“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.”