The One & Only: A Novel by Emily Giffin Read Free Book Online

“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 expressionwas 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 passion?”
    “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 hell of a job. And for some, the perfect calling. J.J. loves juggling all the balls … 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