The One & Only: A Novel by Emily Giffin

is a waste of my time.
I took a few deep breaths as the maître d’ pointed at me too quickly for me to glance away. I gave Smiley a little wave as he tipped his hat in my direction,then barreled toward me, the bubble changing to
Let’s get this shit over with.
    “Shea Rigsby,” he barked when he got to the bar, the hostess standing demurely behind him with two oversize menus. He removed his hat with his left hand and extended his right. Neither of us smiled.
    “Yes, sir,” I said, my hand falling into a stranglehold. I squeezed back as hard as I could, our hands pumping up and down three times.
    “Pleasure,” he said, looking like it was anything but.
    “Nice to meet you, Mr. Smiley,” I said, though we had met before, or at least collided, in postgame press conferences.
    He did not offer his first name, further unnerving me. I stood, catching my heel on my barstool and stumbling a little. A dash of club soda sloshed onto the bar. The bartender swiped it away almost instantaneously, yet Smiley’s eyes stayed critically fixed on the site of the spill.
    “Whoops,” I said, righting myself. I smoothed my skirt as the hostess led us to a choice mahogany booth in the corner, obviously reserved for him, as inferior tables were filled around us.
    He slid in with his back to the wall and fired off his first question. “So Coach Carr said you can write?”
    “Well, I’m certainly not one to contradict Coach Carr,” I said. In my mind, it was a deft reply—a way to combine modesty, humor, and confidence.
    “Do you love it? Writing?”
    I hesitated, then gave him the risky truth. “It’s a love-hate relationship. I love the feeling
after
I’ve finished writing something. But the actual writing? Sometimes not so much.”
    Smiley nodded, not disapprovingly, then said, “Yes. I’ve always said finishing a column is a lot like leaving the dentist.”
    “Or the gym,” I added.
    “Oh, I wouldn’t know about that,” he said, as a young waiter with perfect hair and posture arrived to offer us beverages.
    Smiley made perfunctory eye contact, but looked annoyed by the interruption and said, “We’re ready to order … Aren’t we?”
    “Yes,” I said. Then, without looking at the menu, I told the waiter I’d like the rib eye, medium.
    “And for you, Mr. Smiley?”
    “The usual,” he said.
    “And any sides for you today?”
    “The usual,” he repeated, with a wave of his hand, practically shooing him away from the table.
    When the waiter left, Smiley took off his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. “So. I know all about your Walker ties.”
    “Yes, sir. I have … a lot of Walker ties …” I stammered, reminding myself to answer as simply as possible. Less likely to screw up that way.
    “Could you cover college football? And be fair and objective?”
    “Yes, sir,” I said.
    He raised his unibrow, and I gave way to the silence.
    “Yes. I think I could write very objectively about teams getting their asses handed to them by Walker.”
    It was a misfire. Smiley wasn’t amused. He stared at me, waiting for my real answer. I looked directly into his eyes and tried again, telling him that I was confident I could.
    Smiley nodded. “Okay, Ms. Rigsby, tell me this. What do you see as the role of a sportswriter?”
    My mind went blank as I stalled by answering his question with a question. “For a traditional news outlet?”
    “Yes. A
news
paper. Not glib twits or tweets or whatever the hell they’re called, or mamsy-pamsy, whining blogs.”
    I took a long sip of water, stalling again, then stammered an awkward reply. “Well, I think … at some basic level … it’s a reporter’s job to keep fans in touch with their favorite sports and teams.”
    Smiley stared at me, his eyes glazed. My answer bored him,
pained
him, and maybe even pissed him off.
    Panicked, I knew I had to come up with something better—and fast. I cleared my throat, then said, “But when people read the paper now, they