little breathless from the kiss and what just happened.
“Oh my God,” Adam echoes, his eyes bright, the shock evident on his face.
“Son, you need to get on stage,” Mr. Kistler says, and Adam nods, kisses me one more time, and then heads that way.
We watch as he crosses the stage, looking extremely dapper in his navy suit, takes the Saints hat, and poses for a photo with the commissioner. Then he’s ushered to the other side of the stage and whisked away to the press room.
“New Orleans,” Mike says, shaking his head.
“Third pick,” Jason says, also shaking his head.
Suddenly, a pretty reporter is in front of me and the bright light from the camera following her around blinds me momentarily. I try my best to not squint into the camera as she says, “Courtney, that was quite a kiss. How are you feeling right now?”
Why this woman is talking to me and not to one of the three Kistlers standing near me who are or have been NFL players, I don’t know, but I do my best to sound intelligent.
“I’m thrilled for Adam,” I say, smiling. I open my mouth to elaborate, but the reporter says, “So will you be joining him in New Orleans?”
“Oh,” I say, shocked by the question. What the hell kind of question is that? “I’m sure I’ll visit.”
“I’m sure you will,” she says, sounding amused, before looking at the camera and saying, “Back to you, Pete.”
The light on the camera goes off and she says, “Thanks for that. This is fun!” Before I’m able to ask her what the hell she was thinking, she walks away. I look toward the Kistlers, who are all staring at me, and shrug.
“Welcome to our world, Court,” Jason says.
“That was bizarre, right?” I ask. Mike and Jason give me sympathetic looks while a different, probably more experienced, reporter approaches the elder Kistlers.
“I can’t even tell you how often Ashton is asked if she’s pregnant,” Michael says.
“What?” I shriek. “You got married, like, not even a year ago, right?”
“It’s been nine months. Which means that reporters are on baby bump watch.”
“That is insane.”
“It is what it is,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”
I see a third reporter approaching our group, and excuse myself to the restroom. This one can have Mike and Jason for comment.
When I get to the bathroom, I lock the stall and lean my back against the door, doing my best to breathe evenly.
Adam is moving to New Orleans.
My boyfriend is moving to New Orleans. He’s the first round, third draft pick of the NFL.
Oh my God, my boyfriend is probably a millionaire.
A twenty-year-old millionaire who is moving to New Orleans.
Without me.
Adam
I’m exhausted. In the best possible way.
“Are you okay?” Courtney asks from across the table. I made reservations for us at the Boathouse in Central Park, knowing that I’d want to take Courtney out to celebrate after the draft. She balked at the prices when the server gave us the menu, but, prices aren’t something I really have to worry about anymore.
Even if they were, I’d want to do something nice for Courtney on our first trip to New York. Willa told me this was one of the most romantic spots in the city, so it sounded perfect to me.
“I’m great,” I say, even though I haven’t slept in almost two days. After the draft, I did a press conference, met with my new sports agent who introduced me to a financial advisor, who took me out for celebratory drinks at some members-only place, and then met up with my brothers and Courtney for an extremely late dinner at a greasy spoon. I had so much energy that even when I went to bed, I wasn’t able to sleep.
Mostly because I knew what was going to happen today.
“Adam, this is so nice,” Courtney says, “But if you’re too tired, we can have
“Oh my God,” Adam echoes, his eyes bright, the shock evident on his face.
“Son, you need to get on stage,” Mr. Kistler says, and Adam nods, kisses me one more time, and then heads that way.
We watch as he crosses the stage, looking extremely dapper in his navy suit, takes the Saints hat, and poses for a photo with the commissioner. Then he’s ushered to the other side of the stage and whisked away to the press room.
“New Orleans,” Mike says, shaking his head.
“Third pick,” Jason says, also shaking his head.
Suddenly, a pretty reporter is in front of me and the bright light from the camera following her around blinds me momentarily. I try my best to not squint into the camera as she says, “Courtney, that was quite a kiss. How are you feeling right now?”
Why this woman is talking to me and not to one of the three Kistlers standing near me who are or have been NFL players, I don’t know, but I do my best to sound intelligent.
“I’m thrilled for Adam,” I say, smiling. I open my mouth to elaborate, but the reporter says, “So will you be joining him in New Orleans?”
“Oh,” I say, shocked by the question. What the hell kind of question is that? “I’m sure I’ll visit.”
“I’m sure you will,” she says, sounding amused, before looking at the camera and saying, “Back to you, Pete.”
The light on the camera goes off and she says, “Thanks for that. This is fun!” Before I’m able to ask her what the hell she was thinking, she walks away. I look toward the Kistlers, who are all staring at me, and shrug.
“Welcome to our world, Court,” Jason says.
“That was bizarre, right?” I ask. Mike and Jason give me sympathetic looks while a different, probably more experienced, reporter approaches the elder Kistlers.
“I can’t even tell you how often Ashton is asked if she’s pregnant,” Michael says.
“What?” I shriek. “You got married, like, not even a year ago, right?”
“It’s been nine months. Which means that reporters are on baby bump watch.”
“That is insane.”
“It is what it is,” he says. “You’ll get used to it.”
I see a third reporter approaching our group, and excuse myself to the restroom. This one can have Mike and Jason for comment.
When I get to the bathroom, I lock the stall and lean my back against the door, doing my best to breathe evenly.
Adam is moving to New Orleans.
My boyfriend is moving to New Orleans. He’s the first round, third draft pick of the NFL.
Oh my God, my boyfriend is probably a millionaire.
A twenty-year-old millionaire who is moving to New Orleans.
Without me.
Adam
I’m exhausted. In the best possible way.
“Are you okay?” Courtney asks from across the table. I made reservations for us at the Boathouse in Central Park, knowing that I’d want to take Courtney out to celebrate after the draft. She balked at the prices when the server gave us the menu, but, prices aren’t something I really have to worry about anymore.
Even if they were, I’d want to do something nice for Courtney on our first trip to New York. Willa told me this was one of the most romantic spots in the city, so it sounded perfect to me.
“I’m great,” I say, even though I haven’t slept in almost two days. After the draft, I did a press conference, met with my new sports agent who introduced me to a financial advisor, who took me out for celebratory drinks at some members-only place, and then met up with my brothers and Courtney for an extremely late dinner at a greasy spoon. I had so much energy that even when I went to bed, I wasn’t able to sleep.
Mostly because I knew what was going to happen today.
“Adam, this is so nice,” Courtney says, “But if you’re too tired, we can have
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