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 would, 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.”
“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?”