“Would you like something to drink?” A brunette suddenly stepped in front of me with a tray of glasses.
“Water, please.”
“Right away.” She took a bottle off her tray and handed it to me. “I’ve never seen you up here before. Whose name are you under?”
“Grayson Connors.”
"Oh?" She smiled. "Well, that's different.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “Just that my granddad has ownership in the stadium and he makes me work the games to earn money, and I’ve never missed one. Not since I was in high school.”
I gave her a blank stare. I had no idea what the hell her grandad owning this stadium had to do with Grayson or her “different” comment.
Apparently understanding the confused look on my face, she laughed. "It means that except for his mother, Grayson has never offered anyone else his skybox seats."
Right ... “I’m sure he’s invited other girls up here. You probably just don’t remember.”
“Nope.” She shook her head and stepped back. “Never. He doesn’t even let his guy friends use his passes.”
I didn’t get a chance to say anything else before she turned away to help someone else with drinks. Unsure of where to sit, I moved to the row of seats closest to the window and took a seat on the end.
I could see the back of Grayson's jersey—the brightly emblazoned number four shining brightly as he stepped onto the field. And the moment his opening pass to Kyle Stanton became a touchdown within the first ten seconds, I knew this game was over.
THREE HOURS LATER, when the last of the celebratory confetti had fallen over the field, I set down my wine glass and stepped out of the skybox. I called Nadira, to ask her to wait for me in the parking lot, but Grayson’s name popped onto my screen before the call went through.
Subject: You.
Are you still here?
—Grayson
Subject: Re: You.
Yes.
—Charlotte
Subject: Re: Re: You.
Good. Wait for me.
—Grayson
Subject: Re: Re: Re: You.
Where?
—Charlotte
Subject: Re: Re: Re: Re: You.
The Pitt-Favs concession stand on Level 2. I'll meet you there after my coach gets done talking.
—Grayson
I TOOK THE ELEVATOR down to the second level, making my way through the exiting crowds. As the vendors shut down their windows, I sat on a bench and watched as fan after fan gushed about the win.
Twenty minutes later, Grayson walked through the hallway, stopping to take a few pictures with a few young kids. Still dressed in his football uniform, he took a seat across from me and smiled.
“Did you enjoy the game?” he asked.
“Not at all,” I said. “I was bored out of my mind. Did you get to play?”
“I’ll take that as a yes. Do you have plans for tonight?”
“Yes and no.”
“Well, there’s an after-party on the North Shore at nine. Will that time fall under the ‘yes’ or ‘no’’ part of your plans?”
“I have a date at eight thirty.”
“A what?” His eyes widened.
“A date,” I said. “You know, those things that a guy asks you on when he’s interested in getting to know you better.”
“I know what a date is.” He clenched his jaw. “How could you possibly—I mean, when did he ask you out?”
"Last week," I admitted. "He's in my Anthropology class."
He stared at me, not saying anything for several seconds. He gently tugged at my VIP lanyard and sighed. “You’re making this very difficult.”
“I’m not trying to make anything difficult.”
“You don’t have a boyfriend, but you won’t give me your phone number.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “And you’re willing to go out with other guys who are not trying as hard as me, so what do they have that I don’t?”
“It’s not what you don’t have.” I took off the VIP lanyard and handed it to him. “It’s what you do have.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“Grayson! Oh my God, Grayson!” A group of women across the hall suddenly made my point far better than I ever could. “Come over here and take a picture with us! Come on!”
He looked over at them and then at me. “You’re saying you won’t go out with me because you honestly think groupies and shit matter to me?”
“I’m saying thank you for the skybox ticket.” I stood up and smiled at him. “I’ll see you Tuesday.”
CHARLOTTE: NOW
Present Day
New York City
“LET ME GET THIS STRAIGHT, Charlotte.” My latest ex-boyfriend yelled at me over the phone. “I give you an extra month to consider moving in with me, and you dump me instead?”
“I’m very sorry, Craig,” I said. “I just don’t think this is going to work out, and I think I should be honest with myself and do it sooner rather than later.”
“You could have at least given me the news in person, preferably on a different day that wasn’t my birthday. Today is my birthday! I now see exactly why you never get past the six-month mark with your boyfriends. It’s not because you don’t trust easily, or because you’ve been hurt so badly before. It’s because you’re a fucking cunt.”