On a Wednesday by Whitney G.
Courtney: Then
Senior Year
Pittsburgh
The following Wednesday
The Honors College was located on the top two floors of the Cathedral of Learning. Imposing and grand, there was a staircase that cut between the levels, the place where every Honors student dreamed of snapping their final graduation picture or posing with the renowned “BPhil degree” for completing their senior thesis.
In my case, it was both, and today was the day I’d been waiting for since I first declared my major. This day was step one of five in gaining entry to The London Collective, the top writing program in the world.
I was presenting my thesis proposal, and I was sure that the guest judge, Miss Lauren Hopewell, the Editor in Chief of The New York Times, would be more than impressed with what I planned to write over the following two semesters.
At least, I hoped that was the case.
I kissed my late father’s necklace for good luck and made my way down the steps—looking around for Miss Hopewell.
Within seconds, she stepped into the seating area wearing a bright pink pantsuit.
“Well, well, well.” She set her briefcase on the coffee table. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you are totally not, who I pictured you to be. You’re stunning, dear.”
I smiled, unsure of what to say to that.
“Anyway, I am beyond impressed with the depth of your reporting.” She took out my files. “They are, well written, concise, and moving. I actually shed tears when I read the piece about your father.”
“Thank you, Miss Hopewell.”
“However, one thing that I think would help you have an edge for the London Fellowship that you’re chasing, is not here.”
“I’m sorry, what?”
“One thing that The London Collective looks for in their candidates is their ability to write long-form articles about one subject, and I didn’t see any of that in your file.”
I bit my tongue. There were seventeen of those in there.
“If I told you that you’d need to adjust your thesis topic a bit in order to be considered, what would you say?”
“I’d say that it sounds great, but I think you should hear my proposal first.”
“Eh, I don’t.” She waved her hand. “I read it on the way over. Don’t get me wrong, a one hundred-page tome on the intricacies of the Pittsburgh bridges sounds interesting in theory, but who do you think is going to read that?”
“You and the other judges.”
“No, we’ll just pretend like we read it and give you a passing mark,” she said. “You should write something far more interesting for us.”
Before I could ask her what she had in mind, she tossed a copy of College Football Digest onto the table.
On the front cover were two golden helmets, one marked with the number four and the other marked with the number two.
“Um, is there a scandal or a cover-up at this magazine or something?”
“Quite the contrary,” she said. “I noticed that for all of the press that the football team receives, the majority of it is directed toward Grayson Connors, and not much has been written about Kyle Stanton. Don’t you find that odd?”
“Not really.” I flipped the magazine over. “He’s not that important.”
“He’s the second most popular college player in the country, Miss Johnson. And with the exception of a basic interview he gave in the locker room earlier this year, he’s never said a word to the press.” She tapped her lip. “Only his parents have spoken, and they always say the same thing—like they’re robots or something. So I would like to know more about him.”
“I don’t.” I shrugged. “And I don’t think I should have to dedicate the most important assignment of my college career on someone like him.”
“Someone like him?”
“I don’t want to get into specifics about his reputation.”
“I’m sure it’s quite terrible.” She smiled. “But that doesn’t mean there’s not much more beneath the surface. That’s the mark of a great writer, by the way: making us fall for someone we wouldn’t expect.”
I shook my head, refusing to accept this as my fate. “Between his hectic football schedule and all the things that I’m sure he has to do, I doubt he has the time. I don’t either, to be honest.”
“You’re an Honors Scholar, Miss Johnson,” she said. “You have two classes and a thesis. That’s it.”
I sucked my lips into my mouth.
“I want you to get under Mr. Stanton’s skin over the following semesters. I want you to get into his head and really dive deep into his dreams and background.”
“Kyle Stanton is as deep as a petri-dish.”
“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?”
“Nothing, I just—” I paused. “The ballboy never gets any press. Neither do the equipment managers. Perhaps I can write a piece about those guys and do a blue collar type thing, or write about everything it takes to support a college football organization instead?”
She stared at me as if I’d lost my mind.
“Or, I can just do a profile on Kyle Stanton.”
“Yes, do that, and you’ll be thanking me in the spring.” She smiled. “And you’re in luck. I was so excited about this idea, that I called Mr. Stanton to see if he would be interested in this type of arrangement. Want to guess what he said?”
“I’d rather not.”
“He said yes, and he’s waiting for your first session at the cafe downstairs, so you two can set up a schedule together.”
“What?”
“You’re welcome,” she said, heading to the door. “I’m looking forward to reading your work. Hurry up and meet him before he assumes you’re not coming. As you mentioned, he’s a very busy guy.”
Fifteen minutes later, I stepped off the elevator and grabbed a chicken sandwich from the Chick-fil-A stand before walking into the seating area.
To my surprise, Kyle was sitting alone by the windows, and his usual flock of thirsty fangirls was nowhere in sight.
Before accepting defeat, I silently begged the university to bless Pittsburgh with a sudden earthquake, so I could get out of this.
I shut my eyes, waiting to hear rumblings, but it was no use.
Sighing, I made my way over and took the seat across from him.
“Hey,” I said.
“Hey.” He smiled. “I missed seeing you at the make-up play this morning. Where were you?”
“In the back.” I lied.
“I think that’s where I should sit next time, then. I don’t think the actors appreciated my snoring in the front row.”
I shook my head. Then I set my recorder on the table and turned it on.
“I want to ask you a few questions to start my groundwork, and then we’ll work on a schedule for when I’m able to ask you more.” I cleared my throat. “Can you tell me why you’ve never talked to the press when they’ve all been clamoring to hear from you?”
He leaned over and shut off my recorder. “Can you accept my apology for the group project from freshman year?”
“No.” I turned on the recorder again, but he leaned over and shut it off.
“That project wasn’t mandatory,” he said. “It was for extra credit and I assumed that everyone already had an A in the class.”
“I had an A minus …”
“Then I need to rescind my apology.” He smiled again, as I restarted the recorder.
“Like I was saying before, Kyle Stanton.” I looked directly into his gorgeous green eyes. “Can you tell me why you don’t talk to the press when they’re all clamoring to hear from you?”
He leaned back in his chair. “I realized last week that you were my crush on the university’s cheerleading team during our freshman year.”
“Kyle Stanton—” I was seconds away from screaming. “Can we please stick to the interview questions?”
“I never forget a face, you know,” he said, giving me his panty-melting smile. “Especially the face of a woman who told me to ‘fuck off’ after I offered her a ride home.”
“That’s not what happened.” I rolled my eyes, finally giving in to his game. “You offered me the chance to take a ride on your cock. That’s what you offered me every year.”
“Oh, that’s right.” He smirked. “So, if I were to offer you that chance right now, would your answer still be the same?”
“Mr. Stanton,” I said, attempting to play nice. “Can you please take this interview seriously?”
He flashed his infectious smile and leaned back in his chair. “I’ll try to, Miss Johnson.”
“Great.” I clicked my pen. “Let’s try another question. What motivates you when you’re on the field?”
“The cheers from all of my adoring fans, future endorsement deals, and well, fame.”
Like I said, Petri dish …I rolled my eyes, but I decided not to press him any further. “Do you have any hobbies off the field?”
“My answer to that question will depend.”
“On what?”
“The rating of this interview,” he said. “If you’re only allowed to write family friendly responses in your thesis, then I’m afraid I won’t be able to answer that.”
“I’ll move to the next question.” I felt my cheeks heating. “What’s your favorite thing about Pittsburgh?”
“No, I don’t think so.” He shook his head. “That’s a joke of a question. Ask me something else.”
“It’s on my list.”
“Can’t be.” He looked nonplussed. “I saw some of your notes at the play, and I’ve been reading your work online all week. I highly doubt that you would write, let alone ask, a bullshit question like that.”
I swallowed, unsure whether that was a compliment.
“I’m making an exception for you by doing this interview.”
“What are you hoping to get out of it?”
“That’s personal,” he said. “But I don’t want some bullshit, fluff piece like the idiots in the typical pressroom write.”
“So, you didn’t agree to this solely because you think there’s a chance that I’m attracted to you?”
“Okay, first of all, I know that you’re attracted to me.” He smiled, turning off my recorder again. “But I also know that you’re one hell of a reporter and you’re not like the others. You don’t do the click-bait shit, and you actually print people’s words verbatim with a thorough analysis. You give a fuck about what you write, and it shows in your style … That sets you apart.”
I was stunned. That was the nicest thing anyone had ever said to me about my writing.
“So, all of that said, I’d like to know how we can get on the same page, and you can stop being mean to me.”
“I haven’t been mean to you at all, Kyle.”
“You have.” He placed his hand against his chest, feigning hurt. “And I haven’t done anything—minus the pointless group project to deserve your hate.”
“Your endless flirting with me on the sidelines over the years says otherwise.”
“I never knew that you noticed.”
“I didn’t.”
He smiled. “What else?”
“You have a terrible reputation—according to all of the rumors, so that’s why I’ll forever feel the need to keep you at arm’s length.”
“Your hatred is based off silly rumors?”
“Tons of rumors. All of them can’t be false.”
“All of them can’t be true either.” He leaned forward. “What have you heard?”
“That you’re an insatiable douchebag who plows his way through tons of underclassmen every year. That you keep count, and that you make it your personal mission to have sex as often as possible.”
His lips curved into a smile. “Is that all?”
“No, it actually gets worse.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’ve heard that you’re incapable of committing to anything for longer than five seconds.”
“I’ve committed to this conversation for longer than five seconds. Does that count?”
“You’re obsessed with going to the professional league and you don’t plan on keeping in contact with any friends that you’ve made here.”
“What?” He laughed. “I feel like you just made that shit up.”
“I didn’t.”
“Then what source gave you that one?”
I tried to think of a response—tried to hold back a laugh, but I couldn’t help it.
“Okay, okay. I made that one up. But everything else is a culmination of what I’ve heard, though.”
“Okay, well some of that may be pretty accurate,” he admitted. “But I honestly haven’t had sex in a while. Contrary to the rumors, it looks like that won’t be changing anytime soon. Unless you’re interested, that is.”
“I’m not.”
He laughed, holding up his hands in a slight surrender. “Is this typically a good time for you to meet me?”
“Not really.”
“Care to give me a time that is?”
“Seven in the evening is better.”
“Okay, that works for me, too.” He stood up. “You’ll meet me at Fuel and Fuddle next week, and I get to pick every week’s location until you’re done. And since I’m agreeing to this, you won’t make me look bad with your words. Or else.”
“Or else what?”
“I’ll think of the punishment later.” He smiled.
“Wait,” I said. “I think it’s best if we meet here or in one of the lecture buildings so people won’t think…”
He crossed his arms. “So that they won’t think what?”
“You know…”
“No.” He was still smiling. “I don’t.”
“Dating, Kyle. I don’t want people to think that I’m dating you.”
“I highly doubt that anyone will ever think I’m dating, Courtney,” he said. “They’ll think you’re a hookup.”
What the hell? “Isn’t that worse?”
“No, just means that you should go ahead and consider the idea at some point, since everyone will think it anyway.” He winked. “See you next Wednesday.”