by Whitney G.
“Thank you.”
I pulled onto the interstate, with no destination in mind. “Do you feel like reading me that piece on insurance fraud that you’re working on?”
She sucked in a slow breath. “You really want to hear it?”
“Of course, I do, Court.” I headed toward my condo. “I want to hear everything you write.”
“Because you love my work?”
“Because I love your voice,” I said. “It’s as close to hearing you moan as I’m going to get for a while.”
“Please tell me that you’re joking.”
“You know that I’m not,” I said. “I’m listening …”
Courtney: Then
London, England
Second Season
I held back tears as I boarded The Tube in the afternoon.
I’d tried my hardest to deny it, tried to look on the bright side and be grateful, but I could no longer lie: Moving all the way to London was a mistake.
I sensed it the moment I stepped onto that plane six months ago. I felt it the moment the first sheet of rain kissed my skin on my new apartment’s balcony, and when my advisor insisted on taking a tourist’s walk of Buckingham Palace to “cheer the fuck up a bit.”
Still, one glance at my Instagram account, and someone would think that I was living the ultimate travel journalist’s dream.
Perfectly curated shots of me standing in front of the best theaters, sipping the best teas, and admiring the best artwork, was all a heavily filtered lie.
The program seemed like a bit of a scam—a way for the writers to gain “exposure,” while being nothing more than glorified interns who begged for scraps.
The only amazing things in my life were all the same: Wednesdays with Kyle.
As promised, he called me every week like clockwork, my nine in the morning, to his four, and we caught up with each other and ignored the giant elephant that stomped around the room.
Why can’t we be together?
The question had always been there, hanging in the room without making itself known.
The wonder lurked under the surface of every conversation, hid itself between the words we did and didn’t say.
We tiptoed around the subject here and there, but we never opened the door on a relationship.
We set silent boundaries when we spoke, never mentioning if we were dating someone, never addressing the possibility of someone else.
Of course, sometimes I caught pictures of him in gossip magazines and via the sports version of TMZ, and my heart would drop to the floor. I’d spend an entire day in sleuth-mode, searching for every shred of information on whoever his latest was, but it never got me anywhere.
They never lasted past one story, and he never mentioned any of them to me.
He insisted that his main goal—until I returned to the States—was football.
Two more seasons, Court. Two more seasons…
Kyle: Then
Boston, Massachusetts
Third Season
* * *
Kyle Stanton Fumbles Ball in Final Seconds, Falcons Lose Super Bowl Game
* * *
Kyle Stanton Seen Partying After Loss, Angers Fans
* * *
Do We Need Kyle Stanton?
* * *
Me: Court, I know it’s not “Wednesday,” but can you call me? I haven’t heard from you since before the game …
Me: Court?
Me: Court, I don’t feel like emailing and I keep getting your voicemail when I call … I need to talk to you.
Courtney: Then
London, England
Third Season
Ring! Ring! Ring!
My alarm clock sounded at the crack of dawn, bringing me into another day that I was sure to hate.
I was three years into the program without a single job offer or extended-stay scholarship, and I was anxiously anticipating the fourth and final season.
Getting out of bed, I took a shower and checked my mail slot. There was no sign of scholarship news, no sign of anything.
Only a student loan bill.
I grabbed my bag and headed to the door, finding myself face to face with a red-faced Kyle.
What the …
Blinking a few times, I took a step back. “What the hell are you doing here?”
He didn’t answer.
He just stared at me.
“Kyle, we had an agreement …”
“Fuck the agreement.” He pressed his lips against mine, kissing me long and hard. He gripped my waist, pushing me back into the room and shutting the door behind us.
Without a word, he stared into my eyes and pushed me onto the bed.
I moaned against his mouth as his hand went under my dress and pushed my panties to the side, as he slid two thick fingers inside of me.
“Court?” he said, kissing me harder.
“Yes?”
“Stop fucking with me.”
“What—” I gasped as he bit down hard on my bottom lip. “What are you talking about?”
He unbuckled his pants and unwrapped a condom, handing it to me so I could slide it over his length.
“Why aren’t you texting me?” He slid into me all at once, forcing me to claw at his back. “Why?”
I moaned, digging my nails into his skin a bit deeper.
He fucked me without asking any more questions. I didn’t offer to give any more answers.
I screamed his name as I came, and he held me taut against him, as he found his own release.
Panting and entwined, our mouths found each other again and again.
“Why haven’t you texted me back this week, Court?” he whispered.
“I lost my phone last week,” I said. “I sent you an email when I ordered a new one, but I also figured you’d want some time to yourself after …”
“Losing my first Super Bowl?”
“Yes.”
He sighed and slowly pulled out of me. Throwing the condom in the trash, he slid an arm under my back.
“My career has nothing to do with our friendship, Court,” he said. “And that won’t be my last Super Bowl. Are you seeing anyone?”
“You have the audacity to ask this after we have sex?”
He smiled. “I won’t tell him, if you don’t.”
“There is no one else,” I said. “Unless you count your limited edition bobblehead on my dresser.”
He looked over at it and laughed. “No, he doesn’t count.”
“Are you seeing someone?” I couldn’t help but ask.
“Not unless you count the woman I’m currently looking at.” He smiled, and I blushed.
Silence filled the room for several minutes.
“How’s the program going?” he asked.
I shrugged, and he looked into my eyes.
“They didn’t pick you for the first round of scholarships, did they?” he asked.
“They said my writing was good, but not good enough.”
“Hmmm.” He tilted my head up with his fingertips. “So, you’ll try again, right? One more season?”
“Yeah.” I buried my head in his chest. “One more season.”
Courtney: Then
London, England
Fourth Season
Please let my name be on the list this time. Please let my name be on the list …
I stood outside the auditorium and waited for the results to be posted. If I made the cut, I could get on a plane next month and get the hell out of here.
If I didn’t, I’d try again for the next one and work even harder.
As I checked my watch, one of the program’s interns moved in front of me and taped a bright pink poster on the glass.
The other attendees and I waited until she walked around the corner before rushing to the wall to see our fate.
“Oh my god, yes!” “What the fuck?” “Seriously?”
I squinted and read every name on the list. Then I read it backwards.
My name wasn’t there.<
br />
“Oh my god! I made the cut!” My suite-mate Ashley—the second sucky-ass one the universe had bestowed upon me—tapped my shoulder. “I’m so glad that you didn’t.”
What? “Why the hell would you say something like that?”
“It’s the truth.” She shrugged. “You can’t win everything you want in life. You already won with looks and talent, and everyone here knows you’re the best writer, so that’s probably why the teachers didn’t pick you. They know you’ll get something else eventually, and you’re friends with a huge football player, right? Just suck him off and get him to do an interview, if you want to make it.”
My jaw dropped to the floor.
“Glad I got that off my chest.” She flipped her hair over her shoulder. “What time are you treating me to dinner to celebrate me beating you?”
I stormed away from her and headed back to my apartment.
I’d never smoked a day in my life, but I had the sudden urge to take out one of the packs in her dresser drawer and inhale every single one of them tonight.
Hoping that she wouldn’t return anytime soon, I searched for a lighter.
Right as I was about to light up one of the sticks, my phone sounded with Kyle’s signature ringtone.
Dropping everything, I rushed across the room to grab it.
“Hello? Hello?” I answered. “Kyle?”
“Hey,” he said, his voice deep. “Did I catch you at a bad time?”
“Not at all. I just got back to my room. How are you?”
“Pretty good,” he said. “I went ahead and signed with Reebok over Nike like you suggested. I asked for an opt-out clause at the end of two years.”
“Congratulations. I’m happy for you.”
“This call isn’t supposed to be about me, though.” There was a smile in his voice. “I have a bottle of champagne on ice in front of me, and I was hoping I would be able to celebrate with your good news, too. Did they select you for the scholarship this time?”
“Yeah.” I lied. “I just found out a few minutes ago.”
“Really?”
“Yeah, my name was the first one on the list.” I forced a lump down my throat. “This is the happiest day of my life.”
“Then why does it sound like you’re about to cry?”
I didn’t say anything.
“Court?” He called my name. “Court, are you crying?”
“No, no … I’m—yes.” My voice cracked. “Yes, I’m crying. I lost out again, Kyle. Again.”
He let out a sigh and a soft beeping sound came over the line, his attempt to make me join a video chat.
I hit ‘accept,’ not bothering to wipe my eyes as he came into view.
“They’re never going to give it to me,” I said. “They already have all the winners in mind.”
“Then why don’t you leave?” He looked concerned. “Want to fly here and take some time off for a while? You can stay in one of my condos, or I can buy you a new one.”
“Even if I wanted to, you know that I never leave anything unfinished.”
“Right …”
A soft knock sounded at my door.
“Hold on a second.” I walked over to it and found myself face to face with a deliveryman.
A huge pink box stood on the floor next to him.
“Can you sign this, Miss?” He held out the clipboard to me, and I pulled a pen from my pocket to sign it.
“Is this from you?” I looked at Kyle onscreen.
“Maybe.”
The delivery guy pushed the box inside my room and waved goodbye.
I smiled and took my time unwrapping it.
Beneath the triple layers of pink gift wrap, was a sparkling glitter box. Inside were two bottles of champagne, a card, and a new Pitt hoodie.
Opening the card, I read his tell-tale handwriting.
For my best friend and the best writer I know.
Whether you win this round of scholarships or not, I’m happy for you.
—Kyle
P.S.—If they don’t pick you, fuck them.
“Thank you so much.” I laughed. “I appreciate your P.S. note.”
“You’re welcome.” He picked up his bottle of champagne and motioned for me to do the same. “We can toast to their loss.”
“How is it that when I try to tell you that winning isn’t everything, that you balk, but when you say it to me, it’s okay?”
“Because you have more than sixteen chances a year to succeed.” He smiled. “Playing a season of football is very different.”
“So, should I avoid talking about your team’s loss this past Sunday?”
“Don’t say a single fucking word about it.” His lips curved into a smile.
“You know, I really don’t understand why finding a job is so hard,” I said, sipping my drink. “I know it’s a recession, but there has to be something in this market, you know?”
He sighed as his eyes met mine. “Can I be honest with you for a second, Courtney?”
“Of course.”
“Okay, good.” He sat up and took a deep breath, looked as if he was debating whether to give it to me straight or sugarcoat it for old-times’ sake. “The problem isn’t the market. It’s you.”
“What?”
“You’re choosing to settle instead of being the Courtney you were in college,” he said. “You’re wasting your time waiting for people to give you some goddamn validation, when you already know how good of a fucking writer you are. So, maybe instead of begging people for a job and waiting for them to recognize your talent, just write for yourself and start your own blog or podcast. No one can prevent you from reaching out to players for interviews or sharing your words, but if you keep waiting on someone else to do it for you, we’re going to have this conversation—again, for the umpteenth time.”
“Oh, I see ...” My heart ached at the rawness of his words. “So, you’re getting tired of hearing me complain about this?”
“Yeah, honestly. It’s the same shit month after month, year after year. You’re just changing the names of the company. I just don’t think the nine to five job shit is for you. I also don’t think the program you’re in is right for you; it never has been.”
“Okay. Well, you want to know what I think?”
“Not right now, since you’re clearly pissed.” He smiled. “You told me I could be honest.”
“Well, I lied. I think you should’ve won the Super Bowl last year.”
He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes.
“I think that if you’d never dropped the ball, there wouldn’t have been an interception. You were unfocused and cocky, and you thought that finally getting there meant that winning was owed to you. You spent more of your offseason partying than ever, and you didn’t think that there was another team out there that could possibly beat you. And now you’re upset that the media is trashing your work ethic but deep down, you know that you fucking deserve every word.”
“You know what?” His face was redder than I’d ever seen it before. “Maybe the nine to five life is for you, Court. Since you’re so goddamn childish and you can’t even consider what I’m saying. It’s ironic that you’re talking to me about criticism and you can’t even face your own.”
“I can’t face it coming from you.”
“You can’t face it from anyone.” He hissed. “Anytime your mom even tries to tell you that you’re better than these bullshit jobs you keep taking interviews for, you call me and want me to convince you that she’s wrong. But guess what? She’s not, Court. The problem is you, and I’m done sugarcoating this shit for you. Quit your fucking program, stop looking for dead-ass jobs that are beneath you, or stop complaining about it and continue being average.”
“I guess if I wanted to be average, you’re the right person I should talk to, huh?”
“Excuse me?”
“It’s not like you’re out there giving your all on the field every Sunday.” I said. “You’ve changed since your second year in the
league, and you’re not hungry anymore. You’re being passive as hell to get the money that’s owed on your contract, and you’ve lost all respect for the game. It’s no wonder everyone is talking shit about how you just don’t have it anymore. Because you don’t.”
Silence.
“I don’t think we should talk for a while,” he said.
“That’s the first thing you’ve said today that makes sense.” I ended the call.
Then I fell onto my bed and cried.
Kyle: Then
Boston, Massachusetts
Fourth Season
* * *
Subject: Cease & Desist
Taylor,
Can you please block the following number(s) and email addresses from all of my devices until I tell you differently?
Kyle S.
* * *
Subject: Re: Cease & Desist
Sure, but … Don’t all of these things belong to your friend Courtney?
Taylor Reid
* * *
Subject: Re: Re: Cease & Desist
Just fucking do it.
Kyle S.
Courtney: Then
London, England
Fourth Season
I changed my number.
He changed his.
I blocked him from my Instagram, then I made the account private, so that he could never see any of my pictures again.
I unfriended him on my private Facebook page, and three months later, when I checked to see if he’d requested me again, he had, but with a petty message. A message that I could still recite verbatim.
