Page 1 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)
Prologue
Kyle Weaver
“And the Sexiest Man Alive?” asks a man wearing button-up with the faces of Portland Tigers players all over it.
I chuckle as I stand in front of a bouquet of microphones and a crowd of reporters, a camera occasionally flashing. It’s media day, and a bunch of key players from both teams are getting interviewed before the NFO Championship Game on the field of the Miami stadium.
I grin and stare at the man’s shirt as I answer. “I’ve worked real hard for the first,” I say, my Southern drawl strong. “Don’t really know what else to say about the second.”
The crowd of reporters laughs, and I’m feeling good. The Championship Game is this Sunday, and I have a feeling that the win is ours.
A short, round man comes to the front of my crowd, and I already feel my heart begin to race.
Ricardo. The professional sports jokester, always asking players uncouth questions.
Supposedly, he always asks in good faith, only meant to get a laugh out of the player and the crowd.
He goes viral before every big game. But his questions, at least when asked to me, always feel barbed.
“Kyle! Kyle!” He shouts. I shift toward him. It’s a cool sixty-five degrees out here on the field, but I’m already sweating. I thought I told my agent not to let him out here .
“How is it that the ‘Sexiest Man Alive’ is still single? At thirty-four years old?”
The crowd turns to me, and I have to take a deep breath to prevent my face from blanching.
“Just been busy working on my skills,” I say, turning away, just how my agent instructed. Polite yet firm. I’m ready for the next question, hopefully about my playing and not about my love life.
“But surely there must be someone in your life,” Ricardo continues.
I sigh through my nose loud enough to be picked up by the mics. “Any other questions?”
“Come on,” Ricardo says. “You know what everyone’s dying to know. Are you single because you’re working on your skills? Or are you single because you’re gay?”
The crowd gasps, and everyone stares at me, expectant. I stare down at my mic, mortified.
“I—” I cough and clear my throat. “I don’t—”
When I can’t answer, my agent storms onto the field.
“Alright, that’s enough questions for now,” he says when he reaches me. He nudges me off my chair, but it feels like my legs are filled with lead.
The crowd goes wild.
“Kyle, can you confirm Ricardo’s words? Are you gay?”
“Is there a man you’re currently seeing?”
“No comment,” my agent says as he pushes me away.
Flashes blind me as mics are shoved in my face, and I want to do nothing more than bury myself into the field.
“I thought you said Ricardo wouldn’t be here,” I murmur to my agent.
“This is just as surprising for me,” he says. “Keep walking.”
A reporter steps in front of me and shoves a mic in my face. “There are rumors that you were part of the gay sex club at Miss U. Can you confirm?”
My stomach clenches as I remember all the players I slept with in college. “No comment,” I say, and I disappear into the stadium.
* * *
It’s Sunday, the score 21 - 26 with the Vanguards winning.
The shouts are deafening. There are less than ten seconds on the clock, and both teams are out of timeouts.
We’re playing defense, and the Vanguards have three more downs.
My team is depending on me to do what I do best: intercept and score a touchdown.
But that means our win is all up to me. My last chance to honor my promise to my dead father.
I try to calm my beating heart as I crouch down in front of their towering center, but I can’t help but blame myself for the current situation.
My botched interview has put the Tigers all over the news.
But they haven’t been talking about our stats or players.
They’ve been talking about potentially having a gay player on the team.
And this embarrassing limelight has thrown many of us off our game.
The worst part is that if I win, they won’t ask me about how it feels to raise the world record for linebacker touchdowns, or how it feels to honor my daddy’s, former Coach Weaver’s, wish to win the Championship Game.
No. Instead, it will be speculation about whether or not a gay man can really handle a career in the NFO.
The center snaps the ball. The quarterback pretends to throw it out to a wide receiver to my right.
But, just like I predicted, he jukes us and throws it to their tight end.
Already running that way, I barrel to the spinning football.
I jump high. And the moment I catch it, I run like hell. Just like my daddy taught me.
The color of our team’s uniforms blur in my vision as I run, but I don’t stop. There are screams. Deafening ones. But I can hear my heartbeat. Twenty yards away. Fifteen. Hands try to reach me, but I’m too fast. I’m going to win us the Championship Game.
But the question echoes in my mind again: ‘How is it that Sexiest Man Alive is still single?’
I don’t fucking know. Shouldn’t I have some hot girl by now? What the fuck is wrong with me?
My speed falters. A hand grabs onto my thigh. Momentum yanks me backwards. The ball flies out of my hands. I collapse onto the turf, and the crowd goes wild. The Vanguards have won the Championship Game.
And I just broke my promise.