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When I arrived at the huge corner office, I found Mrs. Heflin, Coach’s longtime secretary and gatekeeper, manning her post. “Go on in, hon,” she said, jovial as ever.

I glanced uneasily at the closed door, usually a sign that he didn’t want to be disturbed.

“Don’t worry. He’s expecting you,” Mrs. Heflin said.

I nodded, but still knocked quietly, tensing as I heard his familiar bellow to come in. I pushed the door open to find Coach sitting at his desk, listening to Trace Adkins’s “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, posters, newspaper articles, and inspirational messages decorating his office. I never got tired of looking at them all.

“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 expression was blank enough for me to question my work, 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 swallowed, but noticed that, although his words were promising, his expression was somber, troublesome. It was the way he looked at a player who was losing his starting spot.

“Thanks, Coach,” I mumbled.

“When John Justus 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 that 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?”