The Troublemaker

“I love you.” He swallows. “I should have said that to you five years ago. I’ve loved you since then. That’s why this is going to work this time. I’ve been holding out for you.”

“You’ve been holding out for me?” I raise an eyebrow.

“My heart, babe. My heart is yours.”

“And your body.” I run a finger down his chiseled torso.

“Fuck yes.” He kisses me again, then carries me back to bed.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Misty

I take a deep breath and let it out as I wait for Valerie’s feedback on my article. She’s been reading it slowly, as if analyzing every single word and it’s making me feel like I need to throw up. In high school, I was the editor of my newspaper and in charge of yearbook. At Duke, I quickly joined the newspaper team and have written more articles than I can count. Yet, none have been more important than this one. Judging by Mitch and his teammates reactions to it when I let them read it last week, I know I did the players justice.

“This is good.” Valerie looks up from the screen and takes off her reading glasses.

“Thanks.” I wring my hands together on my lap. “I stuck to the facts.”

“You paint the athletes in a really good light. You don’t even name the ones arrested for selling drugs.”

“Well, I didn’t think it was important. These athletes live and breathe their sport and don’t have an opportunity to make money, so most of them are jobless. If a man who’s seemingly rich offers them an opportunity to make easy money, why wouldn’t they take it?”

“I agree.” Valerie nods. “This is a fair and deep analysis to the issues colleges need to look at. It’s brilliant, Misty.”

“You really think so?” I hold my breath, because even though I know she liked it, I feel like I still have so much learning and growing to do.

“I know so.”

“Do you think you’ll publish it?” I bite my lip, knee bouncing as I wait for her to confirm or deny this.

“I mean . . . “ she turns the computer screen to face me and I see a photograph of Mitch and some of his teammates wearing their uniforms and looking at the camera. They’re all serious, like they mean business. My heart skips a beat at the sight of Mitch. It skips another when I read the bottom of the cover. College Sports – Professionals or Not? By Misty Canó

I bring my attention back to Valerie. “This is real?”

“I mean, the title may change, but yes, this is real.” She smiles. “Congratulations, Misty. You should be receiving an A in the class and a front page debut in our magazine.”

“Oh my . . . ” I whisper. “Can I buy a copy?”

“You’ll be provided a few copies. I’ll give you an unfinished one right now.” She winks. “Go celebrate.”

I walk out of the building feeling like I’m walking on a cloud. Mitch is standing outside of his car, practicing his pitching with no ball and no mound. It’s something he does constantly. There isn’t a moment when he’s not talking about or practicing his sport. I find myself both amused and in awe of his determination. Mitch was the one who sat quietly in bed beside me as I finished this article. He was the one who kept telling me I could do it, even when that blank page and blinking curser on my screen felt like an impossibility. When I get closer, he stops pitching and closes the distance between us.

“How’d it go?”

I wave the pages in my hand, tears filling my eyes.

“They’re publishing it?” He grins wide, rushing over now, opening his arms for me and wrapping them so tightly around me that I think I may just break. “They’re publishing it.”

* * *

“They’re publishing it,” I say between tears. He sets me down and wipes them with his thumbs, crashing his lips against mine and pulling away to search my eyes.

“Are you happy?”

“So happy.” I laugh, new tears spilling. “Look.”

He takes the unfinished magazine from my hands, the magazine his parents own, and even though that would normally have made me think this was given to me, I know better than that. I worked for this. I wrote an incredible article. I followed these guys who became my family and this one in particular whom I proudly call my boyfriend. I did this. Mitchell looks at the magazine in his hands, shaking his head like he can’t believe it.

“I’m so proud of you,” he says, glancing at me. “So proud, baby.”

“Thank you.” I wipe my tears. “I dedicated it to someone.”

“Really?” He goes through it and stops when he reaches the beginning of the article. I watch his eyes as they move over the words, and his smile when he’s done reading it. He shakes his head again and looks up at me. “My girlfriend is a legit journalist.”