Page 10 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Kyle Weaver

I sniff my armpit one more time just to make sure it doesn’t stink.

It’s not like I’m trying to impress Michael or anything, but the first time I saw him I had just gotten back from the gym.

I want to put on a good impression. I shut my mirror cabinet in the bathroom just as the doorbell rings, and I get that light feeling in my stomach that I usually only get before a big game.

“It’s just Michael,” I say to myself as I make my way to the front door. “Or Peter Cummins, the super-hot pornstar.” I feel my face go flush, and I have to pause and take a deep breath.

It’s either this or go to the book club myself. Do I really want to go meet a bunch of women and get that dark feeling in my head again? No, this is much preferable. But I still don’t know how I’m gonna find a girl if I keep it up this way.

Enough thinking. I can’t keep Michael waiting.

By the time I reach the front door, I feel like I do just before kickoff. What the hell is wrong with me? It’s just Michael. I open the door and try to still my racing heart by putting on a neutral face. He’s wearing a well-fitting long-sleeved T-shirt with jeans that hug his legs quite well.

“Come on in,” I say, my accent stronger than usual. I’m trying to look at anything but him.

“Here,” he says, stepping inside. He hands me a book. “The novel for next week.” The cover has a black woman with an afro on it .

“Kennedy Ryan,” I say, reading the bottom of the cover.

“She’s a romance powerhouse,” Michael says. “Such good stuff. I’m excited to read her new book.”

Powerhouse. I scoff to myself. Since when is anyone in the romance genre a ‘powerhouse’?

“I’ve never said this before,” he says, stepping into my foyer. “But your house is gorgeous.”

My face reddens, and I scratch the back of my neck. I didn’t build the damn house, so why am I getting all flustered? “Thanks,” I say quickly.

We make our way into my living room.

“Uh, have a seat,” I say, gesturing awkwardly to my couch. “Can I get you something to drink? A beer or anything?”

“Oh, I don’t really drink,” he says, sitting down. “Only occasionally.” He holds himself tight, like he’s afraid he’ll spill himself all over my couch.

“Me neither,” I admit to my own surprise.

There’s something about Michael that makes me want to be honest. Even though he hasn’t been honest with me in telling what he really does for work.

I just wish he felt more comfortable here.

Unlike my dad, I don’t hate gay people. They’re people just like everyone else.

I hope he doesn’t think I hold some secret prejudice or something. I’d like him to feel safe.

“You don’t?” He asks with a cocked eyebrow. He spreads himself out on the couch a little bit, but he stays inside his cushion. “Don’t you sponsor like three different beers?”

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging defensively. “Goes with my whole brand of being like a manly man or whatever.” I scratch an itch on my chest, then feel my back light up. Did Michael bring in a load of pollen in here with him? Why am I so goddamn itchy?

“Interesting,” he says, intrigued. “Water is fine.”

Interesting , I think to myself as walk to the kitchen to get us both some water. Was my answer not convincing enough for him? I could have sworn I saw him smirk when I said that. Does he not see me as a manly man ?

When I get back to the living room, Michael isn’t in his spot. Instead, he’s standing by a nearby bookshelf, assessing its contents.

“That one has all fantasy classics,” I say, setting down our waters on the coffee table. “Published before 1980, that is.”

“Huh,” Michael says, as if he’s more amused than impressed. He sits back down and picks up his copy of Montana Sky . “So what did you think of the book?”

I sit with my legs spread wide, melting back into the couch. The Southern hospitality in me is trying to convince Michael that he can relax here, that he doesn’t need to be wound so tight.

“It was good,” I say.

“Just good?” He asks.

I shrug. “It was—how do they say it?—cuuute,” I say, drawing out the syllable.

Michael chuckles, and my chest gets all warm.

“Just cute?” He asks, looking at me with a furrowed brow. He’s got a smile on, too, and I realize that there are few times when I’ve really seen him smile like that. I like it.

“I mean, yeah,” I say leaning forward. I realize I’ve been pulling on my beard for a good minute, which is something I only do when I’m thinking. Or nervous. “You get these women on a farm and then these cowboy type men come in and court them. All very predictable, but very cute as they would say.”

Michael laughs, but there’s a sharpness to it. “Did you even read the book?”

There’s that heartburn again. I feel like I’ve displeased Michael, but I don’t know how. “Yes, I did.”

He shakes his head. “Then we must have read different copies or something. Because the copy I read, I felt, really highlighted the autonomy of these three women in a setting that has traditionally been so restrictive to women.”

I lean forward and drop my hand from my beard, leaning on my knees. I watch Michael. Fascinated. He talks faster, but he pronounces each syllable more clearly, as if this is some speech he’s prepared. But I can tell this isn’t coming from some paper he wrote. It’s coming from the heart .

“A ranch in small-town Montana? That’s as conservative as it gets.

Yet these women defy the odds by continually making decisions that are best for them , following through on these decisions, and meanwhile having these ‘cowboys’, as you describe them, fall head over heels for them.

And it’s only when these women allow it do these men finally get what they want. ”

He finishes, and I’m just stuck staring at him. I have to remember to breathe.

“Sorry,” he says. “I know you said you wanted to just go over the basic discussion we had yesterday at Ruckers. You don’t need to hear all my ramblings.” He pulls out a journal from his back, the one that presumably had all those notes.

“Hey, no, that’s okay. I really like hearing what you have to say.”

He looks up at me, there’s a small sparkle in his eye.

I swallow and, not realizing saliva had pooled into my mouth, start coughing.

“Are you okay?” he asks when I don’t stop.

I reach for my water and take a big gulp. I’m embarrassed when nearly a third of the glass spills onto my chest, soaking my shirt and dripping onto my stomach.

“Oh my gosh,” Michael says, standing up. “Let me get you something to dry off.”

I grunt. “It’s fine.” I grab the collar of my shirt and quickly strip it off. I take the dry bits and dry the rest of my torso off. And when I look up at Michael, he stares at me as if I ripped my own arm off.

And that’s when it hits me.

Michael isn’t being shy because he thinks I hate gay people or because I don’t drink or whatever.

He’s shy because he thinks I’m hot.

I’d recognize that look anywhere—I call it the sticky stare. When people’s eyes seem to stick to you anywhere you go. Not to brag, but I see it every time I go out. I just didn’t think the man I’ve been crushing on for years would think this about me.

“Let me go get another shirt,” I say, even though I know he would much rather I stay here shirtless. I stand up as Michael remains frozen, and I pretend not to notice his gawking .

“Okay,” he chokes out.

I make my way upstairs and find a replacement shirt, unable to keep the smile off my face.

Michael—Peter Cummins—thinks I’m hot. Even when I was granted the title of Sexiest Man Alive, I was flattered, but not to the extent I am now.

The gay pornstar that I have followed for years thinks I’m just as attractive.

I don’t know what to do with this information. But I like it.

When I make my way back downstairs, Michael is scrolling on his phone. His shoulders are tense, and he’s shrunk himself inside the couch cushion again. Before, I would have been uncomfortable with his discomfort, but now I welcome it. He can think I’m hot all he wants. Now he knows how I feel.

He looks up at me when he sits down and quickly thrusts his phone into his pocket as if I were to chide him for having it out.

“We were saying?” I ask, unable to stop the smug, toothless smile forming on my face.

He looks down at his book. “Um, I was just talking about this book is just more than cute. It’s inspiring. At least to me.”

Ah, yes. His little talk that had me gawking at him just as he was me.

“I don’t know if I would go as far as to describe it as inspiring, but like I said, it was good.”

“Why is it not inspiring?” he asks.

I shrug, confidence oozing through me. “I mean, how inspiring can the romance genre be? It’s about people falling in love.

And often times it’s unhealthy. Fantasy, on the other hand, is inspiring.

Take Lord of the Rings. You take this little nobody from a backwater place and give him the directive to save the world.

It’s a bit overdone at this point, but the message never gets old: anyone, no matter how small, can change the world. Romance just gets people off.”

When I finish, I expect him to ogle at me just like I did him. But he just glares at me, a half-formed scowl on his face.

“So you’re saying that romance is the inferior genre because… it’s porn?”

I recoil. Bold of him to say .

“No, I’m saying that fantasy has been, and always will be, the superior genre because its messages inspire us to be better people, while romance just gives in to everyone’s basest desires.”

Now his face has gone to full on disgust. I didn’t think much of my words, but now I wish I could take them back.

“Romance does not give in to base desires any more than fantasy. Look at Game of Thrones. Would you say that fucking your sister is more inspiring or base?”

I shake my head. “That’s not—”

“And let’s compare that to, say, this Nora Roberts novel. Is defying gender roles inspiring? Absolutely.”

“But you’re comparing apples to oranges.”

“You were the one to draw the comparison in the first place! Listen. I have nothing against fantasy. But I am against the idea that anything is superior to romance because all romance is just porn. I, ” he says, jamming his finger into his chest. “Love romance because it teaches me that love, even gay love, has room to thrive in this world.”

He spoke with the eloquence of before, but there is a fervor now—a fire, just like my childhood preacher had. This is personal.

I raise my hands defensively, wishing we never went down this rabbit hole. “I’m just saying my opinion.”

Michael huffs. “Then maybe you just don’t understand romance.”

I look at him. He has his arms folded, and he’s frowning down at the coffee table. Michael seems like a smart guy, and even though he’s a pornstar, it doesn’t seem like all he cares about is sex. Clearly, the romance—not just the physical intimacy—is important to him in these books.

“I may just be wrong then,” I say, shrugging.

Michael tilts his head at me as if that’s the most confusing thing I’ve said all day.

“I used to think like you,” he says. “I only read literary things. High-brow literature. It was like—have you ever watched SpongeBob?”

I recoil, the whiplash like a freight train hitting me. “Uh, yes? ”

He laughs. “I’m sorry, but I promise it’s relevant. Remember that episode where Squidward tries a Krabby Patty for the first time?”

I light up. “Yes! I loved that episode!”

Michael nods, that infectious eloquence animating him.

“You know how he tries it and then goes crazy, how he says ‘all those wasted years’, lamenting how he missed out on all the times he could have been having one? That was me when I read my first true romance novel as an adult. It was Beach Read by Emily Henry.”

“I think I’ve heard of her,” I say.

“It was that book that taught me that romance was not only just as good everything else, but that it had its own strengths as a genre.”

I nod. “I may be willing to take a look at what she’s written then,” I say. “Maybe I’ll convert just like you.”

A smile forms on his face, and it feels like my insides are a pot of warm stew being stirred on a Winter day. I don’t want him to stop smiling at me. And damnit—that SpongeBob reference? He’s funny, too.

“You wanna read on top of what you already are doing with the Ruckers book club?” He asks. “A book a week is already a lot of reading.”

“I’m off season,” I say shrugging. “There’s only so much I can do besides working out. I can start with that book you suggested— Beach Read ?”

He nods, leaning forward on his cushion. He’s beaming like I did as a kid when I was opening presents on Christmas morning. God, I love how earnest he is.

“And you know what? Maybe I don’t know fantasy as well as I thought. Why don’t you give me a suggestion for a book I should read as well?”

A grin forms on my face, but this time it’s not from being overconfident. “I read some romance, you read fantasy? I like it.”

“And you’re sure you still want to do the book club on top of this?”

I remember why I’m supposed to be in this book club, and my stomach twists.

I need to be finding a girl, someone to get with so I can re-sign with the Tigers.

Winning the Championship Game is still on the top of my agenda.

So I gotta stick with this book club. Eventually, I’ll go in person, and that way I can find someone.

Then the Tigers won’t have to worry about me being gay anymore.

But that doesn’t mean I can’t have fun now.

“I’m sure,” I say. “And you still haven’t sent me your work. That was part of this deal too, remember?”

Michael deflates slightly, but his enthusiasm remains. He pulls out his phone. “I’ll send that to you now.”

“Can’t wait to read it,” I say.

He looks up at me, his eyes bright. “And I can’t wait to read your recommendation.”