“Is this story on or off the record?”
“On.” He kissed me. “I’ve never been good at anything else in my life, Court. Football is all I’ve ever had.”
“You’re a good writer, Kyle,” I said. “I’m sure that you could have made good grades in English, if you wanted.”
“Maybe if they mattered.” He smiled, but it didn’t stay long. “Most of the teachers in my hometown deemed me dumb as hell by the time I hit first grade. So, I didn’t bother caring for schoolwork after that.”
“What about your parents? Didn’t they believe in you?”
“At first, but now they only care about themselves.” He winced, looking like he always did whenever his family came up in our interview conversations—like he was about to shut everything down.
“They’ve become extreme hoarders since my younger brother died,” he said. “It wasn’t so bad at first because they were still supportive, but they’re the main reason I clung to football fiercely—so I wouldn’t have to come home and climb through all their shit every day. But even when I started to do really well in high school, they made it very clear that we didn’t have shit, that I wasn’t shit, and that if I wanted what the other kids had, I’d have to find it for myself.”
“I’m sorry, Kyle.”
“Don’t be.” He pulled me closer. “It means less people to worry about when I’m drafted.”
“If you’re drafted.”
“I’ve always appreciated your sense of humor.” He pressed a kiss against my lips. “Did your parents believe in you?”
“Yeah.” I nodded. “I mean, my dad always thought that I would become a professional writer, but he’ll never get to see if it ever comes true.”
“What do you mean?”
“He was murdered my freshman year, during the spring semester,” I said, feeling an ache in my chest. “Two weeks before finals. The police still haven’t figured out who did it.”
He stopped walking and pressed his sleeve against my cheeks.
“I can’t remember much of anything that happened before that moment,” I said. “All I remember is getting the phone call about him being gone from my mom…And the group project you stood me up for, of course.”
“I’m sorry about your dad, Court.”
“My mom is still in denial, so I’ve never told anyone else. I pretend like he’s still alive.” I looked into his eyes. “Please don’t tell anyone else.”
“I would never.” He wiped my face until the tears stopped falling, and then he wrapped his arm around my waist and walked me down the field in silence again.
“I really did have a crush on you freshman year,” he said softly. “And I understand now why you don’t remember it, but I definitely offered and gave you a real ride back then.”
“You know, if football doesn’t work out for you, please promise me that you’ll write fiction.”
“The first thing I’ll publish is a remake of Pretty Woman with a better plot.”
I laughed. “Anything else you want to show me before I freeze out here?”
“Yeah,” he said. “Let me show you one of the private beds in the locker room. I think it’s time for me to give you another distraction.”
Kyle: Now
Present Day
Boston, Massachusetts
* * *
“Mr. Stanton, the reporter from The Fine Print Publishing is here to see you.” Taylor stepped into my condo Wednesday morning.
“Thank you, Taylor.”
“You’re not welcome,” she said, her eyes red-rimmed and puffy. “You’ve made the past few days of my life utter hell, just so you know.”
“So hellish that you’ll no longer be taking fifteen percent of every deal I make?”
She stared at me blankly.
“I thought so,” I said.
“Your teammates hate you for what you’re doing as well, Kyle.”
“They won’t after we win,” I said. “You can leave now, Taylor.”
She gave me one final glare before leaving the room.
I adjusted the massive bouquet of roses in front of me, prepared to utter the words, “I’ve fucking missed you, Court” and “I’m so fucking sorry,” but Courtney didn’t walk through the door.
Michael Router did.
What the fuck?
“I hope you won’t mind that there’s been a change of plans,” he said, smiling. “Courtney called in sick, so the boss sent me instead.”
My blood began to boil.
“Where would you like me to sit, so we can discuss why you’re currently committing career suicide? I’m dying to get the exclusive.”
“Taylor!” I shouted her name, and she rushed into the room.
“Yes, Kyle?”
“Call The Fine Print Publishing and tell them that Courtney Johnson better be here to interview me by the end of the day,” I said. “If she’s not here, you’ll be calling New England and telling them that I’m not playing this Sunday.”
Her jaw dropped to the floor, but she immediately snapped into agent mode.
She and Michael immediately pulled out their phones, and I made some mental adjustments to my plan with Courtney.
Screw taking things slowly.
Courtney: Now
Seattle, Washington
My heart ached in my chest on my ride home from work, inconsolable by all the “Please don’t think about Kyle” promises that I tried to offer.