“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.”

Courtney: Then

Senior Year

Pittsburgh

* * *

 

Subject: Next Wednesday?

Hey, Courtney,

Something came up, so I can’t meet you today. Does any other day this week work?

I want to make sure you have enough of me for that thesis thing.

Kyle S.

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: Next Wednesday

Hey, Kyle.

Not really.

I’m taking over for two sick staff writers.

“That thesis thing” is my GRADE. I’m pulling an all-nighter at The Pitt News offices tonight. Can you show up to answer a few questions?

Courtney

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: Re: Next Wednesday?

Shit.

I didn’t see your email until after I finished my midnight drills.

I’m in the office now and don’t see you.

Next Wednesday, then?

Kyle S.

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: Re: Re: Next Wednesday?

Because you showed up to the office at NOON.

*side-eye emoji*

Yes, NEXT Wednesday.

7:00 p.m. Fuel & Fuddle.

Please set your alarm.

Courtney

 

* * *

 

Subject: After Wednesday

Question: Are you going to be formal with me the entire time?

I mean, I’d be more willing to open up and be conversational, if it’s more like a chill thing than an interview.

(Can you please unblock me on Facebook?)

Kyle S.

 

* * *

 

Subject: Re: After Wednesday

You’re ignoring me, aren’t you?

(Why did you block me on Twitter, too?)

Kyle S.

Kyle: Then

Senior Year

Pittsburgh

* * *

 

A week later, I walked into Coach Whitten’s office, armed with my notes on our game against Utah.

“Hey there, Coach,” I said.

“Don’t you dare ‘Hey there, Coach,’ me today.” He seethed, holding up a blue folder. “What the hell is this?”

“That’s my report on The Vagina Monologues. It’s on the inside.”

“It’s four sentences long.”

“I know.” I smiled. “You told me to summarize what I learned, so I made sure to be as concise as possible.”

He opened the folder, glaring at me as he read. “Women have vaginas. Vaginas experience feelings. Men need to respect these feelings. The next time I’m buried deep inside of one, I will make sure that I respect those feelings.”