On a Wednesday (One Week Series Book 2)

by Whitney G.

  Kyle: Now

  When I made it downstairs, Courtney was long gone.

  Courtney: Then

  Senior Year

  Pittsburgh

  Tears fell down my face as I opened my “Welcome to The London Collective!” scholarship packet.

  Inside, my rooming information, plane ticket, exchange information, and my tentative schedule for the next four years stared back at me.

  Months ago, I would’ve savored this moment. I would’ve taken tons of pictures and packed up my entire apartment just to be certain that I was getting the hell away from Judy-April as fast as possible.

  Now, all I wanted to do was cry.

  “Why do you look like you’re about to break down on me, Court?” Kyle pushed my glass of wine toward me. “I thought you invited me over to celebrate your scholarship.”

  “I don’t feel like there’s anything to celebrate,” I said. “They rejected my flight extension request, so I won’t even get to see you on your draft night. I won’t get to see you at all.”

  “Just because we’re going in different directions temporarily—”

  “Four years is not temporary, Kyle.”

  “That’s only four football seasons,” he said. “That’s your cheerleading career.”

  “In that case, it’ll feel more like a decade.”

  He stood up and walked over to me. Gently grabbing my wrists, he helped me up—pulling me flush against his chest.

  “Four seasons will go by in a flash.” He looked into my eyes. “And last time I checked, I can fly to see you whenever you want.”

  “I don’t want you to do that.” I shook my head. “Please don’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because it’ll send mixed signals, Kyle,” I said. “And on my worst days when I’m wondering what you’re doing and I happen to open Page Six or TMZ Sports, I don’t want to think about you being with someone else, days after being with me.”

  “Court…”

  “It’s silly to think that you won’t date other people. And you can’t fly twelve hours there and twelve hours back every time you want to have sex. You’ll have far easier options.”

  He cupped my face in his hands, looking deep into my eyes. “Is that what you really think of me?”

  I didn’t answer him.

  “After becoming this close, you think I’m all about sex?”

  “No, it’s just…”

  “What, Court?”

  I didn’t even know how to put my thoughts into words.

  I felt like we belonged together—that he was who I was meant to spend the rest of my life with, but for whatever reason, now wasn’t our time.

  “Long distance relationships don’t work, do they?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer. He just ran his fingers through my hair.

  “Look,” he said. “Distance doesn’t mean that our friendship is over. I still expect to hear from you. And whenever I haven’t called you first, I expect to see your name on my call log.”

  “If you meet someone and get serious, just let me know.”

  “Will you do the same?”

  “I’m never getting serious with anyone,” he said. “But also, how about this: If neither of us is married by the time we’re twenty-eight years old, we’ll marry each other.”

  “What?” I laughed. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Not at all.” He looked dead-ass serious. “I would love to marry you when we’re twenty-eight. I’ll have made enough in the league, and you’ll be an established journalist who calls her own shots by then.”

  “You want me to agree to a marriage in sympathy?”

  “More like pity.”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Seriously though,” he said. “I could see us together, married someday. I already know what it’s like to not have sex for an extended period of time with you, so that makes us practically perfect in the marriage department.”

  I tried not to laugh, but I couldn’t help it. “Why twenty-eight and not thirty?”

  “Because I’ve suffered through enough rom-coms with that plot, and I don’t need a reminder. Will you say yes, if I propose when we’re twenty-eight?”

  “Only if you agree to a few other things.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “One, once you get drafted, you won’t come see me in person and vice versa,” I said. “You’ll let me focus on my work in London, and when I’m finished, I’ll come see you.”

  He didn’t immediately agree.

  “If four seasons isn’t that long…”

  “Fine,” he said. “What’s the second rule?”

  “You promise to keep the first.”

  “That’s cheating, Court. Is there something else?”

  “A final one,” I said. “You’ll watch Pretty Woman at least once a month.”

  “That may be the hardest thing to accept.” He smiled. “Can’t I just buy you the DVDs as a truce?”

  “No, but only because you already bought me every version as a going away present,” I said.

  “Fine, Court. We have a deal.” He extended his hand.

  “Great.” I shook it. “Does this mean we should go our separate ways now since the draft is next week?”

  “Quite the contrary.” He laughed, gently pushing me onto the bed. “Let’s pretend like we’re not saying goodbye,” he said, brushing my hair away from my forehead.

  “We’ve been trying that every night.”

  “No,” he said, looking into my eyes. “Not like this.”

  He turned off his phone, and then he turned off mine.

  “No internet, no phones, just us.” He kissed me before I could say anything else, and for the rest of the night, he brought me to an orgasm over and over again.

  Kyle: Then

  Draft Night

  New York, New York

  “With the second pick in the National Football Organization Draft, the New England Falcons select Kyle Stanton, wide receiver, from the University of Pittsburgh!”

  Screams and jeers filled Radio City Music Hall as I stood up from my chair. I gave a rehearsed hug to my “parents” and made my way to the stage.

  Taking a bright green and grey hat from the league’s commissioner, I placed it atop my head. Then I shook his hand and smiled for the photographers’ endless flashes.

  In all of my previous dreams, this moment unraveled in a far more dramatic and fulfilling way. There was a standing ovation from the crowd, a group of super fans (and supermodels) waiting for my autograph, and journalists tripping over themselves to record my every word under the bright lights.

  Even though most of those things were still here, they didn’t feel as good as I’d hoped. It was almost like a watered-down version where someone purposely drowned out all of the best details.

  “Congratulations, son,” the commissioner said, patting me on the back. “Head backstage for the next step.”

  I kept a smile plastered to my face and waved to the audience before moving behind the curtain.

  “Over here, Kyle!” My new agent, Taylor, ushered me in front of a green screen with Grayson. “Try to stay put until they get through to the fifth pick for the Sports Illustrated cover shot. Don’t talk to any journalists or make any statements until I’m back by your side, clear?”

  I nodded. “Clear.”

  He walked away, and I looked over at Grayson.

  “I was desperately waiting on you to use your first pick moment to propose to Charlotte on live TV.” I smiled. “Did you change your mind and decide to kiss that random model at the last minute?”

  “The model caught me off guard,” he said. “I decided to save her from embarrassment by halfway kissing her back.”

  “You’re filing a restraining order against her at the end of this, aren’t you?”

  “If she doesn’t apologize, yes.”

  “Of course.” I rolled my eyes. “Where do I need to be when you propose to Charlotte?”

  “Char
lotte isn’t here.” His voice cracked. “My agent sent her a plane ticket, the hotel reservation, everything, and she just … She’s ghosting me, Kyle.”

  I knew from the pained look on his face not to ask anything else.

  We stood in silence—giving nods to picks three and four as they joined us in front of the screen.

  Looking around at all the gawkers backstage, I spotted Courtney standing behind an exit sign.

  Far too sexy to fit into the crowd, she was smiling and wearing the top half of her cheerleading uniform.

  Her eyes suddenly met mine and she blushed.

  You’re supposed to be on your way to London.

  Blinking a few times to make sure she was real, I cleared my throat.

  “I’ll be back in a second guys,” I said to the picks and made my way toward Courtney.

  Not wanting to make a scene, I motioned for her to follow me behind an oversized banner.

  “You told me that you couldn’t come tonight,” I said.

  “I lied.”

  “Why?”

  “Because …” She smiled. “I didn’t want you to think that I cared that much.”

  “I know you do.” I tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, and her cheeks flushed red again. “Which hotel are you staying in? When’s checkout?”

  “There is no hotel, Kyle.” She shook her head. “I purposely booked an itinerary with a long layover at JFK. My flight to London is in four hours.”

  “Hmmm. Well, I can buy you a different ticket for later this evening.”

  “I’m sure, but something tells me that if we hang out tonight, I won’t wake up until tomorrow evening.”

  “So?” I closed the gap between us, pressing my forehead against hers. “Would that be a problem for you?”

  She nodded.

  “Why is that, Court?”

  “Because we made promises.”

  “Then we can make some amendments.” I ran my fingers through her hair. “You can work on your writing here in the states. Stay with me instead.”

  “Stop saying things that you don’t mean.” Tears pricked her eyes. “You don’t mean that, Kyle.”

  I really fucking do. “If I didn’t, I would’ve never said it.”

  “I can’t, Kyle.”

  “You need to come right back to me at the end of four seasons—” I paused. “And whenever that day is, we’re going to talk about being together and make up for all the time we didn’t get in college. We don’t have to wait until we’re twenty-eight.”

  Tears fell past her cheeks, and I wiped her eyes with the pad of my thumb.

  “I mean every fucking word of that, Court,” I said. “Every fucking word.”

  Silence.

  “I’m really happy for you,” she said, resorting to her typical distraction tactic. “You deserved to be in the top five tonight. You know that, right?”

  “Every time you give me a compliment on my career, all I hear is goodbye.”

  “Would you rather I just say, goodbye then?”

  I was seconds away from kissing her in front of all the cameras, seconds away from breaking our second rule like she’d broken our first.

  “Kyle Stanton!” Someone called out my name from behind. “Kyle Stanton, can I have a minute please?”

  “Pick up when I call on every Wednesday, Court,” I said, ignoring whoever it was. “No matter what.”

  She nodded. “Every Wednesday.”

  “Can you stick around for a while longer before your flight?”

  She didn’t get a chance to answer me.

  A photog from ESPN suddenly rushed over and demanded that I take photos with the draft class.

  My agent tugged at my shoulder, asking me to say a few words to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette about my future. The commissioner requested to speak with me in private.

  I kept my eyes on Courtney for as long as I could, mouthing “Wait for me,” in hopes that she would stick around for one final conversation.

  One final kiss.

  By the time I saw her waving goodbye, an entire hour had passed.

  While I was being forced to sign a cart of footballs, I felt the exact moment she stepped on the plane to London.

  Capping a marker, I sent her a quick text.

  Me: I miss you already, Court.

  Her response was immediate.

  Courtney: I miss you too, Kyle. Part of me feels like I’m making a big mistake by leaving.

  Me: Would you like me to pick you up from the airport then?

  Courtney: LOL no. Just promise me that things won’t change between us over these “four seasons” … I really like you, Kyle.

  I fucking love you, Court.

  I typed those six words, stared at them and almost hit send, but I deleted them at the last minute.

  Me: I promise nothing will change in four seasons, Court. I really like you, too. Have a safe flight. Email me whenever you land. Talk Wednesday.

  Kyle: Then

  Boston, Massachusetts

  First season

  * * *

  Everything I thought I knew about making it into the professional football league was a lie.

  Well, almost everything.

  I was prepared for the practices that pushed me to the limit, the radio hosts and fan blogs that critiqued my every mistake, and the fame that came along with a multi-million-dollar contract.

  But nothing could’ve readied me for the bloodthirsty media.

  Nothing.

  Ever since draft night, I’d answered all their questions with, “No comment,” “I have nothing to say at this time,” and the borrowed, yet much beloved, “I’m just here so I won’t get fined.”

  It didn’t matter, though.

  They reported on me (and everything I bought) like I was some type of movie star level celebrity, and every moment that I stepped out of my condo, I was prey to their prying lens.

  With only one season under my belt, I’d helped the New England Falcons go from the laughingstock of the league, to an improved 9-7. It wasn’t enough for the playoffs, but it was enough to inspire hope for next year.

  It was also, unfortunately, enough to make the media salivate for new words from me.

  Even now, in the offseason, two journalists stood across the street from my condo, ready and waiting.

  Groaning, I shut the blinds and grabbed my keys. I took the elevator down to the garage and slipped behind the wheel of a used Honda I’d bought the other day.

  Speeding onto the street, I headed to the NovaCare Complex to get in an early morning workout.

  The parking lot was full, but I didn’t bother pulling into my designated spot. I steered my car into a row at the end, and pulled my shades over my eyes.

  Opening the door, I heard the tell—tale clicking of a camera.

  Fuck.

  “Mr. Stanton, how do you feel about the way the team is preparing for next season?” A photog rushed to my side.

  I held back a sigh and grabbed my duffle bag, stepping out.

  “What do you think about the team’s general manager saying that he wants to make some major changes to the roster?”

  I remained quiet, mentally tuning out his questions.

  The moment I stepped inside, I spotted my PR advisor waiting in the lobby. Her eyes were narrowed, and I knew she was here because I hadn’t returned any of her calls.

  Fuck this shit. I turned around and returned to my car.

  Needing an immediate escape, I pulled out my phone and called Court.

  It rang once.

  It rang twice.

  “Hey there, Stranger.” There was a smile in her voice. “Today isn’t a Wednesday.”

  “Would you like me to try again tomorrow, then?”

  “Never,” she said. “Something wrong?”

  “Same old shit, Court. Everyone wants something from me, and I just want to play the damn game.”

  “You could start saying no to all the endorsement offers then.”

  “I wo
uld, but since I might have a marriage-in-sympathy in my future, I need to have enough in my bank account to afford to survive,” I said. “I can’t live off my wife’s never-ending stack of useless degrees.”

  “Fuck you, Kyle.” She laughed. “By the way, don’t let this compliment go to your head, but I saw your new Ralph Lauren commercial the other day.”

  “Which one?”

  “The one that features you standing in the middle of the desert wearing nothing but underwear. You looked good in it.”

  “Can I fly you back to the States, so I can give you an encore performance in private?”

  “I’m sure you have plenty of groupies to give that encore to …”

  “What?” I raised my eyebrow. “What was that, Court?”

  “Nothing.” She cleared her throat. “I didn’t say anything.”

  “Are you having a good day?” I slid behind the wheel of my car, immediately pressing the pedal as a journalist appeared in my rearview mirror.

  “It’s pretty good,” she said. “I’m honestly having the time of my life in London.”

  “I’m glad one of us is.”

  Silence.

  “Can I ask you something, Kyle?”

  “Of course.”

  “Well, it’s about something I read on a gossip blog the other day.”

  “It’s not true, whatever it is,” I said. “Trust me. I just found out that I have one testicle this morning from The Boston Six. Do I?”

  “Point taken.” She laughed. “Let me guess, you’re running away from sports journalists and everyone who is working hard on your brand again.”

  “It’s too much all at once, Court. I just want to play.”

  “And win the Super Bowl.”

  “Well, that’s a given.”

  “You should tell your agent to hire two more assistants.”

  “I already have two.” I paused. “Great idea. I’ll do it tonight.”