Page 30 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Kyle Weaver

I think Amani made an understatement when she called them ‘nasty details’.

Because figuring out this fake-dating situation has been downright disgusting.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m glad Michael came up with the idea.

But hiding who I truly am for so long goes against everything both my ma and daddy told me about integrity.

Yet it’s my only choice if I want to play and keep Michael around.

I sit with Amani, Michael’s best friend and my new fake-girlfriend, on my couch as we wait for my agent Timmy to show up.

When I told him I wanted to introduce my new girlfriend, he jumped at the opportunity.

I hate having him in my house, but giving him this ‘evidence’ he’s been asking for will get him off my ass. And another contract with the Tigers.

But overall, I’m relieved. With any other woman, I’d have to at least try to be intimate, bringing back the storm of depression to my mind.

But with Amani, I don’t have to do that.

And I get Michael at the same time. It’s perfect.

I do wish Michael could be here, but I don’t want Timmy suspecting we’re a thing.

“Think he’ll like me?” Amani asks. She’s rubbing her palms on her jeans.

“I don’t even know if Timmy likes me,” I say. “I just know that he likes that I make him money. But since you’re gonna help me get re-signed, that means more money for him. So yeah, I think he’ll like you. Just not personally.”

“Ouch,” she says. “Is this what professional football is really like? ”

I sigh. “Not always. There’s a couple guys on my team that I really like. Made good friends on others as well. But the business side can be brutal. Even with a contract, I’m not guaranteed anything. It’s pretty cutthroat.”

She leans back into my couch. “So winning the Championship Game is worth all this then?”

I run my tongue across my teeth. I can still hear the beeping in my dad’s hospital room.

The pain on his face. I couldn’t promise him a family.

All that left me to give him was football.

Neeti, my therapist, and I have been digging into this more and more, but I’m frustrated.

After our first session, I felt good. But talking about it has only become more painful.

I thought this therapy shit was supposed to make things easier. Guess not.

“It is,” I say. “The least I can do.”

My doorbell rings, making my chest constrict with anxiety. “I’ll get it.”

I leave Amani to answer my door. I open it, and there Timmy stands, but there’s also someone else. She’s a short brunette women dressed comfortable, yet stylish.

“Timmy,” I say, trying to sound enthused. “And you are?”

“Robyn,” she says. “Reporting with ESB. I’ve been trying to reach…”

“Ah, yeah, sorry,” I say, remembering how Timmy told me to be expecting to hear from a reporter about my experience with the Tigers. But I was too busy with therapy and handling my feelings for Michael that I didn’t notice.

“Figured I’d bring her along,” Timmy says. He steps inside, uninvited. “She can ask her questions once I meet this mysterious girlfriend of yours.” He leans toward me. “And her article will definitely help your image.”

I hold back a grimace and invite Robyn inside. At least she has manners, unlike Timmy.

I bring her into my living room where Timmy’s already greeting Amani.

“You must be the long-awaited girlfriend,” Timmy says, reaching out to shake her hand. He does so aggressively.

I can see Amani resisting a grimace. “Nice to meet you, Timmy.”

Robyn introduces herself, and I sit down with Amani while the other two sit on the opposite side of the couch. I lean back and put my arm around Amani, and she leans into me. Just like we’ve been rehearsing. It’s more natural to hold Michael this way, but I don’t have that luxury.

“So you’re a writer,” he says, almost skeptically.

“I am,” she says. There’s some defensiveness there, but I don’t blame her. I’ve told her enough about Timmy for her to understand how he can be.

“I also work as a software engineer in the daytime.”

“We got a brainiac here,” he says, laughing. “You might be able to provide for Kyle if he doesn’t end up getting re-signed. Make him a housewife.”

Amani stares at him, almost scowling, while I shift uncomfortably. Just one more season of doing this. I can survive.

“Anyways,” Timmy says, unperturbed. “Glad to see you’ve finally found someone.

If I can just snap a picture of the both of you, I can leak it to my contacts.

Then we’ll get the whole sports world talking about the two of you.

Enough of that, and the Tigers will be convinced you’re no longer a threat. ”

“Great,” I say, trying to unlock my jaw. “Well let’s get a move on.”

Timmy pulls out his phone. Amani and I pull close, and I try to put on the biggest smile that I can. Also another thing we’ve practiced. It’s not that I don’t like Amani, but we both think this whole thing is ridiculous. Why can’t the world just accept me for who I am?

Timmy snaps the picture, and I try not to pull away from Amani too fast so it doesn’t look contrived.

“Perfect” he says. He stands up and brushes himself off. “Robyn, be sure to mention the two of them in your article.”

Robyn nods and then looks at me.

Amani pulls on my arm and gives me a quizzical look. “I can’t stay for this,” she says. “I’ve got errands to run.”

“That’s more than fine,” Robyn says. “I know I’m a surprise. I just need to interview Kyle though. You’re free to leave.”

“Wonderful,” Timmy says. “Kyle, we’ll be in touch.”

“I’m sure we will,” I say .

Amani waits until Timmy’s left. She then stands up. I tug on her, remembering that we need to act like a couple when we’re around others. She kisses me on the cheek, and I kiss her back. Then she makes her way to my garage.

“See you soon,” she says. Which isn’t really true. I don’t know when I’m seeing her next. But Michael will be coming over tonight. Thank God.

“Love you,” I say. I don’t really feel that now, but I’m sure by the end of this thing we’ll mean it. I know how much going through hell can bring people together.

“Thanks so much for your time, Kyle,” Robyn says, crossing her legs. “As Timmy may have told you, I’m interviewing lots of the key players on the Tigers. Trying to paint a picture of the team.”

“Yeah,” I say, remembering Timmy’s explanation. “What do you want to know?”

“Well, I’m hoping we can get it all done in today’s session,” she says. “But I may come back for more. I wanted to talk to you about your upbringing, how you got into football. Then we can go into the most recent Championship Game and your hopes for next season.”

My heartrate increases steadily. I take a deep breath through my nose. Neeti has been trying to get me to talk about my upbringing, but I get too nervous. I end up turning the conversation a different direction each time.

“That’s fine,” I say, not wanting to be difficult. “Ask away.”

She pulls out a notepad and leans forward. “Well, it might be obvious what I want to talk about first. Your father—Brian Weaver—was a legend in the college football space.”

I nod. “It was watching him coach that go me so interested in football.”

“Really?” she asks, somehow leaning more forward. “Can you tell me more about that?”

There’s a weird pit in my stomach. “What do you mean?”

“You say you watched him coach. This got you interested. How? Why?”

I pause, and suddenly my body feels heavier. Like if I make a sudden movement, I might just lose my balance and fall over.

“I…I’m not sure.”

She shifts back, a little flustered, but manages to keep her cool. “That’s fine. Could you tell me—what was home life like having a professional coach as a father?”

I can tell this is just her first question posed in a different way. I don’t want to answer, but it would feel weird not to, especially given how simple the question is.

“It was… hard.”

“Hard?” she asks, surprised.

I nod. “He was gone a lot. Busy. I don’t know if this is what all coaches were like, but it seemed like he just never had time for me and my mom.”

She furiously scribbles down on her notepad, then looks up at me, thoughtful.

I can tell this wasn’t what she was expecting.

Me neither, quite frankly. I haven’t even mentioned this to Neeti yet.

I’ve been avoiding it. But there’s something about Robyn—maybe that she’s with ESB—that makes me feel like I have to be honest. My childhood is verifiable, after all.

If I lie about this, won’t people suspect I’m lying about my dating life?

“Then…” she drifts off, then refocuses. “How did this inspire you to get into football?”

The pit in my stomach gets bigger, but the answer to her question becomes crystal clear in my head.

“My dad, he…” I wipe my nose, feeling the back of my eyes heat up.

But I hold back the tears. “I saw the way he looked at his players. The ones that worked hard, did well. There was a fire in his eyes then that he never had when he looked at me or my ma.”

Feeling my lips quiver, I pause until I regain my exposure. I am not crying in front of this woman.

“So I figured the best way to get his attention was to be like them. To play hard. To be that player that would make him proud.”

“Wow,” Robyn says. She sets her notepad down. “How old were you when you realized this?”

I sniffle. “Middle school, I think. Thirteen?”

She sighs. “That’s a lot on a kid.”

“Tell me about it,” I say .

She picks up her notepad and writes something down, and I panic.

I just badmouthed my father to a reporter, and no matter how kind she’s being now, this news will get blasted.

I don’t want people thinking I didn’t appreciate my daddy.

He was a good man. Sure, he was busy, but he did his best. It wasn’t easy being a coach of a competitive football team.

“But that’s not the whole story,” I say, reaching out my hand.

She stops. “Oh?”

I swallow my spit, and it hurts going down. I want to have integrity, but I’m so confused about what that even means anymore. I just need to survive.

“As I grew older,” I begin. “I saw how hard the job was on my dad. He worked hard to provide for us. He didn’t have a good relationship with his dad, after all. My grandpa drank a lot—didn’t provide for the family. My dad wanted to be the opposite.

“Once I started playing at Miss U, that’s when my dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. He and my mom were divorced by then, but it still hit everyone we knew like a freight train. Here Brian Weaver was, a tank of a man, only to be afflicted by something completely out of his control.

“At first, it looked promising. We thought treatment would take care of it. Any Weaver man was a trooper, after all. But when the cancer came back full-force, we knew it was a matter of time. And in those days, my daddy’s priorities became crystal clear.”

“And what were those priorities?” Robyn asks.

I chew on my quivering lip, but I’m not able to keep some tears from falling. At least I’m not blubbering.

“Family,” I say, my voice a little shaky.

“Family was what was most important to him. Up until then, coaching in the NFO was his dream. Getting to the Championship Game. And he almost made it before the cancer got him. But before he died, he held my hand and told me how much he regretted losing my ma and how much he didn’t want to lose me.

Said he had his focus all wrong his whole life.

I realized he was always a good man, after all.

So I told him I’d be by his side, that I’d do anything for him.

And that’s when he asked me to make a promise—that I would carry on our family name. ”

Robyn gives me a puzzled look. “But you were single for so long.”

I nod. “It’s because…” Goddamnit. I hate lying. But I don’t know how to tell this story any other way. “I couldn’t find the right girl to honor his legacy. I searched for years, but it wasn’t until Amani that I finally found a girl that he would approve of.”

“So all this time,” Robyn says. “You just hadn’t found the right one?”

Yes , I want to say. But I think I have him now. And his name is Michael.

But I just nod. “Until I found Amani.”

Robyn nods, taking it all in. “So, you’ve found the woman of your dreams,” she says. “But rumor has it you want to play at least one more season. You want to go try and win the Championship Game one last time.”

“Especially after we were so close with this last one.”

“Why, though?” she asks. “I mean, sure. It’s the Championship Game. But there are plenty of players who retire just before their teams win. Why persist?”

I sit back and think.

And that’s when the words break through my mind and land on me like steaming piles of shit.

Queer.

What my dad would call me when I wasn’t playing hard enough.

Faggot.

When I was goofing off with the other guys.

Goddamned disappointment.

When my first ever girlfriend broke up with me because I wouldn’t have sex with her.

So I played hard and put on a show of being a man all so I could be shielded from his scorn.

But even after he died, these words have still haunted me, like whips thwacking against my hide every time I lay down to rest. These words remind me that no matter what, I’m always shy of the man that my daddy wanted me to be.

And I’m realizing, just now, really why I’ve been pursuing a Championship Game win this whole time, and not just ‘cause I promised my daddy on his deathbed. But a bigger reason .

“By winning the Championship Game,” I say. “I’ll finally be the man I want to be. I’ll finally prove myself.”

I think that answer will satisfy Robyn, but she still sits there, curious.

“Prove yourself… to whom?” she asks. “To you? Or your father?”

I sit back, my head and heart too exhausted to talk further. “I think I’m shot for today,” I say.

She nods. “That’s fine,” she says, setting her notepad down. “We talked about a lot.”

I look up at her, imploringly. “Please be kind in your writing,” I say. “I don’t even remember all that I said.”

“I’ll send you a note in the next week with a draft. You can tell me what I can or can’t include.”

“That’s kind,” I say. “You don’t have to do that.”

She grabs her things and stands up. “And you didn’t have to be so honest,” she says. “I may reach out with more questions, but if you want to talk more about this, please let me know.”

“Sure thing,” I say.

And as she’s leaving, I mull her last question over in my mind. Am I playing to prove myself to me? Or to my father? By the time I shut my front door, there’s a sharp pain between my eyes, and exhaustion sweeps over me. Truth is, I have no fucking clue.