“And if it doesn’t?”
“You’re months away from landing a minimum of twenty million dollars.” He smiled. “Focus on that.”
He walked away and put on his headphones again. I took a spot on the bench.
The rest of the game was played by the second string, and while our points continued to light up the board, Louisville’s remained at four.
And for the first time in my entire college career, I didn’t join my teammates at the alcohol-infused afterparty.
I headed to a hole-in-the-wall bar instead.
I’d never thought about a girl days after a first, second, or third encounter, so I was willing to blame my current Facebook search on my unfortunate case of blue balls.
Typing in The Pitt News, I ventured to their page and scrolled down the list of people who listed it as their “job.”
Lo and behold, in the third column was a sexy picture of “Miss Eleven and a Half Hours,” but her name was Courtney Johnson.
Clicking on her profile, I went straight to her recent photo albums. As if she were a campus photographer, she’d snapped tons of shots outside the top spots—The Soldiers & Sailors Building, Hillman Library, and The Peterson Events Center.
But she was alone.
In every single one of them.
Going backward, I clicked on a few of her older albums from her freshman and sophomore years.
In those, she shared more of her time on the cheerleading squad, the chess club, Three Rivers Magazine, and of course, the university’s newspaper.
But the people around her were never hanging out like friends at a bar or somewhere off-campus. Instead, they were trapped in time, in whatever scheduled event that they were attending.
What the hell is that about?
“What the hell is what about, Kyle?” Trevor took a seat across from me at the bar.
“Nothing, I was just looking at something.” I turned over my phone. “Was Grayson behind you?”
“No, he wanted me to tell you that he was hanging out with some Charlotte chick tonight.”
“Good for him,” I said. “Hopefully, he’ll get laid and get a bit more relaxed.”
“Maybe.” He laughed and leaned over to nudge my shoulder. “I bet no one on the team will ever be as relaxed as you, though. I know the year just started, but what are you up to now? Eight girls?”
“No.”
“Ten? Fifteen?”
Sighing, I shook my head. “Trevor, if I told you the real number, you’d never believe me.”
“Wow.” He smiled. “You really are the king of hooking up on this campus.”
Right. I signaled for the bartender before my conscience could dethrone me with the pauper’s truth.
As Trevor launched into a list of ideas that he had for our next unofficial party, I flipped over my phone and clicked on Courtney’s profile again.
Then I sent her a message.
Me: Hey. I couldn’t help but notice that you weren’t cheering for me at our game today. Thank you for your lack of support.
Her response was immediate.
Courtney Johnson: Hey. I couldn’t help but notice that I haven’t blocked you. Thank you for the reminder.
Me: I’m just trying to be cool with you since we share some common interests.
Courtney Johnson: Name five.
Me: We both go to Pitt. We’re both seniors. We both have worn blue and gold. We both play a sport. And …We both are attracted to each other.
Courtney Johnson: I have a boyfriend, Kyle.
Me: That has nothing to do with attraction. (By the way, your relationship status says, “Single.”)
She immediately updated the status to say, “It’s complicated,” and I held back a laugh.
She definitely doesn’t have a boyfriend.
Me: Have you accepted my apology for our group project yet?
Courtney Johnson: Never.
Me: For the record, if you want to hold onto things first, you stood me up first, freshman year. We met before, remember?
Courtney Johnson: You’re joking, right?
Me: Yes, and I’d like to clear this up in person tonight. Where do you live?
She blocked me, and I laughed.
It was worth a try.
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.