Page 2 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Michael Cunningham

“That was some of the best sex I’ve ever had.”

I roll my eyes as I wash the lube off my hands in my bathroom. That’s what they always say before they high-tail it out of my apartment. I dry my hands, then walk into the bedroom. “You really think so?” I ask quite literally.

“Fuck, man.” The beefy, six-three guy plops down on my bed, still completely nude.

I have to admit, he was a good lay. But I have no interest in him pretending to care about me now that he’s gotten what he wanted.

I walk out of the bathroom and lean against the doorframe.

The ring light and camcorder are still on.

That’s fine. I’ll just edit this out before out I post it.

“It’s like you’re handcrafted from the gods or something,” he says. “You practically pulled that orgasm right out of me. I can’t remember the last time…” The man—I don’t actually know his real name except for his twitter handle of ‘PortlandBeefCake’—closes his eyes his eyes as if in blissful sleep.

“Hah,” I say, searching for my briefs on the floor. PortlandBeefCake’s ecstasy makes me believe that his words could be true. I pick up my briefs and slip them on. “Thanks. I’m flattered.”

But the man didn’t seem to hear. He lays spread on the bed, contented.

And this is why dating is fruitless. Guys are always so kind, so sweet, so into you. But once I get them off, it’s like I no longer exist. It’s been the same my entire thirty-one years. It’s best that I post on OnlyFans. If I’m going to have emotionless sex, at least I can get paid for it .

I scratch my head, roughing up my ginger mullet that PortlandBeefCake almost ripped off when he was railing me.

I glance at my alarm clock. Shit. I’m supposed to meet Amani for a drink in thirty.

Guess we were going longer than I thought.

I need to clean up before I meet her. I can’t wait to hear what she thinks of my novel.

“Hey, man,” I say. “I gotta…”

But then PortlandBeefCake starts snoring.

Great. Now I have to be an asshole.

I pick up one of the man’s massive arms and drop it on his hairy abs. He startles awake and eyes me like a complete stranger. Then he comes to, realizing where he is.

“I’m going to have to ask you to leave,” I say.

“Sure, yeah.” He rubs his eyes and stands up, about three inches taller than me. He raises his hands for me to fist bump.

I return it with a sigh.

“Great time, man. Let’s uhh…” He starts gathering his things, letting his fake invitation to see each other again fade into the air.

I turn on my shower, then walk out to see him off. “I’ll get the video edited and posted.”

“Sweet,” he says, all his stuff in hand. He looks more handsome with his clothes on. “It was a pleasure.”

And then he’s gone, and I’m alone.

I hop into the shower before the loneliness swallows me up.

But I have no need to worry. Once Amani tells me how amazing my story is, which it has to be considering how hard I’ve worked on it, I’ll shed myself of the typical post-hookup blues.

And who knows. Maybe this novel will finally be the one that gets me an agent.

I hope. Because if it isn’t, this may just be the last one that I write.

* * *

I get to my favorite pub five minutes earlier than Amani and I agreed to meet, which is typical of me. This gives me time to continue reading this gay romance series about hot firefighters, and I prefer to read in public places. It helps me be alone yet not lonely. The ideal.

An ad blares on the TV in front of me, one that I instantly recognize because I’ve watched it at least 1000 times.

Kyle Weaver, linebacker for the Portland Tigers, fills the screen, and my chest immediately tightens at the sight.

The Mississippi sweetheart. He’s shirtless, after having been just doused with a bucket of water, holding up the beer he sponsors.

He flashes the camera a seductive grin, then winks, and I swear to God I’m already like a quarter hard.

And when he speaks in that Southern drawl, I just want to lean back and spread my legs.

There are few videos that have gotten me off quicker.

No wonder he was last year’s ‘Sexiest Man Alive’.

I’m usually not too insecure about my body, but mine pales in comparison to his.

Where I’m only about 5’11’’, he’s 6’5’’.

Where my muscles are more defined, his are thick and beefy.

He seems to have the perfect balance of fat and muscle.

And where my red beard can never grow more than an inch, his jet-black beard grows all the way down to his chest, which he never shaves.

He has a perfect head of wavey, black hair and a smile that crinkles his warm, brown eyes.

It nearly knocks me out every time. I’ve been told, on occasion, that I’m handsome, with my big nose and hazel eyes, and I’m often fetishized because of my red hair.

Yet I feel like an ugly duckling compared to the swan he is.

But the thing that draws me to him more than anything else are his charity efforts.

He has donated tens of thousands of dollars to organizations benefiting children with cancer, as well as cancer as a whole.

He’s given so much that he’s often asked why he’s giving so much away and not spending it on, say, a family, which he’s usually asked because he’s the most eligible bachelor in the country.

To which he responds: the kids need it more than me.

Ugh. Swoon.

“I swear,” Amani says, walking up the table. She looks at Kyle Weaver just before the commercial changes. “That man could make me straight.”

I look away from the TV to my best friend from college. “Yeah, he’s a handsome guy. ”

As Amani takes a seat in the booth across from me, I blush.

I know having a crush on one of the best football players in the country is nothing to be embarrassed about, but I made a promise to myself after I broke up with my ex: no more chasing after unavailable men.

If I want to write a good romance, I need to make sure my own romances are not unhealthy or unrealistic.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, tying her dreads above her head, her One-Piece jacket bright and garish compared to the black booth. “My coworkers are incompetent coders.”

“Well, if you stuck with your literary agent, maybe you wouldn’t be putting up with them.”

“Hey,” she says, pointing a finger. “I didn’t break up with her. I can still reach out to her if I want.”

“And it makes no sense to me that you aren’t,” I say, shaking my head with a lilt in my voice. “I’d be utilizing the hell out of an agent if I had one. Content-writing sucks the soul out of me, and I’d do anything to get out of it. That and all the porn I have to make to get by.”

She playfully whacks my arm, and then the waiter comes to take our order.

I love Amani. She and I have been best friends ever since we took an essay writing class at UDub.

She’s a nerdy black lesbian more obsessed with anime than anyone I know.

And she can write a killer fantasy. Too bad she’s had no luck landing a book with an editor at a publishing house.

“So, I read your stuff,” she says.

I perk up. “Did you like it?”

She ticks and tilts her head. “I definitely think there are some strengths.”

I frown, not fooled at all. “So it wasn’t good.”

“It’s not bad!” she says. She’s trying to sound reassuring, but it just comes off as pitying.

“Well, what are your overall thoughts?”

“You’ve got an interesting romantic premise,” she says. “I like the whole addiction component. Spices things up.”

“Okay,” I say, sitting up. “What else? ”

She sucks on her lip. “All the pieces were there—a premise, good characters, interesting story. But it just fell flat to me.”

My chest tightens. “Flat?”

She winces. “Like the romance wasn’t there. Like it wasn’t believable. I didn’t feel invested enough in these gay men for me to care that they got together.”

I have to resist crossing my arms. We have a rule about crossing our arms when receiving feedback. Too defensive. But I’m still pissed, and Amani knows it.

“It’s still a work in progress, Michael. That’s different than being bad.”

I start tapping my foot. “I’ve been working on this novel for over a year, and you’re saying it still needs work?”

“Yes,” Amani says with a raised brow. “That’s how this industry works. All writing is rewriting.”

I grunt and finally cross my arms just as our food arrives, and I wallow as we eat.

This is so discouraging. I miss our college days where I could see how my writing improved with each piece, where every week I could get with my writing group and learn and grow with fellow writers.

Growing up neglected, this was like finding an oasis in a desert when all I was used to was sand.

I want to have this again—the sense of community that comes with writing.

I see published authors, both big and small, developing intimate relationships with each other, the same kinds of relationships I cherished in college.

But I don’t personally have that anymore, and with how hard it is to find writing friends, it feels like the only way for me to get this again is by getting published.

Amani’s great, but she hardly has time to read my stuff, and it feels like she’s all but given up her dream to be a published author.

And with her feedback, the dream of finally having this intimate community again feels farther away than ever.

“You’re getting that sad look,” she says. “Your face gets all droopy and you get quiet. The one you make when you get feedback you don’t like.”

I let out a sharp laugh. “Well what’s there to like? I don’t even know where to start to make my romance deeper. And it’s not like I’m chasing after unavailable men right now. So I don’t know why my romance is so bad. ”

“Again,” Amani says, finishing her fries. “It’s not bad. It could just use some zest.”

I laugh, hopeless. “What does that even mean?”

She reaches into her pocket. “I’m so glad I grabbed this.” She puts a card on the table and slides it to me. There are butterflies, roses, and a straight couple kissing on it.

I pick it up. “This is…?”

“You know Ruckers?”

The cool new indie bookstore in Portland. “Of course I do.”

“They have a romance book club that’s so popular it meets weekly. And it’s eclectic. You’ll get your Nora Roberts fans, your Sarah J. Maas fans. The whole gamut.”

I furrow my brow at her. “How did you know about this?”

She laughs. “I went the other day to pick up a book when they had their meeting. Their cackles resonated throughout the whole store. You know how some romance readers are. I bet most of those women are reading more than one a day. Didn’t interest me much, but I figured I’d grab one of their cards.”

I glance down at the card. In iridescent font, it has the address of the bookstore as well as some authors they regularly read. All authors I’ve enjoyed, many of whom write gay stuff.

“I love discussing books as much as the next, but you really think this will help?”

Her eyes widen as if I’ve grown a second head. “What better way to learn how to how to write compelling romance than from its biggest fans?”

I sigh, then shrug. The next meeting is this Friday, and the card says they’re discussing Pride and Prejudice. “Sure, why the hell not. I’m always down for a Jane Austen reread.”

“Who knows,” Amani says, sipping the last of her drink. “Maybe you’ll find a special someone.”

I fake gag. “With my luck? It’ll just be some fuckboy.”

She shrugs. “You never know.”