On a Wednesday

by G. , Whitney

  “What?” I blushed.

  “Mr. Stanton thinks it would be best if you watch the game in the owner's box—specifically in my seat,” he said. “He says that you sitting there will make him very happy, and I need him happy to ensure that we win this game.”

  My jaw dropped, and I struggled to find something to say.

  The doors suddenly opened, saving me from saying something silly.

  I remained speechless as we rode up together.

  “Kyle says that your writing is far past the level of Michael Router,” Mr. Bausch said, breaking the spell. “He says you taught him everything he knows. Is that true?”

  “Something like that.” I smiled.

  The elevator stopped on the top floor, revealing an opulent suite that was guarded by security.

  One of the guards handed me a jersey.

  “Courtesy of Mr. Stanton,” he said.

  Mr. Bausch introduced me to every person we passed and then he walked me over to a seat at the front of the box. My name was written on an envelope in the seat, and an array of chocolate-covered fruit stood on my tray.

  I ordered a water from one of the personal waitresses and took a seat.

  As the players took to the field for the warmups, I slid my finger under the envelope’s seal and opened it.

  * * *

  Dear Courtney,

  * * *

  I know that you're still thinking about us and taking me back, but I felt that you should enjoy the game like you deserve to.

  * * *

  And by “enjoy,” I really mean that.

  * * *

  Do not take notes.

  * * *

  I'll have our videographers get you whatever you need, and if you want interviews from my teammates, they've all agreed to speak with you privately, away from the other journalists.

  * * *

  You should have at least two beers, tons of nachos, and whatever else that real fans do.

  * * *

  See you after the game.

  (Wait for me.)

  * * *

  Kyle Stanton.

  * * *

  P.S. You look sexy as hell in red.

  P.S.S. It’s a good color for you to say, Yes …

  * * *

  I blushed and looked up, wondering when exactly he'd seen me today. Then I stuffed my bag under my chair and signaled for a waitress.

  “Yes, Miss Johnson?" She smiled. “What can I get for you?”

  “I'd like a beer and nachos, please.”

  Kyle: Now

  Present Day

  * * *

  Kyle Stanton Keeps His Promise in Historic Super Bowl Win: 48-54

  * * *

  New England Falcons Beat Tampa Bay Brewers in High Scoring Thriller

  * * *

  Kyle Stanton Wins MVP Honors, Dedicates Win to “Passionate, Batshit Crazy” Fans

  * * *

  Now a Super Bowl Champion, Will It Be Enough for Kyle Stanton to Stay in New England?

  Courtney: On a Wednesday

  Present Day

  The Late Night Show.

  ESPN: Aftermath.

  First Take.

  Kyle’s post-win media tour was fascinating to watch, even if he only responded to the questions with, “I’m only here so I won’t get fined,” or “I’m only here because my agent is making me do this.”

  Desperate for a glimpse of his pretty boy smile and trademark grin, the journalists continued to seek him out—hoping that maybe, just maybe, he would give them a hint as to whether he planned to stay in New England or move on to another city.

  “Thank you again for joining us today, Mr. Stanton,” the host of Boston in the Morning shook his hand onscreen. “It was a pleasure seeing you here today, even though you didn’t say much.”

  “I did say, Thank you for inviting me.” Kyle smiled. “That has to count, right?”

  “Does that ‘Thank you’ mean that you plan to play for New England again next year?”

  Kyle laughed and stood to his feet, and the credits began to play.

  Shaking my head, I turned down the volume and tossed the remote on the bed. I made sure that all of my luggage was fully zipped and double checked all of the drawers.

  Walking over to the Keurig, I made myself a cup of coffee and decided to use the remaining hours before checkout to sit on the balcony.

  As I was watching a couple below, loud honking suddenly sounded from down the street.

  Confused, I looked left and spotted a beige-colored town car swerving down the street.

  Just like in Pretty Woman, Kyle popped up through the roof of the car—armed with a bouquet of red roses.

  I tried not to smile, but I couldn’t help it.

  “Courtney!” He called my name as the car pulled right under my window.

  He climbed on top of the roof and jumped to the street.

  “Shit … There’s no fucking fire escape,” he said, looking up at me. “I forgot to consider that part, so you’ll have to excuse my improvisation.”

  I laughed.

  “I’ll be right there,” he said, walking into the building.

  I rushed inside and into the hallway—watching as the numbers above the elevator lit up.

  Five…Fifteen…Twenty…

  When it reached thirty, the doors glided open.

  Kyle stepped off and we stared at each other for several seconds. He slid his arms around my waist and pulled me close, kissing me harder than he ever had.

  When he pulled away, he pressed a soft kiss on my forehead.

  Then he got down on one knee, pulling a box from his pocket.

  “For the record,” he said, looking into my eyes. “This is a real proposal, not a platitude, and I mean every word that I’m about to say.”

  “Yes, I’ll marry you.” I couldn’t help interrupting. “You don’t have to give me a speech. I would marry you right now.”

  He blinked.

  “I’ve worked on this speech for weeks, Court,” he said. “You have to listen to every word of it.”

  I laughed as tears fell past my cheeks. “Okay, Kyle.”

  He held my hand a bit tighter, keeping his eyes on mine. “For the record, I liked you freshman year of college, but you turned me down the first night we met, so I made a personal vow to not show up for that group project the next semester.”

  “I’m reconsidering that ‘yes’ now…”

  He laughed, squeezing my hand. “But I’m glad we didn’t get close until senior year, because I truly got to see what I’d been missing out on my entire college career, my entire life. I should’ve never let you go the first time, should’ve never even pretended like we could be ‘just friends,’ and I promise you—fucking promise you, that I’ll never do it again. Will you marry me?”

  “Hell yes…”

  He smiled and stood to his feet, pulling me close and kissing me like only he could.

  My back hit the wall in between breaths, and he tightened his grip on my waist.

  “Was there any reason why you’ve made the past few days difficult?” he asked, giving me a chance to breathe. “Were you wavering on giving me a second chance?”

  “Not at all.”

  “That’s what it felt like,” he said, running his fingers through my hair. “I was prepared to go through my entire list of romance scenes.”

  “How many did you have?”

  “Twenty.” He smiled. “Then again, I wanted to go through at least a hundred before attempting the one from today.”

  “Deep down, I think you’ve always loved that movie.”

  “Then you need to think again.”

  We both laughed.

  “I wasn’t trying to make things difficult,” I said. “I honestly would’ve taken you back when you asked me while I was on the tarmac.”

  “Then why didn’t you?”

  “I was waiting until you asked me on a Wednesday.”

  * * *

  The End

  Epilogue />
  One Year Later

  Boston, Massachusetts

  I signed my name on the new lease for a beautiful glass building downtown. Set on the corner of Fifth and Turner Avenue, it overlooked the stadium where Kyle played every Sunday.

  Unlike the other media giants in the country, I allowed everyone on my team to cover the sport that they were most passionate about.

  I never required double bylines and I made sure that every person was writing their own articles.

  “An order for a Miss Johnson?” A deliveryman suddenly stepped into the lobby.

  “That’s me.” I motioned him over so I could sign for the large green box.

  When he was gone, I tore off the paper and found a single sheet.

  * * *

  Suggested Headlines That You Should Use

  * * *

  Kyle Stanton is The Best I’ve Ever Had (That’s Why He Gifted You with a Win)

  * * *

  Kyle Stanton Scores as Many Orgasms as Points In His Second Super Bowl Win

  * * *

  How I Knew That Kyle Stanton Would Win The Super Bowl Again

  * * *

  I laughed and called Kyle.

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

  “The playoffs haven’t even started,” I said. “I can’t write the headlines this early, and they’re a bit too inappropriate for me to publish.”

  “Is it because of the word ‘orgasms’?”

  “It’s because I’m not a fortuneteller, and I can’t predict who is actually going to win the game.”

  “Well, I do,” he said. “And I’m trying to save you some time, since there won’t be much time for you to write when I’m finished.”

  “Are you still coming to help me christen a few surfaces before your final practice tonight?”

  “Of course.” There was a smile in his voice. “I’m in the garage now. Let me up.”

  “Twenty minutes.”

  “You can recover for as long as you need to …”

  * * *

  The End, Again

  Personal Note + Thank You

  Dear Awesome Reader,

  Thank you so much for reading Courtney and Kyle’s romance!

  If I haven’t told you before, this series takes place at my alma mater, The University of Pittsburgh.

  And OMG, I miss that place so much!

  Sometimes I wish I could go back in time and walk down Atwood Street for some late-night wings at Mad Mex, grab some coffee at “The Pete,” or experience my first “Pittsburgh salad” at Eat’n Park all over again. (Yes, fries on top of salad is a real thing. It shocked me, too.)

  Just like Courtney, I lost my father during my freshman year of college in 2007. He was murdered on a beautiful, bright blue day, and the memory of getting that phone call outside the Cathedral of Learning still crosses my mind.

  Time has healed some of the wounds but writing my way through it has helped even more. So, thank you for helping me heal a little part of myself by reading this story.

  Thank you so damn much.

  On a happier note, I’m looking forward to sharing On a Thursday with you. It’s hilarious from start to finish.

  Now, if you’re new to me, you should know that I tend to release things randomly, so there’s no date as of yet, but I’ll share it with you the moment I know.

  Up next, I have a few flirty and fun novellas, and then I’m jumping into some filthy, sexy, and (super fun) novels.

  F.L.Y.

  (Effin Love You)

  Whit

  P.S.—Hail to Pitt! (Had to say it one last time.)

  P.S.S.—If you SUPER loved this story, please leave a review on Amazon to let other readers know!

  Break Up with Him, for Me!

  My next book will be in your hands soon!

  * * *

  In the meantime, be sure to check out

  ‘BREAK UP WITH HIM, FOR ME’!

  * * *

  From New York Times bestselling author, Whitney G., comes a contemporary, friends-to-lovers romance.

  Please leave your message at the sound of the beep…

  Penelope, I know that it’s three o’clock in the morning, but I need to get this off my chest.

  I can't give you any more advice on landing this other guy, can't tell you another "sexy" thing that you should do, or suggest a new set of filthy words that you should text him late at night.

  As your best friend, I've reached my limit, and I can honestly say that he doesn't deserve you.

  I'm not saying all of this because I'm f-cking jealous, or because he had the audacity to say that he makes more money than me. (I still can't find his name on the Forbes 500 list, and I know damn well that he's renting that Ferrari, but that's a story for a different day.)

  He's not who you think he is, and the better man has always been right in front of you...

  You have every reason to never give me a chance since you know me better than anyone, and you agree with all the tabloids calling me The Cocky King of New York, and the Untamed Playboy of Manhattan. But I honestly believe that you're better off with someone else, and I need you to see.

  I'm not asking for too much...I just want you to break up with him, for me.

  This is a standalone “friends to lovers” contemporary romance.

  * * *

  Read Break Up with Him, for Me on amazon

  * * *

  And hey! If you prefer steamy novellas, check out my collection here!

  On a Tuesday

  If you missed the first book in this series, check out the synopsis and the sneak peek!

  * * *

  We met on a Tuesday.

  Became best friends, then lovers, on a Tuesday.

  And everything fell apart on a Tuesday ...

  * * *

  Charlotte Taylor has three automatic strikes in my book: 1) She hates me. She also claims that I'm a “domineering jerk with a huge, overbearing ego.” (I do have something huge. It's not my ego, though.) 2) She takes our mandatory tutoring sessions way too seriously. 3) She's sexy as hell ... And a virgin.

  * * *

  At least, those were her strikes before our study sessions started lasting longer than they were supposed to. Until one innocent kiss became a hundred dirty ones, and until she became the first woman I ever fell hard for.

  * * *

  Our future together after graduation was supposed to be set:

  * * *

  Professional football for me. Law school for her.

  But she left me at the end of the semester with no explanation, and then she completely disappeared from my life.

  * * *

  Until tonight.

  * * *

  We met on a Tuesday.

  Became everything, then nothing, on a Tuesday.

  And now it's seven years later, on a Tuesday ...

  * * *

  The “One Week” series is a series of short, standalone novels that are inspired by a day of the week, an Adele song, and a steamy romance trope.

  * * *

  The first book in the series is On a Tuesday and it is a second chance romance inspired by Adele’s “When We Were Young.” The next book in the series is On a Wednesday and it’s inspired by Adele’s “Someone Like You.

  One click On a Tuesday on amazon

  Grayson: Now

  Present Day

  New York City

  GRAYSON CONNORS WINS SUPER BOWL MVP, AGAIN

  GRAYSON CONNORS LEADS NEW YORK TO CONSECUTIVE SUPER BOWL WIN

  CONNORS’ LATE TOUCHDOWN LIFTS NEW YORK OVER NEW ENGLAND

  I read this morning’s headlines for the hundredth time and forced myself to smile. I tried to feel something—anything, but it was no use. This wasn’t what “winning” was supposed to feel like, and I would know because—well, I almost always won.

  As a heavy snow fell over Manhattan, I walked over to my balcony and watched a construction crew adjust a new billboard that read, “Go, Grayson Connors!”<
br />
  Last year, I’d celebrated the championship by joining my teammates in a reckless five-day party in Las Vegas. We’d drenched our team plane in thousand-dollar champagne, demanded over the top accommodations for the Super Bowl parade, and basked in the never-ending attention from women who wanted to know “what it felt like to sleep with a champion.”

  But this year, when the game clock struck zero, and the score was in my team's favor, I felt no excitement at all. I coasted through the ensuing media interviews with a fake smile plastered on my face, and I didn't bother flying with the team to Vegas. I came straight home and called the police to report the flock of groupies that was waiting outside my condo.