Present Day

* * *

 

In the morning, I woke up alone in a hotel room, tucked under blankets.

There was a note on my coffee table in Kyle’s stick-figure handwriting.

Left to go handle some things. I’ll call you around noon.

Breakfast is on your counter.

* * *

 

P.S. Please consider publishing your thesis. It’s still the greatest piece of writing I’ve ever read.

Pushing the covers off my body, I walked over to the kitchen. Picking up the silver tray cover, I saw strawberries, waffles, and a Pittsburgh salad.

Before I could pick up my fork to taste it, the suite’s doorbell rang.

I put on a jacket and walked over to check the peephole. Some guy in a suit that I didn’t recognize.

“Yes?” I opened the door just a bit.

“I’m here looking for a Miss Courtney Johnson,” he said.

“That’s me. Who are you?”

“I’m with National Bank.” He gave me a small smile. “I was told you were in town temporally, so I wanted to stop by on behalf on our company.”

“I think you have the wrong person.”

“There was a large deposit placed in your personal account this morning, and another one in the account that you’ve been using to pay your mother’s debts,” he said. “I wanted to personally drop by and let you know that you can close the latter since the amount exceeds far more than what’s needed. You can transfer the remaining balance to yourself.”

My knees went weak and I held on to the doorframe. “How much was the amount?”

“Ten million, Miss,” he said. “Ten million in each account.”

Courtney: Now

Seattle, Washington

Present Day

* * *

 

When I pulled out my thesis, the words still read as effortlessly as they did during my senior year.

Still, I reworked it for an entire week, and my fingers flew across the keyboard like never before.

Michael Router tried to insert his fumbled words into my document here or there, but I flagged them all.

This draft was all mine, and I knew, without a doubt, that it was my best work to date. I also knew that Kyle was more than right about me needing to move on the moment it was out in the world.

I was done playing on the sidelines.

Kyle: Now

Boston, Massachusetts

If there was ever a game when I silenced my fucking critics and left them stuttering in shock, it was Sunday’s game against the Patriots.

I caught every pass, rushed for a record breaking five hundred yards, and ran into the end zone for six straight touchdowns.

No one in the media, and no one in the locker room, talked shit about me after that.

And only one person stood outside my condo’s windows to shout hate: The seven year old girl.

Courtney: Now

Present Day

* * *

 

Kyle Stanton: A Four-Part Profile by Courtney Johnson and Michael Router

* * *

 

Sports Unlimited Scores a Touchdown with 45M Online Reads in a Single Day

* * *

 

10 Reasons Why ‘Courtney Johnson’ is Probably Michael Router’s Other Pen Name; Still the Most Renowned Sports Journalist of Our Time

My phone buzzed with its hundredth Google alert on Monday morning as I sat inside my office—taking it all in one last time.

My inbox was flooded with emails I’d dreamed about for years, my voicemail was full of messages that were long enough to rival an album, and my coworkers were uttering, “Great job, Courtney!” any time I walked into the hall.

And yet, none of it mattered anymore.

I was officially done working here.

For real this time, forever this time.

I opened all of my desk’s drawers—assessing the things I wanted to keep, but there wasn’t much.

“If you’re looking for the bonus check that you deserve, it’s right there.” Mr. Bruce stepped in front of my desk, smiling. “Five thousand dollars and the next weekend off. I would’ve given you this weekend, but The Wall Street Journal is here, and they want to profile you and Michael for a feature called A Return to Real Sports Journalism.”

“Me and Michael?”

“Yes, the two of you.” He motioned for Michael and three reporters to step into the room. “Well, on second thought, Miss Johnson’s office is a bit too small. Let’s go across the hall to Michael’s instead.”

I grabbed my purse, a framed photo of me and my Dad—along with my ‘Hail to Pitt’ mug—and then I hit the lights before following them.

As we stepped inside Michael’s office, I looked around at all the things that I once thought should’ve been mine.

“You’ve always been meant for more, Court. That’s all I was trying to say…”

“So, is this where all the magic happens, Mr. Router?” one of the reporters asked. “Do you do all of your work here, or do you spend more time at coffee shops for the written part?”

“Yes.” He smiled. “Usually, I write for four hours in the morning, and then I call Courtney in here after lunch, so we can collaborate.

“Collaborate?” I asked.

“Yes, collaborate. We have a lot of fun during our daily sessions. Don’t we, Court?”

“It’s Miss Johnson to you.” I crossed my arms. “We’re not friends.”

“As you can see, she’s the more serious journalist between the two of us.” He laughed, and the reporters laughed along with him.

“Well, we’re very interested in how you managed to get the most elusive player in football to sit down for so many interviews. Not only that, but you made it feel so personal and raw.”

“Exactly.” The other journalist chimed in. “We’ve been chasing him for years. How’d you do it?”

“Well, I …” Michael cleared his throat and looked over at me. “Let’s allow Courtney to answer some of the questions. It was her first major byline after all.”

“Yes, it was.” Mr. Bruce looked over at me. “How generous of you to share your spotlight, Michael.”

“Well, Miss Johnson?” The reporter smiled. “How did you do it?”

“I’m quitting today,” I said, the only words that I could get to fall from my lips. “I’m done being your bitch.”

“Excuse me, Miss Johnson?” Mr. Bruce’s eyes went wide.

“Michael can’t write his way out of a wet paper bag,” I said. “He doesn’t even try. And the reason you haven’t noticed is because you’re always here, while he’s deep inside of your wife every night. Then again, maybe that’s what happened to his writing skills. Your wife probably has screwed his brains out.”