Page 33 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Kyle Weaver

When Michael shows up at my front door, I’m beyond relieved.

It’s been one of the longest weeks of my life, and I just want to hold my man in my arms. Between reviewing the article that Robyn wrote, showing my face in public with Amani, and waiting for updates from Timmy about the Tigers re-signing me or not, I can barely keep my eyes open.

But seeing Michael lifts me up like helium in a balloon.

“Hey, you,” I say. I lean forward and kiss him on the lips.

“Hey,” he says, stepping inside. I may just be seeing things because I’m dead tired, but I swear that he’s holding himself small and tight like he does when he’s withholding something on his mind.

I shut the door. “You okay?”Michael is wearing those short shorts and a tank top that reveals how toned his arms are. I can’t wait until his legs are spread and his arms are wrapped around my back.

“Uh, yeah,” he says. “Just hungry.”

I’m not convinced. But I take the bait.

“Well I got dinner for us right here,” I say, leading us into my family room where I have some romantic candles going along with the fireplace. “I got your favorite.”

His pad thai sits steaming on my coffee table, and there’s a shadow of a smile on his face.

“Why don’t you eat and tell me about your week?” I ask .

He nods. “Sure.”

I sit down in my usual place, and he sits right next to me. He’s still acting like an echo of himself, like he’s scared of me or something. I hate it when he acts like this, like he’s afraid I’ll inevitably hurt him. I don’t want to do that. I just want him to be comfortable with me.

“So you’re officially unemployed,” I say. “How does it feel?”

He digs through his pad thai with chopsticks, stirring up the noodles. He doesn’t look at me, but a grin forms on his face.

“About that,” he says. “Got some news.”

“Right,” I say, tapping my forehead. “You said so in your text.”

He looks at me for the first time. “I may not be unemployed after all.”

My face brightens. “You found an agent?”

He laughs. “No,” he says, as if that was impossible. I still don’t understand the publishing process well, but after reading so much of his writing, I wouldn’t be surprised if he found one any day now.

“Ruckers may hire me,” he says.

I turn my full body to him. “The bookstore that brought us together?”

He nods. “Maybe. I still need to interview, but it’s looking strong.”

The first thing I do is wrap my arms around him and give him a big bear hug. He wraps his arm around mine, and I kiss him on the cheek as I pull away.

“That’s awesome,” I say. “I know how worried you were.”

“Yeah, thanks,” he says, looking down at his food. Again, not at me. There’s something here he’s not telling me.

“Is there something else going on?” I ask. And then I just decide to say it. “Because you’re doing that thing where you act all distant.”

He looks at me, hurt. “Am I really?”

“Yep.”

He sighs. “I try to keep my emotions to myself, but they just spill all over my sleeve. I’m sorry about that.”

I put my hand on his thigh and squeeze it. “No unnecessary apologies,” I say. “Tell me what’s going on, babe. I want to hear it. ”

He sucks on his lip, then gives me a determined look, one that tells me he’ll be completely honest.

“I read that article where you came out,” he says.

“You did?” I say, exhausted just thinking about it. “I’m hoping that Robyn doesn’t reach out to me again. I don’t want to have to answer more questions.”

He’s chewing on his lips again, like he doesn’t know what to say.

“What?” I ask. “Was there something in there you didn’t like?”

He shakes his head. “Your dad—I didn’t know he was so…”

“Yeah,” I say with a sigh. “He wasn’t the greatest.”

I freeze for a second. I don’t think I’ve said anything negative about him so matter-of-factly before. I thought I’d feel guilty, but I don’t. I feel okay.

“I just—” he pauses and fidgets with his fingers. I rub his leg, waiting for him to get his thoughts in order.

“Growing up—” he sighs. “Sorry, this is hard. Growing up, I wasn’t close with my parents.

I was sort of neglected. Mom and Dad would just come home and do their own thing, leaving me to my own devices, quite literally.

So much of my childhood was spent playing my GameCube, by myself, for hours and hours. It got so lonely.”

I go from rubbing his leg to gently massaging it. His finger traces the hair along my arm.

“I sorta learned that… well,” he blows a raspberry.

“As I grew up and got to know kids in other families, I learned how mine was… different. How my dad drank more than usual. How my mom would cover it up, never let me bring it up to anyone. Not even her. I started spending more and more time at friends’ hous es because I felt better being away from home.

And that was good for a while. But once I got to high school, I started to wonder why things were the way that they were—why my dad always drank, why my mom never let me talk about it.

But being the isolated, neglected little kid I was, I did the only thing I knew how to do. I blamed myself.”

I look up, expecting tears, but his face is stoic. Not rock-like stoic, but poised. Like he’s got a handle of himself. Which impresses me. Because if I were telling this story, I’d be blubbering. Like I always do when I talk about my daddy.

He chews on his lips, then continues. “And I believed that for… years. When I finally came out, I kept letting myself fall for straight men who could never be available. And even when I got over that, I would fall for other gay men who were not ready for a relationship, David being the latest example.”

My heart still lurches when I hear his name, but I keep it cool for Michael. I know he’s going somewhere with this. His talk always makes sense; he never fails to have a point.

I lean back and start running my hand up and down his back. He’s hunched over, talking to me yet looking at the table. But I know he’s being as open as he can. I’ve told Neeti about Michael, and she thinks he’s a solid guy. I do too.

“It wasn’t until I went into Al-Anon recovery and looked at my past that I realized the pattern. I learned I was worthless because of the abandonment I received as a child, so I continued to seek out people who would abandon me as partners.”

There’s a tightening in my chest. It’s not anxiety—I don’t feel anxious talking to Michael. But something else. Something like guilt.

“Do you think I’m going to abandon you?” I ask.

He turns fully to me, a shine in his eyes.

“That article—you were so deep in there. With this random reporter. But then you also had to lie about you and Amani. And that’s when I asked myself—was he lying?

I couldn’t know. Because all of this is new information to me.

You never told me anything about your dad, your upbringing.

It hurt for me to discover this from a news article. I wish I heard it from you.”

I stop scratching his back as the tightness in my chest shifts to my stomach, and I stare down at my coffee table. Then I get hot. Uncomfortably so. I think my fireplace and the candles are the culprits, but I’m also frozen in place. I couldn’t get up to extinguish any of the flames if I wanted to.

Michael puts his hands on my knee, sending a shot of warmth up my leg. Not the bad kind of warmth, though.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“You’re hurt that I wasn’t vulnerable with you,” I say.

“Yeah.” He frowns. “Yes,” he says, more firmly .

I imagine myself playing in the cold mud all day, dried blood caked against my arms after getting cut up defending the ball carrier, and then losing.

Coming back into the locker room after a defeat and looking at myself in the mirror for the first time—dirtier and more haggard than I expected.

Muscles worn, joints sore, skin chaffed. Tired, cold, dejected.

That’s how I feel right now.

Because I’ve heard it all before.

Every woman I’ve ever tried to date has told me something similar: I’m too closed off, there’s a wall between us, I hurt them with something I did or didn’t do.

I’ve chalked this up to so many things in my lifetime: them being petty, me being cursed in some way, or that I was gay.

The first reason I realized was just misogyny.

The second one I eliminated when I came to accept who I truly was.

But the third? I’ve accepted I’m gay, but here Michael is, the perfect man, telling me the exact same thing. I can’t attribute this problem to women anymore, nor can I lump Michael in with the women. Because I see so plainly that I’m the only common denominator. So the second reason has to be true.

I am cursed.

Cursed with what? I don’t know. But with all the slander daddy threw at the queers, I can only think that my sexuality is at the root of it all. But that can’t be it, can it?

“Hey, talk to me,” Michael says. “You look upset.”

“How did you do all that?” I ask.

“What?” he asks, leaning back.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “I’m just—” I choke up, then curse at myself. Why can’t I do any of this without crying?

“I’m sick of feeling trapped inside my own head,” I say, tears just flowing.

“It’s like my feelings storm inside me and try to break out through my tears or my heart or my stomach.

I want to be like you. I want to spit it out like a goddamned A-plus essay.

God, I wanna know myself like you do, Michael.

Because everything you’re telling me is true.

It always has been. I have a hard time opening up because, truth is, I have no goddamned clue how.

As you can guess, I couldn’t talk to my goddamned daddy.

And even with my mama, who I knew would listen, I just didn’t know how to say.

The truth would just get tangled on my tongue and then slip back down my throat like a goddamned leech. ”

I take a big, shaky breath. Then I look at him. I expect him to look disgusted. Afraid.