On a Wednesday

by G. , Whitney

  “You’re really going to stand there and avoid the words I’m saying to you, Miss Pitt News?” He smiled. “Is that your plan?”

  “I’m doing the exact same thing that you’re doing. Can you give me at least one favorite thing?”

  “Fair enough.” He laughed. “I am honored by ESPN’s ranking, but I would be even more honored if I was named as Player of the Week every week this season because my numbers don’t lie, and that’s what I deserve.”

  “Seriously?”

  “You can print that line verbatim,” he said. “For your second question, I was also debating between Ohio State, LSU, and Florida. I chose Pitt because it was closest to home and the coach believed in me.”

  “Thank you.” I took down his words.

  “As for your other questions ...” He pointed to my notebook. “I’ve always been a so-called, ‘cocky, egotistical bastard’ as you wrote, but it’s not like I haven’t worked hard to be the best since middle school.”

  My cheeks reddened and I searched for a way to apologize, but he beat me to it.

  “Photographic memory,” he said, not looking offended at all. “You should be more careful with what you write down about other people, though. One day, you may say some words that you can’t take back. Any other questions?”

  “No, that’s it. Thank you.”

  “You’re welcome. Are you planning to answer any of things that I asked you?”

  “Nope. Never.” I tossed my notebook into my bag and walked down the hall.

  Without looking back, I pushed the stairwell door open and rushed down the steps until I reached his dorm’s lobby.

  The moment I opened the exit door, a gust of wind slammed it shut.

  Outside, heavy sheets of rain and rounds of lightning made it clear that walking to lower campus was out of the question.

  “Would you like a ride?” Kyle’s deep voice was suddenly behind me.

  “No, that’s okay.” I turned around, noticing that he was still shirtless. “I’ll call Safe-Rider.”

  “I’m talking about a different type of ride,” he said. “I mean, you’re already here and I saw you glance down at my sweats a few times. I’m more than happy to fulfill any of your fantasy requests.”

  “Please tell me that you’re joking, or that you’re high as hell right now.”

  “I’ve never done drugs,” he said. “Is that a yes?”

  “You know what?” I stepped back. “In two seconds, I’m returning to my reality where I never met you, and I hope you'll do the same. Safe-Rider will suffice.”

  He laughed and pulled a set of keys from his pocket. “It always takes those drivers half an hour to pick people up. I was headed to the lower campus for a late-night snack anyway. I’m offering you a real ride.”

  “What are you expecting in return?”

  “Nothing.” He shrugged. “What’s it going to be?”

  I didn’t get a chance to fully weigh my options.

  Streaks of lightning flashed across the sky, and the rain attacked the windows so fiercely that they shook.

  “Fine,” I said. “Just a ride to my dorm. Nothing more, right?”

  “Nothing more.” He motioned for me to follow him past the coffee stand and the laundry center, to the other side of the dorm.

  Stopping in front of a room that read, “For Kyle Stanton,” he told me to wait a few seconds before slipping inside.

  Seconds later, he re-emerged wearing a dark blue Pitt hoodie, and then he grabbed my hand and pulled me down another hallway that led to the parking lot.

  I hated that his mere touch sent my entire body into a frenzy.

  Think about all the lace panties in his room, Court. Think about those panties…

  “Stay here,” he said, letting my hand go as he opened the door. “I’ll pull my car under the awning for you.”

  I pinched myself to make sure that I wasn’t dreaming. That I wasn’t witnessing the same guy who offered me a ride on his cock a few minutes ago, rushing out in the rain to retrieve his car.

  Minutes later, bright headlights cut through the downpour, and he pulled his white SUV in front of me.

  The passenger window rolled down, and Kyle looked at me. “You plan on getting in, or not?”

  I adjusted the strap on my bag and stepped out, climbing into the passenger seat.

  “Here.” He pulled the seatbelt across my chest, clicking it into place.

  I pretended not to inhale the scent of his cologne as he drove away.

  “What’s your major?” He looked over at me once we approached a red light.

  “Journalism,” I said. “I would ask for yours, but I don’t think attending class is your thing.”

  “It’s not a requirement for football.” He smiled, revealing two deep dimples. “I’m thinking about majoring in Pre-Law, though. I’ve always wanted to be a lawyer in another life.”

  “Really?”

  “Hell no.” He laughed. “I’ll probably pick something easy like Communication and call it a day.”

  “I wish it was that easy for me…” I muttered.

  “You probably have the next ten years of your life planned out, don’t you?” He steered the car onto Fifth Avenue. “You strike me as that type of girl.”

  “Well, you’re wrong,” I said. “I’m as spontaneous as they get.”

  “You’re wearing a button-down shirt, slacks, and your hair is pulled into a perfect fucking bun—at two in the morning,” he said. “I’d be willing to bet that you’ve ever done a spontaneous thing a day in your life.”

  I tried to think of a way to dispute that, but I couldn’t.

  I remained silent and looked outside my window. I knew that there was no point in admitting that I drafted a spreadsheet for every semester of my college career. That I’d broken down everything from potential relationships, student activities, and how many things I needed to accomplish in order to achieve my dream of becoming a renowned journalist.

  A few minutes later, Kyle pulled the car in front of the three freshman dorm towers that stood at the center of campus.

  Putting the car in park, he unbuckled his seatbelt. Then he pulled his blue hoodie over his head and handed it to me.

  “Here,” he said. “Put this on since you don’t have an umbrella.”

  I tugged the hoodie over my head and pulled the drawstring super tight as he stepped out of the car.

  The moment it was secure, Kyle opened the door and reached for my hand.

  Like the gentleman that I would’ve never guessed he would be, he escorted me up the steps and across the walkway to Tower B.

  “Thank you, Kyle.” I stopped walking in front of the entry doors. “Give me a few seconds, so I can give your hoodie back.”

  “No, that’s okay.” He stepped back. “Keep it. It gives me a reason to come see you.”

  “I’m giving it to your coach at the next game, then.”

  He laughed. “In that case, I’m looking forward to seeing you cheer for me on the sidelines this Saturday.”

  “I’m cheering for the team, not one of its egotistical players.”

  “For now.” He smiled, and I hated that that’s all it took to make butterflies flutter in my chest. “I guarantee that you’ll be a huge fan of mine by the end of our senior year.”

  “Are you making plans to win a Nobel Laureate by then, or something?”

  “Of course not,” he said, lowering his voice. “I’m planning to get a deeper understanding of you, though.”

  The way he emphasized the word ‘deeper’ told me to run away right now before I fell under his spell like everyone else.

  We stood staring at each other for several seconds.

  The rain and wind battering the windows was the only sound between us.

  “I think you’re the type of girl I’ll marry someday,” he said, looking genuine. “I’ll see you at the altar years from now.”

  “I’m not into polygamy, Kyle.”

  “What about orgies?” He
smirked.

  I rolled my eyes and took two giant steps back. “Thank you for the ride. I’ll continue keeping my distance.”

  “No, thank you,” he said. “This was the best night of my college career so far.”

  He winked at me and walked away without saying anything else, leaving me confused and aroused all at once.

  Snap out of it Courtney. He’s Kyle Stanton; he was feeding you a script.

  You’ll never EVER talk to him again.

  Courtney: Now

  Friday

  Super Bowl Weekend

  I tucked Kyle’s final letters into my bag, as the small jet landed on the tarmac.

  As if the universe let him know that I’d landed, my phone buzzed with a text.

  Kyle: Good luck on your first presser with your own company today.

  Me: Thank you. Will you be granting me an interview?

  Kyle: Depends on if I have an answer about us before the end of the game.

  Laughing, I stepped off the jet-bridge and followed the guide toward a town car.

  “What the hell?” He stopped and looked up, and I did, too.

  The hotel billboard ahead of us lit up in bright blue and yellow lights, asking, “Will Courtney be mine (finally) again? Say yes. Love, Kyle.”

  “Wow,” the guide said. “This Kyle dude seems desperate as fuck. What do you think?”

  “I think he’s very persistent.” I smiled and snapped pictures, playing dumb as the guide harped on how much of a “beta-male” Kyle had to be.

  Slipping into the backseat of the car, I sent Kyle a text.

  Me: Just saw your note on the billboard. Nice steal from the movie ‘Take Me Back.’ I could’ve sworn you fell asleep on that one senior year.

  Kyle: I woke up and saw the only part I liked. It’s a serious question, Court…Will you be mine finally?

  My heart swelled, but I couldn’t bring myself to say yes. Not yet anyway.

  Me: I’m still thinking about it. What happened to waiting until after you play in the Super Bowl?

  Kyle: I don’t plan on letting the game go into overtime.

  Kyle: Now

  Present Day

  Super Bowl Sunday

  I stood outside the locker room and scrolled down to Grayson’s name.

  “Yes, Kyle?” he answered on the first ring.

  “I hope that you enjoy watching my team win the Super Bowl today,” I said. “I also hope that every moment burns since your team wasn’t good enough to make it here.”

  “Fuck you, Kyle.” He laughed. “Surely you have something better to do, like get mentally ready for the game, right now.”

  “Nah, not really.” I smiled. “Speaking of which, didn’t you call me hours before you beat my team in the Super Bowl to tell me I would lose?”

  “Fair enough.” He paused. “Is Courtney there to watch?”

  “She should be.”

  “So, she decided not to marry the other guy?”

  “No, she decided that she wanted to win at life.”

  His laughter came over the line, followed by his son’s giggles in the background.

  “Good luck, Kyle,” he said. “I’ll be watching. Unfortunately.”

  “Can you make sure that my godson wears the onesie I sent him last week?”

  “The one that says, ‘My Daddy Sucks’ or the one that says, ‘Grayson Connors is Overrated?’”

  “If there’s a way that you can layer them, so that he can wear both, that would be great.”

  He hung up in my face, laughing.

  Before I turned off my phone, it buzzed with a text. Taylor.

  Taylor: Thank you for making me search the entire stadium for your girlfriend. *eyeroll emoji* attaching her picture from when she checked in at the media stand. You’re welcome. [.img] [.img] [.img]

  I downloaded the image, staring at Courtney as she stood under an awning, dressed in a fitted red dress. Her rose colored press pass hung from her neck, and she was carrying a ‘Forever a Kyle Stanton fan’ button on her chest.

  “Um, Kyle?” The offensive coordinator cleared his throat. “Do you plan on joining your teammates for the pre-ritual?”

  “Yeah, sorry.” I took one last look at Courtney before turning off my phone. Then I followed him into the locker room.

  “We need to stay completely focused on the field today, gentlemen.” Coach stood in the middle of the room, clipboard in hand. “Don’t look up at the scoreboard, and don’t hyper focus on minor mistakes. If we stay focused on our own game plan, if we believe in everything that we’ve worked on over the past year, we’ll be hoisting up that trophy at the end of the fourth quarter. All in, on three! One, two, three!”

  “All in!” I yelled in unison with my teammates.

  Per our routine, we huddled together and repeated this year’s motto ten more times.

  “Don’t let up! Win at all costs!”

  When we’d uttered the last one, I gave a few high fives and walked over to my locker.

  “Can I have a few words with you, Kyle?” Mr. Bausch, the owner of the team, stepped in front of me.

  “Only if whatever you want to say can’t possibly wait until after the game.”

  “It can’t,” he said, looking genuine.

  I sighed and followed him past my teammates and into an office on the far side of the room.

  “I want to thank you for getting us here,” he said, shutting the door. “I also want you to know that regardless of whether we win today or not, that you’ve meant the world to me and this franchise for years.”

  “I thought you said that this couldn’t wait…”

  “Are you serious about wanting to be traded at the end of this season?” He looked as if he was on the verge of tears. “I would like to know.”

  I gave him a blank stare.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, sighing, “I’m just emotional and shit, and everyone on staff is on edge. I’m willing to do whatever it takes to keep you in Boston, and I know the fans can be a bit much, but they do love you.”

  “I’m staying.” I put an end to his tears. “I never really wanted to be traded, Mr. Bausch. I made that announcement for personal reasons.”

  “What?” His eyes widened. "You felt like giving everyone a heart attack for shits and giggles? To make all the fans hate you?"

  “No,” I said. “I just needed to get someone’s attention. And for the record, I’m pretty sure that the fans already hated me.”

  “True on that last part.” He smiled, but he didn't let it stay. “Who the hell in your life is worth doing all that, just for attention?”

  I didn't answer him.

  “Can I finish preparing for the game now, or would you like to discuss more of your emotions?”

  “You can go back.” He patted my shoulder. “If you need anything moving forward—and I do mean anything—please let me know.”

  I doubted that I would need him between now and the end of the fourth quarter, so I gave him a handshake and walked away.

  “Wait, Mr. Bausch.” I said, turning around. “There is one thing you can do for me.”

  “I’ll do whatever it is, just tell me when you need it done.”

  “Today.”

  Courtney: Now

  Present Day

  Super Bowl Sunday

  I pushed my way through the press’s seating area and found a spot near the edge of the box.

  “Attention, journalists!” A woman in all-grey stood at the front. “Journalists, can I please have your attention?”

  The conversations around me slowly dissipated, until the only sounds around us were the roars from the crowd.

  “Thank you,” she said, clearing her throat. “The National Football Organization would like to thank you for your dedication in covering our league and its players.”

  “We would also like to let you know that although we may not see eye to eye on all things, we appreciate your reporting. And we hope you appreciate the special opportunities and media gifts that
were given to you this weekend."

  I looked past her and down the field where my old co-workers sat in a row with the top journalists, far away from us. That's where the real opportunities were offered this weekend. Those of us in this box, the delusional newbies, received the crumbs.

  “Please remain in this press box for the entirety of the game and only use the designated restrooms that are in the hallway behind you,” she said. “Do not live-stream any part of the game or the halftime show. And please do not engage with—”

  “Mr. Bausch! Mr. Bausch! I have a question!” My colleagues started shouting over her as the Falcons’ owner stepped closer. “How do you feel about today? How are you taking it all in?”

  The woman stood still, speechless and star-struck.

  “What would today’s win mean for your organization?” They couldn’t stop asking questions. “How does it feel to be one of the youngest owners to reach this point?”

  “I’m not here for any interviews.” He lifted a hand, silencing their questions. “I have a question of my own. Is there a Courtney Johnson from Courtney Rose Media here?”

  “That’s me.” I raised my hand, and he motioned for me to stand to my feet.

  “I need you to come with me for a few moments, Miss Johnson,” he said. “It’s important.”

  Grateful for a break, I made sure that all of my things were tucked into my bag, and then I headed his way.

  “Mr. Bausch! Mr. Bausch!” They continued to shout questions at his back as we walked away.

  He ignored them and led me down a tunnel, then in front of an elevator.

  Pressing the down button, he cleared his throat, "How rude of me,” he said, extending his hand. “I’m Peter Bausch, Miss Johnson. I own the New England Falcons team.”

  “I know who you are, sir.” I smiled. “It's an honor to meet you.”

  "The honor is all mine. You apparently mean the world to Kyle Stanton, so that means that you mean the world to me and my organization as well.”