by Whitney G.
“I’ll only tell you if you don’t judge me.”
“Please don’t tell me that you got a girl pregnant, Kyle.” He looked saddened. “Please.”
“I’d have to have sex with someone in order for that to be viable.”
He raised his eyebrow.
“No one on campus wants to fuck me without expecting something in return anymore, Coach. My magic stick has lost its touch.”
“Okay.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry that I ever asked about your personal problems, son.”
“No, wait.” I moved closer, lowering my voice. “I mean, my dick is working just fine, it’s just that now that people are realizing that I’m going to the league, they’ve got agendas. And I’ve asked for text messages as consent, and they’re making that very difficult.”
I couldn’t believe the words that were falling from my mouth. “I feel like I’m living in The Twilight Zone. I haven’t had a release in forever, and—”
“Stop talking to me, Kyle.” He interrupted me. “Right now.”
“Why?”
“Because it sounds like something you need to take up with the team’s medical staff or student health.”
“No, I just need to get laid. Preferably by someone who isn’t seeing dollar signs with every stroke.”
He let out a sigh and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Kyle, I’ve always regarded you as something like a second son to me.”
“Do you make your other son watch bad plays as punishment, too?”
“Look.” He ignored my comment. “I told you during your freshman year that there would come a time when you would have to make some serious decisions about the people in your life. I told you that your reputation—as crass and insane as it is, would have to be retooled eventually. So, perhaps that’s what you’re seeing.”
“No, I’m seeing gold diggers, Coach.”
The stadium suddenly erupted in cheers as Louisville’s kicker failed to score a field goal.
Coach waited until the band finished playing their usual “Womp Wompppp” song.
“Look over there,” he said, nodding his head toward the cheerleading squad. “Do you see the woman dressed in the navy-blue suit with the pom poms?”
“You mean, your wife?”
“Yes. Have I ever told you how we met?” He waved at her, and she blew him a kiss.
“I think so …”
“Well, long story short, she was a quiet girl who didn’t want anything from me,” he said. “I dated her during my senior year and I never wanted to be with anyone else.”
“I’m pretty sure that’s not the version of the story you told me before.” I crossed my arms. “Wasn’t there some type of house party involved?”
“No, never.” He smiled. “Anyway, my point is, when my draft stock started going up, my circle of friends became smaller, and so did the pool of women that I uh, yeah. I ended up falling for Tina and the rest is history. Now that I think about it …”
I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as he told me another version of a story that wasn’t going to help with my situation in the slightest.
Looking over at the cheerleaders, I searched for Miss Eleven and a Half Hours. I scanned both rows and the reserve section, double-checking the formation where she usually stood to flick me off.
She’s not here.
“Glad we could have this discussion, son.” Coach patted me on the shoulder. “Remember to wear a condom if your luck should change for the better this semester.”
“And if it doesn’t?”
“You’re months away from landing a minimum of twenty million dollars.” He smiled. “Focus on that.”
He walked away and put on his headphones again. I took a spot on the bench.
The rest of the game was played by the second string, and while our points continued to light up the board, Louisville’s remained at four.
And for the first time in my entire college career, I didn’t join my teammates at the alcohol-infused afterparty.
I headed to a hole-in-the-wall bar instead.
I’d never thought about a girl days after a first, second, or third encounter, so I was willing to blame my current Facebook search on my unfortunate case of blue balls.
Typing in The Pitt News, I ventured to their page and scrolled down the list of people who listed it as their “job.”
Lo and behold, in the third column was a sexy picture of “Miss Eleven and a Half Hours,” but her name was Courtney Johnson.
Clicking on her profile, I went straight to her recent photo albums. As if she were a campus photographer, she’d snapped tons of shots outside the top spots—The Soldiers & Sailors Building, Hillman Library, and The Peterson Events Center.
But she was alone.
In every single one of them.
Going backward, I clicked on a few of her older albums from her freshman and sophomore years.
In those, she shared more of her time on the cheerleading squad, the chess club, Three Rivers Magazine, and of course, the university’s newspaper.
But the people around her were never hanging out like friends at a bar or somewhere off-campus. Instead, they were trapped in time, in whatever scheduled event that they were attending.
What the hell is that about?
“What the hell is what about, Kyle?” Trevor took a seat across from me at the bar.
“Nothing, I was just looking at something.” I turned over my phone. “Was Grayson behind you?”
“No, he wanted me to tell you that he was hanging out with some Charlotte chick tonight.”
“Good for him,” I said. “Hopefully, he’ll get laid and get a bit more relaxed.”
“Maybe.” He laughed and leaned over to nudge my shoulder. “I bet no one on the team will ever be as relaxed as you, though. I know the year just started, but what are you up to now? Eight girls?”
“No.”
“Ten? Fifteen?”
Sighing, I shook my head. “Trevor, if I told you the real number, you’d never believe me.”
“Wow.” He smiled. “You really are the king of hooking up on this campus.”
Right. I signaled for the bartender before my conscience could dethrone me with the pauper’s truth.
As Trevor launched into a list of ideas that he had for our next unofficial party, I flipped over my phone and clicked on Courtney’s profile again.
Then I sent her a message.
Me: Hey. I couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t cheering for me at our game today. Thank you for your lack of support.
Her response was immediate.
Courtney Johnson: Hey. I couldn’t help but notice that I haven’t blocked you. Thank you for the reminder.
Me: I’m just trying to be cool with you since we share some common interests.
Courtney Johnson: Name five.
Me: We both go to Pitt. We’re both seniors. We both have worn blue and gold. We both play a sport. And …We both are attracted to each other.
Courtney Johnson: I have a boyfriend, Kyle.
Me: That has nothing to do with attraction. (By the way, your relationship status says, “Single.”)
She immediately updated the status to say, “It’s complicated,” and I held back a laugh.
She definitely doesn’t have a boyfriend.
Me: Have you accepted my apology for our group project yet?
Courtney Johnson: Never.
Me: For the record, if you want to hold onto things first, you stood me up first, freshman year. We met before, remember?
Courtney Johnson: You’re joking, right?
Me: Yes, and I’d like to clear this up in person tonight. Where do you live?
She blocked me, and I laughed.
It was worth a try.
Courtney: Then
Senior Year
Pittsburgh
* * *
The following Wednesday
The Honors College was located on the top two floors of the Cathedral of Learning. Imposing an
d grand, there was a staircase that cut between the levels, the place where every Honors student dreamed of snapping their final graduation picture or posing with the renowned “BPhil degree” for completing their senior thesis.
In my case, it was both, and today was the day I’d been waiting for since I first declared my major. This day was step one of five in gaining entry to The London Collective, the top writing program in the world.
I was presenting my thesis proposal, and I was sure that the guest judge, Miss Lauren Hopewell, the Editor in Chief of The New York Times, would be more than impressed with what I planned to write over the following two semesters.
At least, I hoped that was the case.
I kissed my late father’s necklace for good luck and made my way down the steps—looking around for Miss Hopewell.
Within seconds, she stepped into the seating area wearing a bright pink pantsuit.
“Well, well, well.” She set her briefcase on the coffee table. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are totally not, who I pictured you to be. You’re stunning, dear.”
I smiled, unsure of what to say to that.
“Anyway, I am beyond impressed with the depth of your reporting.” She took out my files. “They are, well written, concise, and moving. I actually shed tears when I read the piece about your father.”
“Thank you, Miss Hopewell.”
“However, one thing that I think would help you have an edge for the London Fellowship that you’re chasing, is not here.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“One thing that The London Collective looks for in their candidates is their ability to write long-form articles about one subject, and I didn’t see any of that in your file.”
I bit my tongue. There were seventeen of those in there.
“If I told you that you’d need to adjust your thesis topic a bit in order to be considered, what would you say?”
“I’d say that it sounds great, but I think you should hear my proposal first.”
“Eh, I don’t.” She waved her hand. “I read it on the way over. Don’t get me wrong, a one hundred-page tome on the intricacies of the Pittsburgh bridges sounds interesting in theory, but who do you think is going to read that?”
“You and the other judges.”
“No, we’ll just pretend like we read it and give you a passing mark,” she said. “You should write something far more interesting for us.”
Before I could ask her what she had in mind, she tossed a copy of College Football Digest onto the table.
On the front cover were two golden helmets, one marked with the number four and the other marked with the number two.
“Um, is there a scandal or a cover-up at this magazine or something?”
“Quite the contrary,” she said. “I noticed that for all of the press that the football team receives, the majority of it is directed toward Grayson Connors, and not much has been written about Kyle Stanton. Don’t you find that odd?”
“Not really.” I flipped the magazine over. “He’s not that important.”
“He’s the second most popular college player in the country, Miss Johnson. And with the exception of a basic interview he gave in the locker room earlier this year, he’s never said a word to the press.” She tapped her lip. “Only his parents have spoken, and they always say the same thing—like they’re robots or something. So I would like to know more about him.”
“I don’t.” I shrugged. “And I don’t think I should have to dedicate the most important assignment of my college career on someone like him.”
“Someone like him?”
“I don’t want to get into specifics about his reputation.”
“I’m sure it’s quite terrible.” She smiled. “But that doesn’t mean there’s not much more beneath the surface. That’s the mark of a great writer, by the way: making us fall for someone we wouldn’t expect.”
I shook my head, refusing to accept this as my fate. “Between his hectic football schedule and all the things that I’m sure he has to do, I doubt he has the time. I don’t either, to be honest.”
“You’re an Honors Scholar, Miss Johnson,” she said. “You have two classes and a thesis. That’s it.”
I sucked my lips into my mouth.
“I want you to get under Mr. Stanton’s skin over the following semesters. I want you to get into his head and really dive deep into his dreams and background.”
“Kyle Stanton is as deep as a petri-dish.”
“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?”
“Nothing, I just—” I paused. “The ballboy never gets any press. Neither do the equipment managers. Perhaps I can write a piece about those guys and do a blue collar type thing, or write about everything it takes to support a college football organization instead?”
She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Or, I can just do a profile on Kyle Stanton.”
“Yes, do that, and you’ll be thanking me in the spring.” She smiled. “And you’re in luck. I was so excited about this idea, that I called Mr. Stanton to see if he would be interested in this type of arrangement. Want to guess what he said?”
“I’d rather not.”
“He said yes, and he’s waiting for your first session at the cafe downstairs, so you two can set up a schedule together.”
“What?”
“You’re welcome,” she said, heading to the door. “I’m looking forward to reading your work. Hurry up and meet him before he assumes you’re not coming. As you mentioned, he’s a very busy guy.”
Fifteen minutes later, I stepped off the elevator and grabbed a chicken sandwich from the Chick-fil-A stand before walking into the seating area.
To my surprise, Kyle was sitting alone by the windows, and his usual flock of thirsty fangirls was nowhere in sight.
Before accepting defeat, I silently begged the university to bless Pittsburgh with a sudden earthquake, so I could get out of this.
I shut my eyes, waiting to hear rumblings, but it was no use.
Sighing, I made my way over and took the seat across from him.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He smiled. “I missed seeing you at the make-up play this morning. Where were you?”
“In the back.” I lied.
“I think that’s where I should sit next time, then. I don’t think the actors appreciated my snoring in the front row.”
I shook my head. Then I set my recorder on the table and turned it on.
“I want to ask you a few questions to start my groundwork, and then we’ll work on a schedule for when I’m able to ask you more.” I cleared my throat. “Can you tell me why you’ve never talked to the press when they’ve all been clamoring to hear from you?”
He leaned over and shut off my recorder. “Can you accept my apology for the group project from freshman year?”
“No.” I turned on the recorder again, but he leaned over and shut it off.
“That project wasn’t mandatory,” he said. “It was for extra credit and I assumed that everyone already had an A in the class.”
“I had an A minus …”
“Then I need to rescind my apology.” He smiled again, as I restarted the recorder.
“Like I was saying before, Kyle Stanton.” I looked directly into his gorgeous green eyes. “Can you tell me why you don’t talk to the press when they’re all clamoring to hear from you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “I realized last week that you were my crush on the university’s cheerleading team during our freshman year.”
“Kyle Stanton—” I was seconds away from screaming. “Can we please stick to the interview questions?”
“I never forget a face, you know,” he said, giving me his panty-melting smile. “Especially the face of a woman who told me to ‘fuck off’ after I offered her a ride home.”
“That’s not what happened.” I rolled my eyes, finally giving in to his game. “You offered me the chance to take a ride on your cock. That’
s what you offered me every year.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He smirked. “So, if I were to offer you that chance right now, would your answer still be the same?”
“Mr. Stanton,” I said, attempting to play nice. “Can you please take this interview seriously?”
He flashed his infectious smile and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll try to, Miss Johnson.”
“Great.” I clicked my pen. “Let’s try another question. What motivates you when you’re on the field?”
“The cheers from all of my adoring fans, future endorsement deals, and well, fame.”
Like I said, Petri dish … I rolled my eyes, but I decided not to press him any further. “Do you have any hobbies off the field?”
“My answer to that question will depend.”
“On what?”
“The rating of this interview,” he said. “If you’re only allowed to write family friendly responses in your thesis, then I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer that.”
“I’ll move to the next question.” I felt my cheeks heating. “What’s your favorite thing about Pittsburgh?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “That’s a joke of a question. Ask me something else.”
“It’s on my list.”
“Can’t be.” He looked nonplussed. “I saw some of your notes at the play, and I’ve been reading your work online all week. I highly doubt that you would write, let alone ask, a bullshit question like that.”
I swallowed, unsure whether that was a compliment.
“I’m making an exception for you by doing this interview.”
“What are you hoping to get out of it?”
“That’s personal,” he said. “But I don’t want some bullshit, fluff piece like the idiots in the typical pressroom write.”
“So, you didn’t agree to this solely because you think there’s a chance that I’m attracted to you?”
“Okay, first of all, I know that you’re attracted to me.” He smiled, turning off my recorder again. “But I also know that you’re one hell of a reporter and you’re not like the others. You don’t do the click-bait shit, and you actually print people’s words verbatim with a thorough analysis. You give a fuck about what you write, and it shows in your style … That sets you apart.”
