Page 7 of Catching Kyle

“It’s my dad,” I say, remembering my conversation with Ezekiel. “It’s just been hard since he passed.”

“Your dad has been dead for almost a decade.”

I grimace as I remember him dying on that bed. I wanted to hold my dad, but he was in too much pain. I just held his hand. He was the one who instilled within me a love for football. I have such fond memories of the sport: autumn weather, Saturday games, maple bars, apple cider, chili, burgers, friendly scrimmages, laughter, hugs, beer. And he was a saint, always helping other boys on my high school team and then mentoring other guys when he coached at Miss U. He may not have been very accepting of the queers, but the world was better with him in it. My life was better with him in it.

“It’s true,” I say, not knowing what else to say.

Timmy rubs his bald head. “Well, regardless of the reason, you gotta get over it. Or you can kiss your football career goodbye.”

I grit my teeth. “Fine. So I just need to find a girl. By signing day?”

He nods, looking at his empty glass. “By July 1st.”

I chew on my lips. It’s the beginning of March. Four months away. That’s manageable—I can do that.

“Deal,” I say.

“Oh no,” he says. “It’s not gonna be that easy.”

I look at him like he’s grown a second head. “What do you mean? I agreed to find a girl.”

“No,” he says, rubbing his brow. “You agreed to belookingfor a girl. That means dates. Pictures.Evidence. Management needs to know you’re keeping your word.”

Our food arrives, and Timmy sighs with relief. But I just stare down at my steak, dumbfounded. I’ve lost my appetite.

“And I can help you with that,” Timmy says. “Finding dates. It will be easier considering you are the most eligible bachelor in Portland.”

I scoff. “I’m so honored.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who screwed over the team in an interview.”

I lean back and fold my arms tightly. It’s not my fault football hates queer people.

“Look, I know it sucks to be forced to find love,” he says. “But we can make some fun out of it. What if we did some speed dating?” He asks as he takes a bite of steak. “Could make you some money. Maybe even film it.”

My face twists like I’ve tasted something sour. “Absolutely not.”

“Reality TV show perhaps?”

“That’s worse.”

“You’re killing me, Weaver,” he says, dipping his steak in some potatoes. “Give me some suggestions.”

I glare up at him. “Like what? A club or something?”

He takes a sip of his refilled whiskey. “As long as there are women.”

I sit there and think. I have a thing for reading—was an English major in college. “What about a book club?”

He chews and squints, thinking. “Could work,” he says, food still in his mouth.

I lean forward, galvanized. “I could find a nice fantasy—”

He sets down his fork with a clank, startling me. “Fantasy? No. If you want to meet a woman, you need to do romance.”

I deflate as all hope leaves my body. “Romance? Are you serious?” That is the one genre I cannot understand. It’s just for women who want to get off.

“But that’s where you’re gonna find women to date,” he says. “My wife’s crazy for that shit. Her and all her friends.”