smooth Texas dialect, with just a subtle elongation of vowels. I recognized the accent and voice right away, knew it was Ryan James, Walker’s golden child, even before I looked over my shoulder. His voice was that distinct, even if I hadn’t just heard it on
SportsCenter
the day before, discussing the Cowboys’ upcoming season.
    “You boys have to convert here,” he mused aloud. “Let’s get it done, fellas.”
    “Hey, Ryan,” I said, as he took two steps forward and stood flush with me, watching the drive.
    “Hey, Rigsby,” he said. He crossed his arms as we watched the next play. Second and three, but Mark Everclear, our quarterback, stared down the primary receiver for one beat too long, and took a sack.
    “Dammit,” I said, happy that our linebackers were looking good but more disappointed by Mark’s hesitation.
    “Phil Medlin was
wiiide
open,” Ryan said, reading my mind. I was impressed that he knew our roster so well—and touched that he still made it a priority to return to Walker for the spring game.
    “You would have hit him with your eyes closed,” I said.
    He made a modest face, as if to say maybe, maybe not, while I sneaked a quick once-over. Always clean-cut and smartly dressed, Ryan looked especially good tonight, in a navy sport coat with a white polo, dark-washed denim, and brown suede loafers. From a wealthy oil family in Midland, he had always reeked of old money and good taste, even before he turned pro and started raking in his own millions. Both George Bushes had attended Ryan’s grandiose wedding to his now ex-wife, Blakeslee Meadows, a gorgeous socialite from Houston who transferred to Walker from SMU, in the opinion of many, so she could marry Ryan. Her plan worked, and the two were engaged just days after the Cowboys drafted him as the first overall pick. Lucy had gone to the wedding, along with her parents, and said she’d never seen anything like it—Blakeslee’s family’s ranch crawling with Secret Service agents, celebrities, and regular people who were so beautiful that they looked like celebrities. I wasn’t invited, which didn’t hurt my feelings but surprised me a little, not because Ryan and I were that tight in college but because I would have thought we were friendly enough for me to make a nine-hundred-person cut. Lucy told me to take it as a compliment, that Blakeslee must have seen me as competition. I told her that was preposterous. I might have had a few attributes that certainguys appreciated, but I was no Blakeslee, that was for sure, and Ryan was way out of my league, the biggest man on campus when we were in school, and now an NFL star. Big fish, big pond. I’d even heard a tabloid rumor that Giselle had flirted with him at a party in Hawaii during Pro Bowl weekend last year, which led to an exchange of terse words with Tom Brady. When I thought about it, I was pretty sure Ryan was the only person on the planet who could rile Tom Brady, both on the field and off. It was yet another accomplishment in a long list.
    I stepped out of the way as a cameraman turned to get a close-up of Ryan for all the viewers at home. Clearly accustomed to the spotlight, he pretended not to notice the bright lights in his face, and kept right on talking to me as if we were alone.
    “I’m sorry we didn’t have a chance to speak at