On a Wednesday (One Week 2)

I’d come home empty-handed and hurt, and the fans made it very clear that they were starting to lose hope.

Still, even this year, with an undefeated 16-0 record and the best stats of my career, they weren’t happy. And they were currently furious about an offhanded comment I made to a photographer last week.

After following me for over an hour, he’d baited me with “You never keep your promises!” and “You’re all hype, and no results!” with every step I made to the practice facility. So, I finally broke my ‘Never talk to the media rule’ and let him have it.

“I can guarantee that I’ll still be a fucking millionaire, whether we win or lose in the playoffs,” I’d said. “And you’ll still be trying to pay your rent with my pictures.”

I may have also said, “Fuck this city,” and “I can’t wait to switch teams,” but I refused to confirm or deny that.

My comments set the city on fire within minutes, and there wasn’t enough water in the Charles River to douse the flames.

“I think the fans are simply passionate about your potential.” Taylor’s voice sounded in my ear again. “They want you to win a championship for this city, but they also care about you keeping the promise for yourself. They’re rooting for you, Kyle.”

“Are you getting me the private car or not?” I asked.

“I can’t,” she said. “Please just—”

I hung up in her face and temporarily blocked her from calling back.

Pacing the floor, I tried to figure out my next move.

There was no way in hell I was staying here tonight, but I also needed to find a way to escape without being seen.

I plopped onto my couch, and my flatscreen television instantly turned on with a message.

“Happy twenty-eighth birthday, Kyle! Live it up!”

I held back a sigh.

Amidst all the hate, I’d nearly forgotten about my birthday. Well, my “fake” one anyway; I’d kept the actual date to myself since college since I was still wary of people feeling like they knew the real me.

Against my better judgment, I logged into Instagram to see if anyone I knew had personally wished me well.

On my most recent post, one of me standing at the center of the field holding a “16-0” sign, there were over twenty-thousand comments, and…Most of them were pure hate.

“Eff our city? EFF YOUUUU!” “I hope the last groupie you slept with gave you a DISEASE!” “I just burned your jersey … AGAIN!”

Groaning, I took my time scrolling until I reached the more recent ones. The further I got, the more sanity seeped through.

* * *

@TheRealGraysonConnors: Happy birthday to the best friend I’ve ever had. I’m sure you’re out partying tonight. I’ll call you in the a.m. #keepyourheadup

@AdrienW: Not that you’ll ever see this, but Happy Birthday. (I’m still mad A.F. about your latest comments, though -_- )

@BarrettPratt: Happy Birthday, teammate! Let’s get this W next week! #tuneitallout

@CourtneyRJohnson: Happy Birthday, Kyle … The big 28th, huh? Hope you’re doing well.

* * *

Courtney Johnson?

I stilled at the sight of her comment, suddenly feeling an all-too-familiar ache in my chest.

We haven’t spoken in sixteen months.

I clicked on her name and her full profile opened. After all this time, I was stunned that she’d finally unblocked me.

Since our final conversation—a brutal argument that tore us both to shreds, I didn’t think she’d ever acknowledge my existence again.

Her latest photos featured the Space Needle in Seattle, Pike Place Market, and The Lumen Stadium where I’d played countless Sunday games.

I continued looking through her posts until I reached a picture that featured her face. Until the ache in my chest became twenty-times more unbearable.

Fuck …

In a post from December, she was sitting alone in a bright green booth and holding up an oversized martini glass.

“Cheers to a new year with new friends!” Her caption read.

With her blond hair pulled into a messy bun atop her head and her lips painted bright red, she looked even sexier now than she did in college.

I saved a few screenshots to my phone, just in case she blocked me again.

I started to send her a direct message, but I wasn’t sure what to say. The words “Hey. How have you been?” felt too small, and the words, “I’ve missed the fuck out of you,” felt too grandiose.

Instead, I roamed down a rabbit hole and clicked on all the people she’d tagged in various posts, trying to gain more insight on what she’d been doing with her life.

Four names showed up the most: Nick. Barrett. Samson. Alonna.

The guys’ profiles offered little more than group shots at a bar, so I clicked on her friend Alonna’s page.

For some strange reason, her most recent picture was one of Courtney in a stunning, low-cut black dress. One that was making my cock stiffen.

Clicking on the post, I read the caption.