On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

“Then why don’t you leave?” He looked concerned. “Want to fly here and take some time off for a while? You can stay in one of my condos, or I can buy you a new one.”

“Even if I wanted to, you know that I never leave anything unfinished.”

“Right …”

A soft knock sounded at my door.

“Hold on a second.” I walked over to it and found myself face to face with a deliveryman.

A huge pink box stood on the floor next to him.

“Can you sign this, Miss?” He held out the clipboard to me, and I pulled a pen from my pocket to sign it.

“Is this from you?” I looked at Kyle onscreen.

“Maybe.”

The delivery guy pushed the box inside my room and waved goodbye.

I smiled and took my time unwrapping it.

Beneath the triple layers of pink gift wrap, was a sparkling glitter box. Inside were two bottles of champagne, a card, and a new Pitt hoodie.

Opening the card, I read his tell-tale handwriting.

For my best friend and the best writer I know.

Whether you win this round of scholarships or not, I’m happy for you.

—Kyle

P.S.—If they don’t pick you, fuck them.

“Thank you so much.” I laughed. “I appreciate your P.S. note.”

“You’re welcome.” He picked up his bottle of champagne and motioned for me to do the same. “We can toast to their loss.”

“How is it that when I try to tell you that winning isn’t everything, that you balk, but when you say it to me, it’s okay?”

“Because you have more than sixteen chances a year to succeed.” He smiled. “Playing a season of football is very different.”

“So, should I avoid talking about your team’s loss this past Sunday?”

“Don’t say a single fucking word about it.” His lips curved into a smile.

“You know, I really don’t understand why finding a job is so hard,” I said, sipping my drink. “I know it’s a recession, but there has to be something in this market, you know?”

He sighed as his eyes met mine. “Can I be honest with you for a second, Courtney?”

“Of course.”

“Okay, good.” He sat up and took a deep breath, looked as if he was debating whether to give it to me straight or sugarcoat it for old-times’ sake. “The problem isn’t the market. It’s you.”

“What?”

“You’re choosing to settle instead of being the Courtney you were in college,” he said. “You’re wasting your time waiting for people to give you some goddamn validation, when you already know how good of a fucking writer you are. So, maybe instead of begging people for a job and waiting for them to recognize your talent, just write for yourself and start your own blog or podcast. No one can prevent you from reaching out to players for interviews or sharing your words, but if you keep waiting on someone else to do it for you, we’re going to have this conversation—again, for the umpteenth time.”

“Oh, I see ...” My heart ached at the rawness of his words. “So, you’re getting tired of hearing me complain about this?”

“Yeah, honestly. It’s the same shit month after month, year after year. You’re just changing the names of the company. I just don’t think the nine to five job shit is for you. I also don’t think the program you’re in is right for you; it never has been.”

“Okay. Well, you want to know what I think?”

“Not right now, since you’re clearly pissed.” He smiled. “You told me I could be honest.”

“Well, I lied. I think you should’ve won the Super Bowl last year.”

He clenched his jaw and narrowed his eyes.

“I think that if you’d never dropped the ball, there wouldn’t have been an interception. You were unfocused and cocky, and you thought that finally getting there meant that winning was owed to you. You spent more of your offseason partying than ever, and you didn’t think that there was another team out there that could possibly beat you. And now you’re upset that the media is trashing your work ethic but deep down, you know that you fucking deserve every word.”

“You know what?” His face was redder than I’d ever seen it before. “Maybe the nine to five life is for you, Court. Since you’re so goddamn childish and you can’t even consider what I’m saying. It’s ironic that you’re talking to me about criticism and you can’t even face your own.”

“I can’t face it coming from you.”

“You can’t face it from anyone.” He hissed. “Anytime your mom even tries to tell you that you’re better than these bullshit jobs you keep taking interviews for, you call me and want me to convince you that she’s wrong. But guess what? She’s not, Court. The problem is you, and I’m done sugarcoating this shit for you. Quit your fucking program, stop looking for dead-ass jobs that are beneath you, or stop complaining about it and continue being average.”