“Thank you.” He laughed. “I’ll let you know how my meeting with my future agent goes. That’s my only Saturday plan.”

Before I could point out how fast our days were going by—how anxious I was becoming with every day that the draft and my flight to London neared, he cupped my face in his hands and kissed me.

“Stop thinking so much,” he whispered. “Good luck tomorrow.”

Courtney: Then

Senior Year

Pittsburgh

The following morning, I took a deep breath and walked onto the stage at O’Reilly Theater. Standing at the lectern, I stalled for a few seconds in hopes that any of the people that I invited would show.

“Miss Johnson?” The judge cleared his throat. “Is there a problem?”

“No, I um—” I looked at the door and sighed. “I’m just wondering if I can have a glass of water before I start.”

“Well, of course. My apologies for not setting that up beforehand.” He snapped his fingers and an intern brought two full glasses to the stage.

Taking a few sips, I looked down at my notes.

“My name is um, Courtney Johnson.”

“We know,” the male judge said, softly laughing. “It’s on the screen behind you.”

“Right.” I took another sip of water. “Over the next three hours, I’m going to make a case for news media and all the ways that journalists can protect their craft. Part one …”

The rest of the words fell from my mouth effortlessly, and I clicked through my slides without skipping a beat.

Every now and then, I paused when the door opened—hoping to see a familiar face slip into the dark theater. It never was anyone I knew, though. Always a stranger who ducked in for a second and walked away.

“I now rest my case.” I closed my folder. “Thank you.”

The lights in the theater brightened, revealing rows of empty seats around the judges.

I swallowed the lump in my throat, refusing to let tears well in my eyes.

“I am sitting here in utter awe of you, Miss Johnson,” the male judge in the center smiled. “I have a few follow-up questions regarding a point you made earlier. If you wouldn’t mind—”

A sudden round of applause interrupted his sentence.

I looked over my shoulder and saw Kyle clapping from the left wing of the stage. He locked his eyes on mine and clapped louder with every second that passed.

“Security!” the judge bellowed. “Security! Please remove Mr. Stanton from the building again, since he can’t follow simple instructions and sit in the auditorium like we asked!”

Kyle laughed, saying, “Good fucking job, Court,” as two security guards grabbed his arms and led him away.

Courtney: Then

Senior Year

Pittsburgh

I stepped out of the theater hours later, armed with the first-place plaque and a purse stuffed with Primanti Brothers gift cards.

Turning my phone on, I stopped and stared at the most recent subject lines in my inbox.

Subject: Sorry I couldn’t make it! (Raincheck?)

Subject: Good luck today! (Make up over dinner?)

Subject: Wish I was There! (Something came up last minute. Sorry!)

I didn’t bother opening any of them. I scrolled down to Kyle’s name and hit call.

“Hey. You’ve reached Kyle Stanton.” His voicemail sounded. “Leave me a message and I’ll think about getting back to you.”

I ended the call and sent him a text instead.

Me: Hey. Where are you? (Thank you SO MUCH for coming to my presentation today. That meant a lot to me.)

I waited a few minutes for his typical sarcastic response, but it never came.

I managed to take a bus back to campus, grab lunch, finish a layout, and by the time evening came, he still hadn’t said a word.

Later that night, I stopped by his apartment.

“Hey there.” Grayson opened the door. “Your name is Courtney, right?”

“Depends on if the Skanks of Pitts blog is listening to us or not.”

“Ah.” He laughed. “It’s too early for them to start watching. Did you leave something in Kyle’s room?”

“No, I’m looking for him,” I said. “I need to um, ask him a few more questions for my thesis.”

“He hasn’t been at home today.” He pulled his phone out of his pocket and tapped the screen, but I heard the start of Kyle’s voicemail. “I’ll tell him that you stopped by, though.”

“Thank you.” I tried not to look disappointed. “Congrats on winning your fourth title in a row, by the way.”

“Thank you,” he said as I was turning around. “Wait a minute, Courtney. He’s probably at The Pete working out. Try there.”

I thanked him again and headed to the closest shuttle stop.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, I swiped my student card at the gym. There were only a few students working out on the machines, and Kyle wasn’t one of them.

Confused, I walked over to the reception area.

One of his teammates was flirting with the brunette behind the desk.

“Have you seen Kyle Stanton up here tonight?” I tapped him on the shoulder.

“I have.” He raised his eyebrow. “Who are you and why are you asking?”

“Can you just tell me where he is? I need to talk to him.”

He stared at me for a while, and then he tilted his head to the side. “You’re that chick who’s writing your thesis about him, huh?”

I nodded, and he lowered his voice.

“I hope you made him look good in the piece,” he said. “He’s bragged about your writing to anyone who will listen, for weeks.”

He motioned for me to follow him, and I obliged.

He led me past all the cardio machines, then outside onto a private walkway.

Sensing my hesitation, he looked over his shoulder. “You need to talk to him, or not?”

I continued following him until we made it to a small red-brick building with a black glass door.

He typed a few digits into the keypad and stepped back. “There you go. This is as close as I’ve ever been to it.”

I stepped inside the room, only to be met with another set of doors with keypad entry.

What the hell?

I turned to look at his teammate, but he was long gone. Then I suddenly remembered what Kyle had confided in me about getting his own private gym.

Starting at the keypad, I realized that the pad read “K.S.” and called for a passcode.

I guessed a few phrases like “first round draft pick,” “Ride me,” and “I like sex,” but it didn’t open.

On a whim, I tried, “Courtney,” and the doors slowly opened—giving way to an all mirrored room with sleek black machines.

Looking sexy as usual, Kyle was sitting on a bench, his jaw clenched as he lifted weights. Shirtless and sweaty, his muscles flexed in rhythm with his arms.

His eyes met mine within seconds and he slowly set down the barbells. “Are you here to make good on that Primanti Brothers gift card thing? I’m looking forward to that sandwich.”