On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

He raised his eyebrow.

“No one on campus wants to fuck me without expecting something in return anymore, Coach. My magic stick has lost its touch.”

“Okay.” He stepped back. “I’m sorry that I ever asked about your personal problems, son.”

“No, wait.” I moved closer, lowering my voice. “I mean, my dick is working just fine, it’s just that now that people are realizing that I’m going to the league, they’ve got agendas. And I’ve asked for text messages as consent, and they’re making that very difficult.”

I couldn’t believe the words that were falling from my mouth. “I feel like I’m living in The Twilight Zone. I haven’t had a release in forever, and—”

“Stop talking to me, Kyle.” He interrupted me. “Right now.”

“Why?”

“Because it sounds like something you need to take up with the team’s medical staff or student health.”

“No, I just need to get laid. Preferably by someone who isn’t seeing dollar signs with every stroke.”

He let out a sigh and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Kyle, I’ve always regarded you as something like a second son to me.”

“Do you make your other son watch bad plays as punishment, too?”

“Look.” He ignored my comment. “I told you during your freshman year that there would come a time when you would have to make some serious decisions about the people in your life. I told you that your reputation—as crass and insane as it is, would have to be retooled eventually. So, perhaps that’s what you’re seeing.”

“No, I’m seeing gold diggers, Coach.”

The stadium suddenly erupted in cheers as Louisville’s kicker failed to score a field goal.

Coach waited until the band finished playing their usual “Womp Wompppp” song.

“Look over there,” he said, nodding his head toward the cheerleading squad. “Do you see the woman dressed in the navy-blue suit with the pom poms?”

“You mean, your wife?”

“Yes. Have I ever told you how we met?” He waved at her, and she blew him a kiss.

“I think so …”

“Well, long story short, she was a quiet girl who didn’t want anything from me,” he said. “I dated her during my senior year and I never wanted to be with anyone else.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s not the version of the story you told me before.” I crossed my arms. “Wasn’t there some type of house party involved?”

“No, never.” He smiled. “Anyway, my point is, when my draft stock started going up, my circle of friends became smaller, and so did the pool of women that I uh, yeah. I ended up falling for Tina and the rest is history. Now that I think about it …”

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes as he told me another version of a story that wasn’t going to help with my situation in the slightest.

Looking over at the cheerleaders, I searched for Miss Eleven and a Half Hours. I scanned both rows and the reserve section, double-checking the formation where she usually stood to flick me off.

She’s not here.

“Glad we could have this discussion, son.” Coach patted me on the shoulder. “Remember to wear a condom if your luck should change for the better this semester.”

“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.