On a Wednesday by Whitney G.
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.”
He walked away, and I looked over at Grayson.
“I was desperately waiting on you to use your first pick moment to propose to Charlotte on live TV.” I smiled. “Did you change your mind and decide to kiss that random model at the last minute?”
“The model caught me off guard,” he said. “I decided to save her from embarrassment by halfway kissing her back.”
“You’re filing a restraining order against her at the end of this, aren’t you?”
“If she doesn’t apologize, yes.”
“Of course.” I rolled my eyes. “Where do I need to be when you propose to Charlotte?”
“Charlotte isn’t here.” His voice cracked. “My agent sent her a plane ticket, the hotel reservation, everything, and she just … She’s ghosting me, Kyle.”
I knew from the pained look on his face not to ask anything else.
We stood in silence—giving nods to picks three and four as they joined us in front of the screen.
Looking around at all the gawkers backstage, I spotted Courtney standing behind an exit sign.
Far too sexy to fit into the crowd, she was smiling and wearing the top half of her cheerleading uniform.
Her eyes suddenly met mine and she blushed.
You’re supposed to be on your way to London.
Blinking a few times to make sure she was real, I cleared my throat.
“I’ll be back in a second guys,” I said to the picks and made my way toward Courtney.
Not wanting to make a scene, I motioned for her to follow me behind an oversized banner.
“You told me that you couldn’t come tonight,” I said.
“I lied.”
“Why?”
“Because …” She smiled. “I didn’t want you to think that I cared that much.”
“I know you do.” I tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear, and her cheeks flushed red again. “Which hotel are you staying in? When’s checkout?”
“There is no hotel, Kyle.” She shook her head. “I purposely booked an itinerary with a long layover at JFK. My flight to London is in four hours.”
“Hmmm. Well, I can buy you a different ticket for later this evening.”
“I’m sure, but something tells me that if we hang out tonight, I won’t wake up until tomorrow evening.”
“So?” I closed the gap between us, pressing my forehead against hers. “Would that be a problem for you?”
She nodded.
“Why is that, Court?”
“Because we made promises.”
“Then we can make some amendments.” I ran my fingers through her hair. “You can work on your writing here in the states. Stay with me instead.”
“Stop saying things that you don’t mean.” Tears pricked her eyes. “You don’t mean that, Kyle.”
I really fucking do. “If I didn’t, I would’ve never said it.”
“I can’t, Kyle.”
“You need to come right back to me at the end of four seasons—” I paused. “And whenever that day is, we’re going to talk about being together and make up for all the time we didn’t get in college. We don’t have to wait until we’re twenty-eight.”
Tears fell past her cheeks, and I wiped her eyes with the pad of my thumb.
“I mean every fucking word of that, Court,” I said. “Every fucking word.”
Silence.
“I’m really happy for you,” she said, resorting to her typical distraction tactic. “You deserved to be in the top five tonight. You know that, right?”
“Every time you give me a compliment on my career, all I hear is goodbye.”
“Would you rather I just say, goodbye then?”
I was seconds away from kissing her in front of all the cameras, seconds away from breaking our second rule like she’d broken our first.
“Kyle Stanton!” Someone called out my name from behind. “Kyle Stanton, can I have a minute please?”
“Pick up when I call on every Wednesday, Court,” I said, ignoring whoever it was. “No matter what.”
She nodded. “Every Wednesday.”
“Can you stick around for a while longer before your flight?”
She didn’t get a chance to answer me.
A photog from ESPN suddenly rushed over and demanded that I take photos with the draft class.
My agent tugged at my shoulder, asking me to say a few words to the Pittsburgh Post Gazette about my future. The commissioner requested to speak with me in private.
I kept my eyes on Courtney for as long as I could, mouthing “Wait for me,” in hopes that she would stick around for one final conversation.
One final kiss.
By the time I saw her waving goodbye, an entire hour had passed.
While I was being forced to sign a cart of footballs, I felt the exact moment she stepped on the plane to London.
Capping a marker, I sent her a quick text.
Me:I miss you already, Court.
Her response was immediate.
Courtney:I miss you too, Kyle. Part of me feels like I’m making a big mistake by leaving.
Me: Would you like me to pick you up from the airport then?
Courtney:LOL no. Just promise me that things won’t change between us over these “four seasons” … I really like you, Kyle.
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.