Page 3 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Kyle Weaver

I’ve already been working out for almost two hours today, but it isn’t enough. If I had been fast enough, I could have made it to the end zone. I could have won the Tigers a Championship Game. I could have kept my promise to my dad.

I push the sled to the end of the forty-yard lane in our practice facility, and I turn it around to do another cycle.

“Hey, man, you need to take it easy.” Ezekiel says. My wide receiver walks over to me, shirtless, his sweat dripping down his dark-skinned abs. He pulls his dreads back and ties them up.

I wipe my sweat-drenched face with my towel, yet the movement just causes my sweat to drop through my beard onto the floor. I take a seat on the sled, still breathing heavy.

“You’re still pissed,” Ezekiel says.

“Of course I’m pissed,” I say. “Wouldn’t you be? I fuck up our chance at winning the Championship Game, and the media hasn’t shut up about who I might be sleeping with. We were so close.”

“I know,” he says, sitting down on the turf next to me. There are some other guys working out nearby, but they’re doing their own thing. “But it’s not really your fault. You know that. We’re a team, Kyle. It’s on all of us.”

I just grunt.

“Hey!” Ezekiel shouts. The five other players in the gym look up at us .

“Do you think that it’s Kyle’s fault we lost the Championship Game?”

A lineman shakes his head.

“No,” says one of our offensive tackles.

“Man, fuck Ricardo!” Our center says. “And fuck the media.”

Ezekiel looks back at me. “See?”

“But you know how it is. No teams wants to sign a gay person or even a person rumored to be gay. Too much drama.”

“Well, are you gay?”

My chest tightens, and I glare up at him. “No, dude. I’m definitely not gay.”

He throws up his hands defensively. “I’m just asking,” he says. He jumps to his feet. “Just know that I would still support you if you were.”

My phone lights up. I grab it to see it’s an email notification. And it’s not just from any email, but a very special email, one that’s meant only for very private things. Excitement bubbles in my chest.

I put my phone in my pocket and zip it up quickly, then rise to my feet, a good three inches taller than Ezekiel. “Thanks, man. But I’m serious. I’m into women. It’s just, you know—since my dad died.”

“I know that’s hard on you,” he says. “Maybe that’s what you can use to convince the media to stop asking about your love life.”

I snort. “I don’t think they’ll be satisfied until they see someone under my arm.”

Ezekiel shrugs. “That might be good for you to do,” he says. “Might make it easier for the Tigers to re-sign you.”

A pit forms in my stomach, and my shoulders tense. “You think they wouldn’t re-sign me if I was still single?”

He shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have mentioned it,” he says. “You’re the best linebacker the NFO has seen in decades. They’re going to re-sign you.”

My shoulders relax. “You’re right.”

Ezekiel walks over to a nearby treadmill and slips a shirt on. “Me and the guys are gonna get something to eat. Wanna join?”

I rub my belly. “For sure. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. ”

“And you’re working out that hard?” Ezekiel says. “You really need to lay off.”

I laugh. “I’ll be okay.”

As we wait for the other guys to finish up, I pull my phone and check out the notification. And I was right. He released a new video.

I scroll through his page, and my chest lights up with excitement.

He hasn’t released a new video in a few weeks, so this is the rain during my drought.

There are few guys that consistently get me off, and Peter Cummins is one of them.

I love his red hair, his thick beard, his hairy muscles. I’ve been a fan of his for years.

Am I gay? I don’t like the question. I think guys are hot.

I’ve slept with guys when I was part of that secret little gay club at Miss U.

But I’m not gay gay. Meaning I still like women.

And I wouldn’t call it bisexual either. I just think that some guys are handsome. When it comes to it, I’ll find a woman.

“You ready?” Ezekiel asks, the guys ready to go behind him.

I quickly shut off my phone and pray none of my blood went south. That would be a nightmare. I shift my legs and breathe a sigh of relief. We’re good.

Just as we’re walking out, my phone buzzes again. Did he release two videos in one day? Hallelujah. But when I pull it out, it’s not another email notification. It’s a text from my agent.

“We need to talk.”

It feels like I have heartburn. “Call later?” I send.

“No,” he responds. “Now. At our usual.”

I sigh, trying to hide the anxiety in my voice. “Hey, y’all. Gotta go meet with Timmy.”

The guys just tell me to have fun, but Ezekiel stops and looks at me.

“I don’t have a good feeling about this,” I say.

“You wanna win a Championship Game,” he says. “So just do what Timmy says. He’s always had your back.”

I pull on my beard, an anxious habit. “I just hope he has it this time.”

* * *

Timmy and I sit in a dark, old-fashioned American restaurant.

We’re sitting next to a fireplace, but it’s only just bright enough for me to see Timmy’s face.

We regularly eat here because you can’t see anyone beyond your own table.

Nice and anonymous. And a little romantic too, if I wasn’t with Timmy.

After we order and exchange our pleasantries, Timmy leans forward onto the table. He hasn’t been this serious since the Tigers were trying to walk back on one of my raises.

“What’s going on, Timmy?”

“I think you know.” He scratches his bald head and clears his throat. He’s wearing a button-up with a suitcoat and jeans, while I threw on some slacks and a nice henley.

“I know my interview didn’t go well,” I say. “But I didn’t think Ricardo would be there.”

The waiter brings out drinks to the table: a whiskey neat for Timmy and an old fashioned for me. Timmy picks up the glass and drinks nearly half of it.

“This is bigger than the interviews,” he says. He gulps the rest of the glass and sets it on the side of the table for our waiter to refill.

“Bigger?”

He clears his throat and moves his napkin from his lap to the table. “The Tigers don’t want to re-sign you.”

It’s that goddamned heartburn again. “Don’t play with me, Timmy.”

“I’m serious,” he says, looking around for the waiter. He wants more drink bad. “After your interview, Tigers players got more questions about what you do in the bedroom than they did about your gameplay.”

“Yeah,” I say, shrugging. “I did, too.”

He shakes his head. “Do you know how serious this is? Your love life became more important than us making the Championship Game. Management thinks you’re a distraction, Kyle. A dangerous one.”

I shift in my seat, sweat forming on my forehead. “It’s really that bad?”

The wait returns with another glass, and Timmy gulps it in one go.

“Bad?” Timmy says as he wipes his lips. “It’s worse than bad.

If this keeps up, the Tigers will turn into a joke.

We’ll be seen as the ‘gay’ team. Our players will move to other teams. Fans will take us less seriously.

We’ll lose our momentum. And then the Championship Game will be a distant memory. ”

A burn flares in my chest. I didn’t just lose us the Championship Game when I got tackled. With my interview, I may have compromised the whole team.

“So what do I need to do?” I ask, leaning forward. I’m tempted to down my drink just like Timmy, but I want a clear head. And even though I sponsor all these beer brands, drinking isn’t really my thing.

Timmy laughs down at the table. “Management says the only way they’ll re-sign you is if can prove to them you’re not gay,” he says.

I flinch at that word. “What? Being the best linebacker out there isn’t good enough?”

Timmy narrows his eyes at me. “What’s the problem here, Weaver? Are you actually gay?”

I fold my arms. “I’m definitely not.”

Timmy plays with his empty glass. “Then I don’t see the issue. Why can’t you get a girlfriend?”

“I just—” I sigh. I’ve tried dating women, but my mind goes all dark when I know they’re expecting things to get intimate. Like an eclipse in my brain. So, I just avoid dating altogether. But Timmy can’t know that. He might actually think I’m gay.

“It’s my dad,” I say, remembering my conversation with Ezekiel. “It’s just been hard since he passed.”

“Your dad has been dead for almost a decade.”

I grimace as I remember him dying on that bed.

I wanted to hold my dad, but he was in too much pain.

I just held his hand. He was the one who instilled within me a love for football.

I have such fond memories of the sport: autumn weather, Saturday games, maple bars, apple cider, chili, burgers, friendly scrimmages, laughter, hugs, beer.

And he was a saint, always helping other boys on my high school team and then mentoring other guys when he coached at Miss U.

He may not have been very accepting of the queers, but the world was better with him in it. My life was better with him in it.

“It’s true,” I say, not knowing what else to say .

Timmy rubs his bald head. “Well, regardless of the reason, you gotta get over it. Or you can kiss your football career goodbye.”

I grit my teeth. “Fine. So I just need to find a girl. By signing day?”

He nods, looking at his empty glass. “By July 1 st .”

I chew on my lips. It’s the beginning of March. Four months away. That’s manageable—I can do that.

“Deal,” I say.

“Oh no,” he says. “It’s not gonna be that easy.”

I look at him like he’s grown a second head. “What do you mean? I agreed to find a girl.”

“No,” he says, rubbing his brow. “You agreed to be looking for a girl. That means dates. Pictures. Evidence . Management needs to know you’re keeping your word.”

Our food arrives, and Timmy sighs with relief. But I just stare down at my steak, dumbfounded. I’ve lost my appetite.

“And I can help you with that,” Timmy says. “Finding dates. It will be easier considering you are the most eligible bachelor in Portland.”

I scoff. “I’m so honored.”

“Hey, I’m not the one who screwed over the team in an interview.”

I lean back and fold my arms tightly. It’s not my fault football hates queer people.

“Look, I know it sucks to be forced to find love,” he says. “But we can make some fun out of it. What if we did some speed dating?” He asks as he takes a bite of steak. “Could make you some money. Maybe even film it.”

My face twists like I’ve tasted something sour. “Absolutely not.”

“Reality TV show perhaps?”

“That’s worse.”

“You’re killing me, Weaver,” he says, dipping his steak in some potatoes. “Give me some suggestions.”

I glare up at him. “Like what? A club or something?”

He takes a sip of his refilled whiskey. “As long as there are women. ”

I sit there and think. I have a thing for reading—was an English major in college. “What about a book club?”

He chews and squints, thinking. “Could work,” he says, food still in his mouth.

I lean forward, galvanized. “I could find a nice fantasy—”

He sets down his fork with a clank, startling me. “Fantasy? No. If you want to meet a woman, you need to do romance.”

I deflate as all hope leaves my body. “Romance? Are you serious?” That is the one genre I cannot understand. It’s just for women who want to get off.

“But that’s where you’re gonna find women to date,” he says. “My wife’s crazy for that shit. Her and all her friends.”

I shake my head. “This is ridiculous.”

“Hey, it’s this or no new contract,” he says. “And that means no Championship Game.”

I thumb lines into the condensation on my ice water.

I want to win the Championship Game more than anything, both for me and my dad.

He worked so hard at Miss U, only to be diagnosed right as he got a coach offer in the NFO.

I promised to honor his legacy. And the Tigers are the only team that will get me to a Championship Game, so I have no choice.

“I’ll do it,” I say.

“Good,” Timmy says, shoving steak and mashed potato into his mouth. “I’ll find you a book club. And you’re gonna go to it regularly to find a girl. I’ll expect updates and proof you’re going.”

I grumble, but nod. This is the only way.

“Great,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m gonna be a goddamn romance reader.