On a Tuesday (One Week 1)

I held back a laugh and flipped open the box, revealing a dozen strawberry sprinkle donuts with her phone number written on each one in white frosting.

GRAYSON: NOW

Present Day

New York City

SUBJECT: M.I.A?

Grayson,

I called you three times this week, and I've sent you eight emails. Can you please let me know where you stand on the proposal Nike sent over last week? Also, what did you mean when you said you're not going anywhere this summer until you address some "other business?"

Are you signing deals behind my back?

—Anna

SUBJECT: TMZ

A photog caught a grainy image of you walking out of a brownstone across town not too long ago. They’ve posted the image with speculation that you were there to meet a realtor for a new place to stay.

Let me know what you want to tell them about that.

PS—I know you said you're not interested in dating anyone from the fashion world "ever again," but I spoke with supermodel Isabelle Kline's agent and she's staging a major comeback this year. Would you mind having a few staged dates with her? Just for good press to help her out? (It would also add a bit of color to your image when it comes to your dating life, don't you think?)

—Anna

I GROANED AND TURNED off my phone. Since the day Charlotte stood me up, I was dodging all aspects of my professional career until I got to the bottom of her disappearance. I was turning down every interview, every meeting with sponsors, and I didn’t want to speak to anyone from the NFL. Well, except for the person I was meeting tonight.

I locked my phone in my glove compartment and stepped out of my car, heading into my team’s sports complex. Holding up my access card for the doors, I stopped and signed an autograph for the new security guard.

"Congratulations, Mr. Connors." He held up his hand for a high-five. "Any chance you're considering chasing a three-peat next season?"

“Of course.” I slapped his hand. “That’s the only option.”

“Your guest is in the restaurant waiting,” he said. “I told him you were running late.”

“Thank you.” I headed to the locker room and grabbed my MVP trophy, carrying it with me upstairs.

"Here I was thinking that you were going to be an adult about this." Kyle stood up as I approached, adjusting his cufflinks. "I should've known better."

“You should’ve.” I plopped the trophy in the center of the table. “Two years in a row of beating your team in the playoffs and winning MVP. I wouldn’t be a good best friend if I didn’t take this opportunity to share my victory with you. This isn’t just mine, you know. It’s for the both of us.”

“Fuck you, Grayson.” He laughed and took a seat. “I would tell you congratulations, but you don’t deserve it.”

“Thank you.” I motioned for the waitress to bring a fresh bottle of wine to the table.

Ever since we were drafted into the NFL, we made it a point to meet over dinner at the end of every season. No matter which of our teams fared better, the menu was always the same: Steak, bottles of wine, a short walk down memory lane.

While I spent most of my time off the field investing in small companies here or there, Kyle was now the face of Ralph Lauren, Reebok, and Gatorade. With his increasing layers of fame, he’d become far more restrained with women than he was in college. For the most part.

“Grayson?” He waved his hand in front of my face. “Grayson, are you there?”

“Huh?”

"We've been sitting here ten minutes, and you haven't started gloated about your historic performance in the Super Bowl yet. If we go five more minutes, I may have to check for a pulse."

“Sorry.” I sipped my wine. “I was thinking about something.”

“Something other than your win?”

“It’s Charlotte.”

He let out a long sigh and picked up his glass, drinking it in one gulp. Then he poured himself a shot of whiskey.

“It’s been seven years, and she hasn’t even sent you a birthday card." He seethed. "She disappeared for no reason—leaving you wrecked for God knows how long, and you have no idea where she is currently. I understand that you were hurt for the first couple years, but it's way past time for you to let her go."

“She’s here in New York.”

He uncorked a new bottle of wine and drank straight from the rim.

“I saw her at the reunion,” I said. “For some strange reason, she’s under the impression that I was the one who did something to break us up.” I looked him square in the eye. “Are you sure you didn’t say anything to her our senior year?”

“Jesus Christ.” He kept his voice calm. “For the umpteenth time, I would’ve never stepped in between you and Charlotte, and I highly doubt you would’ve let me. The fact of the matter is that she ghosted you. Period. I don’t care what crazy excuse she’s made up in her mind about it after all this time. The last thing I remember saying to her was, ‘See you at the draft party in New York.' The very same party where you were going to ask her to marry you." He shook his head. "You were too young to get married anyway, and you dodged a bullet, so it was good she didn't show up."