Page 14 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Michael Cunningham

I step onto Kyle’s porch, our new books in hand.

We’ve been doing our little book club for over a month now.

Yesterday, we discussed a Beverly Jenkins novel at book club.

It was a good book, and I knew I would have had a lot to say.

But ever since I saw David, I’ve been in a funk.

I could hardly pay attention while I was reading it, and I was so absent yesterday that Kelley asked what was wrong.

‘Oh, I’m just a loser who can’t seem to do better than his ex,’ seemed like a remarkably self-pitying thing to say, so I didn’t say it. But that’s nonetheless how I’ve felt.

Kyle opens the door, and the sight of him makes me tingle head to toe. He’s wearing well-fitting jeans with a light-blue button-up that makes his hazel eyes pop. His sleeves are rolled up, revealing his hairy, muscular forearms.

“You’re dressed nice,” I say, stepping inside. I try to sound enthusiastic, but even I can tell it’s coming out flat.

“Thank you thank you,” he says, chipper.

“Any special occasion?” I ask. Probably some date with a woman hotter than the surface of the sun.

“Just felt like dressing up,” he says.

I follow him into his living room, unable to keep my eyes away from his perfect ass. He gestures to the coffee table, and it’s covered with large brown bags .

“I took the liberty of ordering us some food,” he says. “I remember you mentioning pad thai was your favorite.”

I sit down on the couch and set the books aside, already salivating. Smelling hot, savory goodness reminds me that I haven’t eaten at all today. I probably haven’t been eating well at all.

“Oh!” He walks into his kitchen, and he comes out with a bottle of Diet Coke. “And I know how much you love this.” He hands it to me, and my chest is alight with warmth.

“You didn’t have to do all this,” I say. “It’s just me.”

He sits down, his elbows resting on his knees. “Sometimes it’s just nice to celebrate,” he says. And then he winks at me, and I have to immediately look away.

Goddamnit, that sexy ass wink. The one that melts me into a puddle of goop. And he did it to me. In person.

“Everything okay?” He asks.

“Yeah,” I say, clearing the saliva that’s pooled in my mouth. “Just hungry.”

“Well dig in,” he says.

“I have to say,” he says as I crack open the pad thai. The smell is heavenly, and the moisture of the food softens my hardened face.

“I have absolutely loved what you’ve been making me read.”

I look up at him with a furrowed brow. “Really?”

He nods vigorously. “Oh yeah. It was—” He lifts his fist to his mouth and clears his throat. “I enjoyed it,” he says, more subdued. “I may even have to concede and say that romance is inspiring.”

I widen my eyes at him with a mouth full of noodles.

To my relief, he cracks open his food—some chicken fried rice—and starts eating too. I’m glad to not be eating alone.

“Now that’s a win,” I say. Being around Kyle has buoyed my mood just a little bit. “What had you convinced?”

“It’s just…” He pulls on his beard and puts on his thinking face, accentuating all of his perfect facial features.

“I never realized how deep romance can be. It ’s like these authors dig into these character’s insecurities, and they have to overcome these insecurities to be with the ones they love. ”

His words prick my heart, and heat trails down my torso like blood dripping from an open wound. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It’s like—take Book Lovers.

You have this accomplished blondie go to this small town.

Her work is her life. Then she finds someone who makes her question these goals.

Helps her see how she can slow down. But then she doesn’t give up on these goals.

She just adapts to be better version of herself.

I think that’s really cool. Definitely inspiring.

I was expecting just blind affection. But these lovers don’t get tied up in just physical attraction. It’s emotional, too.”

The air in the room thins around me. I swallow my food and stare blankly ahead.

“And you know, that makes me think,” he says, nodding. “I think I’m ready to give you some feedback.”

My chest squeezes. He told me he wanted to wait until he read enough of the book, but I just thought he wasn’t reading at all. “Oh?”

“Your book—the premise is cool,” he says. “But the attraction just feels more physical than it does emotional. I’m having a hard time understanding what really attracts these two besides their looks.”

Nausea overwhelms me.

“I think if you looked at what these authors were doing—how they weave together internal issues with external problems—and tie that into the romance, your story would be stronger.”

I grimace and set my food down.

Kyle notices me, and his face lengthens. “Did I say something wrong?”

“I need to use the restroom,” I say. I make my way to the bathroom, the same one that I used the first time I came here.

“Can I get you anything?” He asks. “Tums? Pepcid?”

“I’m good,” I say, then shut the door. I sit down on the toilet and collapse into my hands .

That insight. How is that I’ve been reading romance for years and have never realized this?

Of course. It’s so obvious. I even had a similar insight when I shared in that very first book club meeting about the title of Pride and Prejudice .

But analyzing a text and writing are two different things.

I didn’t understand how such an insight could apply to my own writing until now.

These characters he’s describing—they have internal problems that are then interwoven, seamlessly when written by the greats, into the larger narrative.

So when the character goes through external problems, such as interpersonal conflict with their love interest, they are forced to grow internally as well.

That’s what makes a story great. Not just an interesting plot or a hooky idea, but relatable characters growing emotionally as they endure and overcome relatable problems.

Amani talked about my book lacking that spark. She didn’t use these words, but my gut tells me that this is exactly what she was talking about.

And I couldn’t be angrier with myself.

Kyle Weaver—just a football player with more money than I could dream of having—came to this conclusion after reading only a handful of contemporary romance novels.

What does that say about me, someone who’s been reading the romance genre for years?

Shouldn’t I know this by now? Or has my resolution to stay away from unhealthy romance weakened, causing my writing intuition to wane?

There’s a knock at the door. “Michael, you alright?”

I raise my face from my hands. “Yeah, I’ll come out in just a minute.”

“Was it the food?” He asks.

“No. The food was great.”

There’s a pause. “Was it something I said?”

I want to say something, but I can’t just tell him the truth. He’ll just think I’m some insecure, emotional gay. Yet I don’t want to lie either.

“It’s just,” he says beyond the door. “You’re doing me such a huge favor, coming to me on a weekly basis. I told you I could pay you.”

“That’s not necessary,” I say. I want to make my own money .

“See?” he says. “The best way I can repay you is by giving you the most honest feedback. I’m sorry if that hurts you.”

I wrap my hands around my stomach, filled with butterflies.

And there’s the Kyle Weaver that tips me over the edge. Not only is he attractive; he’s kind. If he could pay me for what I’m doing for him, he would. So instead, he’s pouring his heart into understanding a genre that he didn’t even like before. All for me. He’s so unlike David in so many ways.

I rise and approach the door. I take a deep breath, then open it.

Kyle stands just on the other side, his arm propped up on the frame. From here, I can see sweat beginning to stain his armpits, and I’m suddenly aware of what a man Kyle Weaver is. I look up at him, and he’s standing slightly over me, his wide chest broader than my shoulders.

He doesn’t step away. Instead, he comes a little closer.

I hold my breath, our noses only an inch apart.

Then his wide nose brushes mine, sending chills down my spine.

My gaze trails from his chest to his brown eyes, and I just want to fall onto him.

Being this close, it’s like all my fantasies are coming true, the anger toward myself a shadow of what it was.

We close the distance between our lips, and I close my eyes.

No . I promised myself I wouldn’t fall for men who couldn’t love me back.

My eyes shoot open, and I pull away just before our lips touch. Kyle straightens.

He shakes his head. “I—”

“Sorry,” I say, but I try to act like nothing happened.

He winces slightly, hurt. I slip past him and make my way to the couch.

I don’t know what just happened, but I do know this: Kyle Weaver is straight .

He has to be. So, he is not emotionally available.

I just discovered why my romance lacks zest. I can’t just throw that all away by repeating my old, toxic pattern.

I will not fall for a guy who can’t love me back.

Not again. I will write a solid romance, get an agent, get published, and get my community back.

Kyle Weaver will not stand in the way of this.

I sit down, but Kyle’s still standing there. He’s expressionless. Frozen .

He takes a breath, almost gasping, and breaks from his stupor. “Oh, no worries at all,” he says, trying to return to his affable manner. But I can tell the enthusiasm has waned.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asks, returning to his seat.

I nod. “Just working through some things is all,” I say. “I appreciate your feedback. I think you’re completely right. My characters lack that internal conflict. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before.”

“It’s a pleasure,” Kyle says, less pleasurably and more pained. “I’m glad I can help.”

Both of us sit there and silence. Neither of us have returned to eating, and now Kyle’s leg is shaking rapidly.

“Do you have a boyfriend?” he asks.

The question is a sharp cut to my heart, widening the wound from earlier that’s making my chest tighten. “Why do you ask?”

He’s chewing on his lips, staring at the table between us, his leg still bouncing. He opens his mouth to speak, then shuts it, as if revising his response.

“I’m wondering—” He shakes his head, then swears under his breath. I wince and lean back, already on the defense after all that’s happened.

“Maybe,” he says. Then sighs. His leg stops bouncing as quickly, so he must have figured out what he wants to say.

“I wonder if you were in a relationship, maybe that would help you understand how to get those internal issues down,” he says. “Relationships aren’t easy, but you could apply what you feel there in your writing.”

My whole body tenses. “Are you saying that because I’m single I don’t know how to write love?”

He perks up. “So you are single?”

Anger flairs in my chest. “Yes, if that wasn’t so obvious,” I say with gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry,” he says, noticing my anger. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

I scoff. “So what? I have to have a boyfriend to write be a successful writer?” I ask aloud, as much to myself as to Kyle.

He grunts and rubs his forehead. “That’s not what I’m saying. I’m—”

“And by that logic,” I say, the heat of sweat prickling my forehead and back. “Because my ex still pushes my buttons—because I’m not over someone who clearly fucked up my life, that means I’m fundamentally incapable of writing good romance?”

He grimaces at me. “How the hell did you come to that?”

The disgust on his face lingers, which only adds to the flame in my chest. Now on top of him thinking I can’t write romance because I’m broken, he thinks I’ve gone crazy.

I jump to my feet. “I need to leave,” I say. I pick up the books I brought and start making my way to the front door.

“Michael, no,” he says, standing and following me. “Let’s talk about this.”

“There’s nothing to talk about,” I say back.

He already thinks I can’t write romance because I’m single, and I know that I’ll never be able to do it because I can’t seem to let go of someone who treated me like shit.

It all makes sense. In my resolution to never fall for unavailable men, I failed to realize that I still cling to David, the most unavailable man of all.

No wonder my romance has been shit. It’s like I’m cursed.

Kyle’s right. I’m fundamentally incapable of writing a good romance because I just can’t love healthily.

I open the door, but Kyle puts his hand on the door. I turn and find him towering over me, just like before.

“Stay,” he says. “Please.”

I just stare at him, lost in those brown eyes again.

“You are not ‘fundamentally incapable of writing good romance’,” he says. “I shouldn’t have said what I said. I’m sorry.”

I think about how close our lips were, how the touch of our noses sent me into the stratosphere.

But Kyle Weaver is straight. I can’t let myself develop feelings that he won’t be able to reciprocate. It’s best to leave now.

I thrust his copy of next week’s book into his belly. “Here,” I say.

He turns it upward, revealing the cover. “It’s a Cat Sebastian book about a gay couple in the fifties,” I say. “And I’ll send you an email of bullets from yesterday’s discussions since we didn’t talk about it. ”

I move his arm blocking me and open the door again. I turn, and Kyle looks at me imploringly. God, he’s so handsome. I have to look away before I get second thoughts.

“I’ll see you next week,” I say. I step outside and shut the door. I don’t look back.