by G. , Whitney
On a Wednesday
Whitney G.
Copyright © 2021 by Whitney G.
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Kindle Edition
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All rights reserved.
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Cover design by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs.
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No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
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Visit my website at
http://www.whitneygbooks.com/
Contents
About The Book
On A Wednesday Playlist
A Note from Whitney G.
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Now
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Now
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Now
Kyle: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Courtney: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Courtney: Now
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Then
Kyle: Then
Courtney: Now
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Now
Courtney: Now
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Now
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Now
Courtney: Now
Courtney: Now
Courtney: Then
Courtney: Now
Kyle: Now
Courtney: Now
Kyle: Now
Courtney: On a Wednesday
Epilogue
Personal Note + Thank You
Break Up with Him, for Me!
On a Tuesday
Grayson: Now
Also By Whitney G.
About The Book
We met on a Wednesday.
Became enemies, then lovers, on a Wednesday.
And we made a final promise before saying goodbye, on a Wednesday …
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Kyle Stanton is the cockiest playboy who has ever set foot on this university’s campus.
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He’s also the last person on earth that I want to interview for my senior thesis since: 1) I haven’t
forgotten how he left me hanging for a group project during our freshman year. 2) He has a tendency to believe that any woman who breathes in his direction wants him. 3) Did I mention how infuriatingly cocky he is?
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If I hear him utter the phrase, “No need to stare, I’ll let you ride it up close and personal, just say the word,” one more time, I will scream.
* * *
At least, those are my initial impressions until he proposes “a perfect deal” that works in our best interest. Until one filthy kiss changes everything, and he shows me a side of himself that makes me fall in love.
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We only have one semester left together, though ...
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He’s bound for the professional football league, and I’m bound for London.
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We promise to remain long-distance “friends,” but a brutal argument tears us apart, and we haven’t spoken to each other since.
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Until now.
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We met on a Wednesday.
Became everything, then nothing, on a Wednesday.
And now he's shown up to my engagement party, all these years later, on a Wednesday ...
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On a Wednesday is inspired by Adele’s “Someone Like You.”
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**The One Week Series features short, standalone novels that are inspired by a day of the week, an Adele song, and a steamy romance trope.
On A Wednesday Playlist
Someone Like You, Adele
Begin Again, Taylor Swift
No Goodbyes, Dua Lipa
Stay, Zedd and Alessia Cara
We Are Young, Fun. featuring Janelle Monae
Homesick, Dua Lipa
Imagine, Ariana Grande
Sooner Than Later, Drake
Stitches, Shawn Mendes
One Night, Christina Perri
Time, Snoh Aalegra
Lonely, Chloe and Halle
Song Goes Off, Trey Songz
Unless It’s with You, Christina Aguilera
Pills N Potions, Nicki Minaj
This story is dedicated to the friends I made in college.
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I wish we could return to that space and time, and I wish things were as simple they once were.
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<3 <3 <3
A Note from Whitney G.
Dear Awesome Reader,
Thank you so much for picking up On a Wednesday! I can’t wait for you to meet Courtney & Kyle!
If you want to be the first to learn of my upcoming releases, sales, and special things that I only offer to my readers, be sure to sign up for my Exclusive F.L.Y. List. (F.L.Y. = Effin Love You. Because whether you hate or love this story, I still love you for giving it a chance!)
Sincerely,
Whitney G.
Kyle: Now
Boston, Massachusetts
“Kyle Stanton sucks! Kyle Stanton sucks! Middle fingers up, he doesn’t care about us!”
My fans shouted outside my windows at the top of their lungs for the seventh night in a row.
This is getting ridiculous …
Peering through the blinds, I noticed that the group of three hundred strong looked a lot larger today. In place of their typical, “Eff Kyle, He’s in Denial!” signs, they’d painted, “End Our Sorrow! Trade Him Tomorrow!”
Besides those things, their setup was all the same: A wooden, six-foot pyre for burning every edition of my jersey, a massive dartboard that featured my face, and a makeshift stage and microphone where they took turns shouting insults up at my condo.
It didn’t matter that an endless parade of rain and hail had poured over them every single night this week; they were determined to feed me every bite of their venom.
“Kyle Stanton will never get us to the Super Bowl again!” A redheaded girl, who looked no older than seven years old, shouted into the mic. “He’s too busy starring in underwear and cologne commercials!”
“Damn right!” “You tell him!” “Keep going!” The crowd cheered her along, and they lit the pyre for another jersey.
I looked over to the far side of the street and squinted, noticing a group in all-green linking their stereo systems together and preparing a fresh set of eggs to throw.
Is that my condo’s security guard?
“We see you up there watching us!” A grey-haired man shouted through a megaphone. “You make me hate being a Falcons fan, you piece of shit!”
“Yeah!” A guy in a blue hoodie yelled into a different one. “Since ‘It is what it is’ and you don’t care about keepi
ng your promise to bring us a championship, why don’t you do us all a favor and go fuck yourself, Kyle! You’re not worth our while!”
Thanks to those final two lines, the crowd fell in love with a brand new chant.
“Done with Kyle! Not worth our while!”
Jesus Christ.
I shut the blinds and picked up my phone, scrolling down to my agent, Taylor.
“I’ve already emailed the NDA to you,” she answered on the first ring. “Just make sure to get a picture of the woman’s I.D. so I can do a quick background check before the two of you do anything. Oh, and make sure she’s not a New York fan first.”
“I haven’t called you about something like that in years, Taylor.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m calling because I need to get the hell out of Boston tonight. Have Charlie pick me up as soon as possible.”
“I’m sorry, what did you just say?”
“I need Charlie to take me to the private airport, so I can clear my mind in Cabo or something.”
“You can’t fly out of town days before the first round of the playoffs, Kyle.” Her voice wavered. “Like, do you know how bad that would look to your fans?”
“You mean, the fans that are currently outside?” I heard something shattering against the windows and rushed over to look again.
My neighbors—my fucking neighbors, were directing the fans exactly where to fling bobblehead toys. The local police were standing with their arms crossed, clearly taking their side in all of this.
“We have a bye-week next week,” I said. “I don’t care how it looks to anyone. Get me out of here.”
“Um ...” Taylor sucked in a slow breath. “Kyle, my dad would kill me if I agreed to help you do this. He’s giving me the reins to this agency for a reason, and I can’t risk this right now.”
“After you have Charlie pick me up, you can talk to me about your dad practically handing you a silver platter in life, Taylor. Call Charlie. Now.”
“All you have to do is win, and all of your fans’ anger goes away, practically overnight.” The words rushed out of her mouth. “Think about this long and hard, before you make things even worse. Let’s rewind back to last season, back when you were happy, so you can—”
I didn’t need to listen to a single word that she was about to say. I’d heard it all before, and she was wrong.
Dead-ass wrong.
From the moment that I set foot in this city years ago—the minute I was drafted into the league, I’d given these fans my blood, sweat, and tears. I left everything I had on the field season after season, Sunday after Sunday, but it was never enough.
No matter how many “epic, once in a lifetime performances” that people recalled with utter awe, my efforts didn’t matter.
Not without a win in the Super Bowl.
Not without fulfilling the promise I’d made to bring them a trophy.
Over a year and a half ago, I’d come closer than I ever had. I led them to the big game, but I’d faced a far better team, with a far better leader: My best friend, Grayson Connors.
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.
* * *
Hey, everyone!
I temporarily blocked Courtney from my page, so she can’t see this!
(Shhhh! Don’t tell her!)
I’m throwing her a surprise brunch party this weekend at The Savoy Bar near Pike Place Market.
3 p.m.