Page 19 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Kyle Weaver

By the time the sun shines through the cloudy sky, I’m splayed out on the turf of the Tigers’ practice arena, panting like a dog.

Ever since Saturday, I’ve been coming here at the crack of dawn to calm my mind.

The only time I’ve felt peace lately is when I’m working out or sleeping. And I’ve been sleeping hardly at all.

I rise to my knees, and then my vision swirls. I let myself collapse back onto the turf again—I’m too tired to keep going. It starts to rain outside, and there’s a nice little patter on the roof of the metal complex.

At the time, I was annoyed that Michael rejected my advances. But now I couldn’t be more grateful. Because I’m confused as hell.

I admitted I was gay after I was idiotic enough to leak that I watched Michael’s porn.

But that didn’t solve problems like I thought.

It only created a bunch more. What do I do now that what everyone is saying about me is true?

That I am gay? And if management finds out, they definitely won’t re-sign me.

I still want to win the Championship Game.

It’s what I promised Dad, and my heartburn—anxiety?

I don’t know—goes crazy when I imagine ending my career so I can be someone he’d disapprove of.

I wish there was someone I could talk to, but who?

Ezekiel said he wouldn’t care, but admitting to a fellow teammate that I’m gay feels like shouting it to the world, no matter how close we are.

Somebody will find out. I can’t talk to Michael about it.

I’d be too tempted to get between his legs, and that’d only make things worse.

Ma maybe? She would accept me, but admitting it to her means I couldn’t take it back.

I need somebody to talk to where there would be no consequences.

My eyelids grow heavier as the rain gets stronger. For the first time in the last couple days, I actually feel sleepy.

I look around for something to cover myself. There’s a pile of rope nearby. I reach for it and pull the entire coil over my body. It doesn’t do much to warm me, but the weight pressing down on me relieves my aching chest. And soon, I’m fast asleep.

I wake to the sound of my phone ringing on full blast. The sun is out, and I hear someone nearby in the locker rooms.

I throw the ropes off me and crawl over to my phone, nearly faceplanting when I trip over them.

My back aches from sleeping on the hard floor, but I won’t complain.

At least I slept. I reach my phone, and I check the caller ID.

For a moment I’m hoping it’s Michael. But my stomach sinks when I see the name clearly.

Timmy.

“Hello?” I say, plopping down on the turf. By now, Ezekiel and a couple other guys have entered the gym. They wave, and I wave back.

“Kyle,” he says.

“Yep, that’s me,” I say, wiping my eyes. I check the time. I clonked out for a good three hours.

“A while back, I told management how you’re dating this girl.”

I’m silent. I don’t want to ask ‘who’, but for the life of me I can’t remember what I told him.

“The writer girl,” he says.

My heart starts to race. “Ah, yes,” I say, thankfully remembering. I basically described Michael to him but as a woman, and he ate it right up.

“What’s the status there? They want to know.”

I sit up straighter. “Oh, we’ll it’s going really well,” I say, wanting to sound as convincing as possible. “I’ve been helping her with her work, too. She’s really improving. ”

He sighs through the phone. “Good,” he says gruffly. “Have that picture for me?”

The two protein shakes I downed this morning curdle in my stomach. “Right, the picture.”

“What?” he asks, his impatience clear. “You know you need evidence of a girlfriend before signing day. If you want to play another year at least.”

Signing day. Only two months away. But I have no pictures of this ‘girl’. All I have is a confession hanging on the tip of my tongue and the fiery lust for a certain redhead.

“She’s… private,” I say. “And we actually don’t have any pictures.”

“Kyle…” he says, annoyed. “You know how this looks. Now it just sounds like you’re lying to me.”

“Timmy, I swear it. I’m not lying.”

There’s a silence, and I can picture him rubbing his shiny forehead. “Then what are we supposed to do here? I need something to show your bosses. Or I doubt they’d even consider re-signing you.”

I’m rubbing the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache come on. I’ve had one every day for the past week. I can’t do this alone. I need someone to talk to. Support.

“Gimme a week,” I say to him, just like I told Michael. “In a week I’ll get you that picture.”

“Alright,” he says. “And no longer. You hear me?”“Loud and clear.”

“Wait, one more thing,” he says, when I’m about to hangup.

“Yes?” My stomach is already bubbling. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.

“You’ll be hearing from a reporter soon,” he says. “Gave her your contact info. Wants to interview a bunch of Tigers players.”

I grunt. “Is she legit?”

“She’s from ESB,” he says. “And I wouldn’t complain. She wants to interview you about your relationship with your dad and how that led you to where you are now. Might help distract the narrative from your sex life. ”

Doesn’t seem horrible. Talking about him actually might help clear up some of this confusion. “Fine,” I say.

“Anything else I’m forgetting?” he asks.

I watch as Ezekiel spots one of the linemen at the bench press.

He’s told me about how he sees a therapist and how good it’s been for him.

I think Michael has one too. Maybe that’s why he talks so eloquently about himself.

And I bet talking to somebody more qualified than a reporter might actually be just what I’m looking for.

In fact, this might be exactly what I need.

“Yeah,” I say. “Would you mind helping me get a therapist?”

I can picture him balking. “A therapist?”

“I got shit to work through,” I say. “With my dad and all.” Which isn’t a lie.

“I can get you set up with one,” he says. “But this better not stop you from getting me that picture.”

I sigh. “Don’t worry. It won’t.”

* * *

I show up to this pristine office building downtown.

Timmy’s email tells me she’s up on one of the top floors.

Wearing a hoodie and sunglasses so no one notices, I make my way inside the building and into the elevator.

By the time I reach the designated floor, I’m already sweating, and it’s not just ‘cause it’s a balmy day and I’m in a hoodie.

Timmy was able to find me an appointment with a therapist a day later, but I don’t know how I feel about this now.

I was able to say I was gay to myself, and I could say it to Michael, but that’s only because it felt weirder not to.

But to say it to a stranger? Who likely only knows me as being the one of the best linebackers the NFO has ever seen? This is a bad idea.

I check in with the receptionist and sit down in a beige armchair. The room is filled with old looking pictures of mountains, lakes and rivers. There’s a sign that says ‘Serenity’ with the serenity prayer underneath it in purple cursive.

My heart starts to race. I could leave now. Could say to Timmy that this would distract me from my dating. Then I wouldn’t have to—

“Kyle?”

A young, Indian woman has her head poked out of the door next to the receptionist’s desk. Unable to run away now, I stand up and follow her. She leads me down a hallway, a full window at the end giving a stunning view of downtown.

“Right here,” she says, gesturing to an open door.

I nod to her, then step inside.

The room is a reddish orange, and there’s a long, expensive-looking beige couch.

At one end of the room, there’s an even bigger window than the one in the hallway, giving a clear view of the Delaware river.

On the other end sits a small Indian woman in a swivel chair wearing all red with an orange scarf.

Next to her, there’s some incense burning.

Jasmine—I recognize it. My mom used it around the house growing up.

It reminds me of heading out to hot summer practices with my dad.

“Go ahead and shut the door if you please,” she says in a crisp Indian accent. “And feel free to sit down on the couch.”

I close the door and plop down, air blowing out of the cushion in both directions. She turns around. She’s pretty, probably in her sixties. She’s got gray streaks in her hair, and she looks like she’s got wrinkles around her eyes from smiling too much.

The wrinkles crease, and she extends her hand. “Nice to meet you, Kyle. I’m Neeti.”

“Nice to meet you,” I say, shaking hers. I retract it, all embarrassed—my palms are sweaty. But she doesn’t notice.

She glances down at her clipboard and writes something down.

“Is there a certain way this all goes?” I ask. “Do I need to do anything?”

She looks up at me and smiles, setting down her clipboard. “Sorry about that, just needed a quick note to myself. No, there’s nothing you need to do. In the first session, I just like to talk and get to know my client. So, tell me about yourself.”

I shrug. “Well, I play football for the Tigers, but you probably know that.”

She tilts her head. “Tigers? ”

“Yes,” I say. “Portland Tigers. The football team? We played in the Championship Game last year.” And lost because of me , I’m tempted to say.

“Forgive me,” she says, giggling. “I’m not very knowledgeable about sports. My husband plays cricket, but that’s the extent of my knowledge. So you play professional football, very cool.”

“I guess,” I say. I don’t see how this woman can help me if she doesn’t understand football.

“So what brings you in today, Kyle?”

I sigh and rub the bridge of my nose. Coming here was a mistake. I don’t even know where to begin.

“I’m hoping to get my contract re-signed with the Tigers,” I say. “My contract ended with them a couple months ago, but I want to play at least one more year. You know how contracts work?”

“I get this gist,” she says, nodding. “You say ‘at least one more year’. Why?”

“Why not?” I ask back.

“Well,” she says, looking up at the ceiling. “American football is hands-on, and you are…” she glances at her clipboard. “Thirty-four years old. That’s pretty old to play professional sports, no? Especially one so aggressive.”

I shrug. “It’s fun,” I say. “And it’s important to me.”

Her eyes thin. “Important in what way?”

I shift in my seat, feeling that heartburn—anxiety, still not used to calling it that—in my chest again.

“Well, you know, I grew up playing it. It’s my career and all. It’s part of who I am.”

She nods, then looks out her window, her hands clasped in her lap. She sits back and adjusts her scarf.

I breathe in the scent of jasmine, and suddenly memories of sitting next to my dad in that hospital bed hit me hard. His breathing was shallow, and his pale, skinny frame still haunts me.

I grabbed his hand. ‘Dad, you’re a strong man. You can hang on a little longer. ’

He put his other frail hand on mine. He was cold, and his touch sent chills all the way down to my toes.

‘Son,’ he said, raspy. ‘Promise me something.’

I leaned in. I was all ugly crying at that point, trying not to squeeze his hand too hard. I couldn’t admit it, but I knew it was over.

‘Carry on my legacy,’ he said. ‘Our family name.’

I felt like I got punched in the gut. Legacy ? I wanted to ask. But I knew exactly what he meant.

I nodded. ‘Absolutely,’ I said.

He died four hours later, peacefully in his sleep. The next days, all through the funerals and the mourning, guilt weighed down my conscience like an anchor.

Legacy , he said. Family name .

Grandchildren. He wanted grandchildren. Posterity.

And here I was, his only son, fucking around with other players at Miss U. Doing exactly the last thing he wanted his son to be doing.

I had tried dating women. I couldn’t do it.

My head and heart hurt too much when it came to being intimate.

I then decided to do the only other thing that could make the guilt go away.

He always wanted to coach in the NFO and eventually reach the championships, but the pancreatic cancer got in the way.

So, I vowed to win the Championship Game in his honor.

Neeti uses her feet to pull her over to a box of tissues nearby. She scooches back and hands the box to me. I take it and use some tissues to wipe the tears off my face, but it’s no use. They just kept coming. I’m relieved to blow my stuffy nose, though.

“Sorry,” I say, wiping my eyes again. “I don’t usually do this.” Even though I had just balled my eyes in front of Michael only a couple days ago.

“It’s good to let it out,” she says. “Is there anything you’d like to share?”

I think back on what my dad said to me, what I promised in return. And what I’ve done all these years to compensate for failing to keep up that original promise.

“I do,” I say. “Do we have time?”

She glances at the clock, then nods. “Tell me anything you’d like. I’m here to listen.”