Page 3 of Catching Kyle

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I get to my favorite pub five minutes earlier than Amani and I agreed to meet, which is typical of me. This gives me time to continue reading this gay romanceseries about hot firefighters, and I prefer to read in public places. It helps me be alone yet not lonely. The ideal.

An ad blares on the TV in front of me, one that I instantly recognize because I’ve watched it at least 1000 times. Kyle Weaver, linebacker for the Portland Tigers, fills the screen, and my chest immediately tightens at the sight. The Mississippi sweetheart. He’s shirtless, after having been just doused with a bucket of water, holding up the beer he sponsors. He flashes the camera a seductive grin, then winks, and I swear to God I’m already like a quarter hard. And when he speaks in that Southern drawl, I just want to lean back and spread my legs. There are few videos that have gotten me off quicker. No wonder he was last year’s ‘Sexiest Man Alive’.

I’m usually not too insecure about my body, but mine pales in comparison to his. Where I’m only about 5’11’’, he’s 6’5’’. Where my muscles are more defined, his are thick and beefy. He seems to have the perfect balance of fat and muscle. And where my red beard can never grow more than an inch, his jet-black beard grows all the way down to his chest, which he never shaves. He has a perfect head of wavey, black hair and a smile that crinkles his warm, brown eyes. It nearly knocks me out every time. I’ve been told, on occasion, that I’m handsome, with my big nose and hazel eyes, and I’m often fetishized because of my red hair. Yet I feel like an ugly duckling compared to the swan he is.

But the thing that draws me to him more than anything else are his charity efforts. He has donated tens of thousands of dollars to organizations benefiting children with cancer, as well as cancer as a whole. He’s given so much that he’s often asked why he’s giving so much away and not spending it on, say, a family, which he’s usually asked because he’s the most eligible bachelor in the country. To which he responds: the kids need it more than me.

Ugh. Swoon.

“I swear,” Amani says, walking up the table. She looks at Kyle Weaver just before the commercial changes. “That man could make me straight.”

I look away from the TV to my best friend from college. “Yeah, he’s a handsome guy.”

As Amani takes a seat in the booth across from me, I blush. I know having a crush on one of the best football players in the country is nothing to be embarrassed about, but I made a promise to myself after I broke up with my ex: no more chasing after unavailable men. If I want to write a good romance, I need to make sure my own romances are not unhealthy or unrealistic.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, tying her dreads above her head, her One-Piece jacket bright and garish compared to the black booth. “My coworkers are incompetent coders.”

“Well, if you stuck with your literary agent, maybe you wouldn’t be putting up with them.”

“Hey,” she says, pointing a finger. “I didn’t break up with her. I can still reach out to her if I want.”

“And it makes no sense to me that you aren’t,” I say, shaking my head with a lilt in my voice. “I’d be utilizing the hell out of an agent if I had one. Content-writing sucks the soul out of me, and I’d do anything to get out of it. That and all the porn I have to make to get by.”

She playfully whacks my arm, and then the waiter comes to take our order. I love Amani. She and I have been best friends ever since we took an essay writing class at UDub. She’s a nerdy black lesbian more obsessed with anime than anyone I know. And she can write a killer fantasy. Too bad she’s had no luck landing a book with an editor at a publishing house.

“So, I read your stuff,” she says.

I perk up. “Did you like it?”

She ticks and tilts her head. “I definitely think there are some strengths.”

I frown, not fooled at all. “So it wasn’t good.”

“It’s not bad!” she says. She’s trying to sound reassuring, but it just comes off as pitying.

“Well, what are your overall thoughts?”

“You’ve got an interesting romantic premise,” she says. “I like the whole addiction component. Spices things up.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting up. “What else?”

She sucks on her lip. “All the pieces were there—a premise, good characters, interesting story. But it just fell flat to me.”

My chest tightens. “Flat?”

She winces. “Like the romance wasn’t there. Like it wasn’t believable. I didn’t feel invested enough in these gay men for me to care that they got together.”

I have to resist crossing my arms. We have a rule about crossing our arms when receiving feedback. Too defensive. But I’m still pissed, and Amani knows it.

“It’s still a work in progress, Michael. That’s different than being bad.”

I start tapping my foot. “I’ve been working on this novel for over a year, and you’re saying it still needs work?”

“Yes,” Amani says with a raised brow. “That’s how this industry works. All writing is rewriting.”

I grunt and finally cross my arms just as our food arrives, and I wallow as we eat.