On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

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.”

Michael’s jaw dropped and his face went white. Mr. Bruce’s eyes were narrowed at me.

I shrugged and turned my attention to the Wall Street Journal reporters. “I wrote every word in that article, and I’ve written every single Michael Router article this place has ever published.” I pulled my new business card for Courtney Rose Media out of my back pocket.

“You can call me during business hours, if you’re interested in talking to me alone,” I said. “I’m closed today, though.”

I left the office without another word and made my way to the elevator.

Michael called after me from behind, but I didn’t bother looking back. I moved past the elevator and opened the door to the fire escape, rushing down the steps.

I didn’t want to write another sentence in this chapter of my life.

Kyle: Now

Present Day

* * *

The chorus of adoring praise from the media was almost as annoying as the symphony of hate.

Every “I hate Kyle Stanton” was now an “I’ve always known that he was misunderstood.”

The crescendoing chorus of “He’s never let us down,” and “He’s killing it in the playoffs” meant nothing after all the harsh and bitter rants I’d heard.

Still, I couldn’t deny that the effect of Courtney’s piece was far more than I ever imagined. Her words were sharper than ever, and she made me look better than I expected.

I reread the entire piece for the umpteenth time and checked my calendar. She still had time before I showed up and demanded that she gave me an answer about us.

Preferably before the Super Bowl.