“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.
Kyle Stanton wants you to know:
* * *
I should’ve never wasted my fucking time on you.
I hope that your new best guy friend has way more sense than I did and won’t tolerate your bullshit.
I blocked him on Facebook after that.
In the middle of the worst heartache I’d ever felt, I picked up my life and moved back to the States—trading in London’s grey skies for a city that served far drearier ones.
I needed to start a new chapter of my life, one devoid of Kyle Stanton.
Kyle: Then
Boston, Massachusetts
Fourth Season
(Well, Fifth. We Haven’t Spoken Since the Fourth)
“What do you mean you haven’t found any national articles that are written by Courtney Johnson?”
“Exactly what I said.” Taylor tossed me a plastic football. “Can you focus on signing the rest of this merch, please?”
“She should be the number one sports reporter in the country at this point,” I said.
“Kyle.” She let out a breath. “You eat, breathe, and sleep whatever is in the media. Wouldn’t you know if she was writing already?”
I glared at her, hating how she could never just do a task like I asked. Especially the ones that pertained to Courtney.
“I glance at people’s headlines, Taylor.” I refused to ever explain this again. “I don’t read anything unless it’s a goddamn profile because, as you know, journalists tend to twist things.”
“Except Courtney Johnson?”
“Yes. Except Courtney Johnson.”
“Okay, fine.” She held up her hands in a subtle surrender. “I’ll ask around and see if she’s writing under a pseudonym.”
She walked over to me and handed me an envelope. “I uh—I found this a few weeks ago, but I didn’t want to give it to you until the season ended.”
Curious, I opened it and saw a random address in Seattle, Washington. “What’s this?”
“I did some digging,” she said. “Turns out, after she left London, she moved to Seattle with a friend.”
I raised my eyebrow. “Does this friend have a name?”
“I didn’t get that much, and I wasn’t sure if the address was temporary or not.” She paused. “I had someone go by and check and a guy answered the door, so I’m guessing it was a short-term thing. Still, doesn’t hurt to see if she forwarded her mail once she left.”
“Thank you.” I ran my fingers across the zip code. “Try Rose Johnson, or maybe Ryan Johnson. Oh, and get me my contract. I need to add some clauses and adjustments in her name just in case she tries to find me.”
“She could easily just turn on the TV or click on a sports blog.”
“Please don’t make this any more difficult than it needs to be.” I glared at her. “I think I know my fucking friend far better than you do.”
“As you wish, Kyle…” She tilted his head to the side as I opened a notebook. “You’re not doing the merch anymore?”
“I will, after I write Court a few letters. This is far more important.”
“Reebok is paying you fifteen million a year.”
I ignored her, writing down all the words I wanted to say.
My letters were never returned, never acknowledged. The name “Courtney Johnson” never appeared in any national papers, neither did any of the variations.
I spent the rest of the season desperately trying—and failing—to replace her as a friend.
Someone like her was better than no one at all, but no one I found ever came close.
No woman wanted to be “just friends” without getting a taste of the lifestyle in return, and they all had agendas that were tucked behind their lips.