On a Tuesday (One Week 1)

“Absolutely.” I tossed a pillow at her.

"Do you want me to bring you back anything from the game today? Some school spirit, perhaps?"

“I’ll take a caramel apple.”

She laughed and grabbed her sweater, offering me one final chance to go to the game with her and the other RAs, but I turned her down.

Half an hour later, I walked down to the lower campus and watched the start of a typical game day unfold. Tons of yellow buses lined the street, ready to head to Heinz Field. Cars honked at each other for a space in the congested city traffic and the smell of tailgating BBQ filled the air.

I slipped inside one of my favorite bars and took a seat in the back. As the waiter set down a menu in front of me, I felt my phone buzzing in my pocket. An email from Grayson.

SUBJECT: TODAY’S GAME.

Are you coming?

—Grayson

SUBJECT: RE: TODAY’S game.

No, but good luck.

I’ll be rooting for you to win.

—Charlotte

SUBJECT: RE: RE: TODAY’S Game.

“Friends” go to each other’s games, Charlotte. Do you need a ticket?

—Grayson

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Today’s game.

Well, since I don’t play a sport and I don’t recall ever asking you to show up to anything, I think we’re even on that point. (Tickets are sold out, as usual)

I really will be rooting for you.

—Charlotte

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Re: Today’s Game.

I show up every Tuesday while you continuously play hard to get. Same concept. (I just left a ticket in your name at the ‘will call’ window.)

You should come root for me in person.

—Grayson

I STARED AT HIS EMAIL, trying to think of a viable excuse to get out of going, but I couldn’t think of one.

Wait. I don’t have my car today.

Before I could tell him that Nadira was using my car, so I didn’t have a ride to the game, he sent me another message.

SUBJECT: RIDE.

Just in case you’re thinking of an excuse not to show up, my friend Seth is willing to pick you up. He’ll be at your dorm in twenty minutes and he’ll be driving a red SUV. Does this work for you?

—Grayson

SUBJECT: RE: RIDE.

Yes. Thank you.

—Charlotte

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RIDE.

You’re welcome. By the way, I think now is the right time for you to finally give me your phone number.

—Grayson

SUBJECT: RE: RE: RE: Ride.

I’ll think about it.

—Charlotte

I SMILED AND HEADED back to my dorm, changing into a pair of jeans and a navy-blue Pitt hoodie. I grabbed my camera and waited in the lobby for his friend to show.

Five minutes later, a red SUV honked its horn and I made my way outside.

“Seth, right?” I slipped into the passenger seat, trying to ignore all the crumpled McDonald’s bags that were on the floor.

“Yes, I’m Seth.” He extended his hand to me. “Nice to meet you.”

“I’m Charlotte.”

“I know who you are.” He pulled his car onto the street. “Trust me.”

“Is that supposed to be a compliment or an insult?”

“It’s a huge compliment,” he said, speeding through a yellow light. “It’s not too often that Grayson begs me to leave the stadium so I can go back to campus and pick someone up. And by ‘not too often,’ I mean never, so I’m assuming you two must be really good friends.”

“I just met him this semester.”

“Bullshit,” he said. “The most I’ve ever gotten him to do for me is give me gas money, and I’ve known him since freshman year.”

I didn’t want to laugh, but I couldn’t help it.

He quickly steered our conversation toward music and movies for the rest of the ride. When we arrived at the stadium, he walked with me to the will-call window, and then he disappeared to be with his other friends.

Confused, I stared at the VIP ticket in my hands and read the blue directions that were printed on the back. As I made my way through another round of security, I wondered why everyone else was heading in the opposite direction for their seats, why mine called for me to stand in front of an elevator and enter a code.

I pressed 4-4-4-4 and the doors immediately sprang open. There were no buttons on the inside, and the cart rose to the stadium’s top floor.

An older man in a bright gold varsity jacket smiled at me the second I stepped off.

“Are you Charlotte Taylor?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, good.” He handed me a glittering “VIP” lanyard. “I was beginning to think Grayson made you up, or even worse, left his tickets unclaimed again.” He led me into a massive glass skybox that faced the field, a private room that was filled with executives and alumni.

Everyone was wearing Pitt's colors, and there were waiters carrying trays of wine and hors d’oeuvres. The tables that lined the room were full of gourmet chocolates and sweets, and I didn't even want to know how much it cost to be in this room.