Page 40 of Catching Kyle (Football Heartthrobs #1)

Kyle Weaver

Since Michael had to work at Ruckers up until Thanksgiving, I fly down to Glamour Springs a couple days earlier to get everything in order and help my ma out.

“For the last time,” my ma says while I hover over her shoulder at the stove. “I’m good. I prefer to handle all the food anyways. You know that.”

“I know, ma, but sheesh.” I gesture to the kitchen counter covered in nearly a dozen different aluminum containers. “Do you plan on feeding the whole town?!”

She shrugs. “I make extra to give away,” she says. “And I’m having Jimmy over, along with Silas from the bookstore.”

So Thanksgiving dinner is going to be me, Michael, my ma, Jimmy from the diner, and Silas. “I met Silas, I think. The guy with the linebacker build at the bookstore?”

“That’s the one,” she says. “Martha and Llewellyn are headed to Jackson to see Martha’s parents. They’ll be leaving Thanksgiving morning, so I wanted to give Silas a place to eat.”

“Well that’s mighty kind of you,” I say.

“You know what would be mighty kind?” she asks. “Clearing out some boxes in the guest room so you and your friend won’t have such a cluttered room.”

I cringe at the word. Friend. Michael isn’t my friend, but she doesn’t know that .

“Wait,” I say, confused. “We aren’t sleeping in the same room. He’s gonna stay there. And I’ll be on the couch.”

She looks at me like I’m the dumbest person on the planet. “You’re one of the most important players in the NFO, and you want to sleep on a couch? You have any idea what sleeping on that thing will do to your back? Believe me, I’ve tried it, and it’s not good.”

My ma’s hairless cat, Miss Beautiful, prances into the kitchen, meowing up a storm.

“Oh no you don’t,” Ma says. “You’re not getting any of this food.”

Miss Beautiful whines as she purrs and rubs herself against my ma’s leg. All three of us know that my ma will cave in eventually.

“Well, we’re not sleeping together,” I say.

“We’re…” I let myself trail off. Calling him my friend myself feels like betrayal.

Yet betrayal might be fitting. I’ve been nothing but cold to Michael the past few weeks, despite what I said in bed a weeks ago.

Every time I get scared about the future, I go back on my promise to be more open and push him away.

I’ve been a rotten boyfriend. And I know he knows it.

She turns me and eyes me above her reading glasses. I almost wither under her glare. She has to know the truth, or I’m not a gay linebacker playing for the Tigers.

“Well, whoever he is,” she says turning back to the stove. “He deserves to sleep in a clean room. I know you don’t care, but I care about my guests. Take all those boxes and put them in the hall closet. Please and thank you.”

“Aye aye,” I say. “Yes ma’am.”

I shimmy past my luggage in her living room and make my way to the guest room. This is where I usually stay when I visit, but I’ve never cared about the clutter. Ma always likes to make sure that the house is presentable to guests.

There are a couple of boxes open next to the bookshelf, and glancing at it, I never realized how big a romance fan my mother is until now.

It’s filled with Nora Roberts, Danielle Steele, and Nicholas Sparks books.

I wonder what she would think of the romance book club that brought Michael and I together.

Soon enough, I might tell her the whole story .

I crouch down to pick up one of the boxes, but I spot something familiar inside. I open it up, and I’m assaulted by the smell of dust and memories. Just inside, there’s a cyan blue jersey with my name on it, the very same jersey I wore when I played football in high school.

I pick it up and hold it to my face. The texture is as coarse as I remember, and I swear I can still smell my old sweat and the scent of grass.

God, this brings me back to those hot Saturdays, the ones where I’d play with Ma and Daddy watching from the sidelines.

Ma was always so encouraging. Daddy was harsher, pointing out my flaws first. Sure, he helped me get better.

But I don’t know if it was worth all the hurt.

Underneath the jerseys, there are several old photos. One sticks out to me in particular. It was just after our homecoming game, I remember. Ma wanted a picture. I agreed, but Dad was being all grumpy about it. Eventually, we took the photo. I have my arm wrapped around him, but he’s just frowning.

Suddenly, something hits me. My nose tickles, and my eyes heat up.

I think it’s just the dust, but my lip starts quivering.

Goddamnit, I’m tired of all this crying.

But I just have to remember what Neeti, my therapist, told me: our feelings aren’t good or bad. They just are. I have to let them pass.

I stare down at the picture—at my father who left this earth so many years ago. That game, I scored my first touchdown through an interception, what would soon become my trademark thing. But Dad wasn’t impressed. He said he’d seen guys who had done better.

Of course he had. He coached at Miss U. But I was just some sixteen-year-old. Sure, I improved with his coaching. But I needed love more than anything. And I never got it. And sitting here, letting my tears fall, I realize what Neeti has been trying to tell me for so many months now.

I was never good enough for my father.

Even on his deathbed. He made demands of me—demands that he likely knew I couldn’t keep.

Even if I did win the Championship Game this year—even if I did carry on the family legacy by marrying and having children—I’m not sure I would have satisfied him.

I set the picture down back into the box, and then I put my old jersey over it.

Whenever the conversation has turned to my dad, Neeti has asked me what I’ve done that I’m proud of—not my daddy, Timmy, my ma, my fans, or even Michael.

Me. And for whatever reason, my mind would go blank whenever she asked me. I had no idea.

But now I think I can start answering that question. For myself. And the first thing that comes to mind is that I’ve somehow landed the kindest, most handsome man as a boyfriend. And he’s flying in later today.

So I’m going to stop being a rotten boyfriend and make the most out of our time here.

Regardless of what my dad might think if he was around.

I’m tired of hiding. Of living up to other definitions of integrity rather than my own.

I don’t know what I’m doing about the rest of the football season.

I enjoy the sport, and I may want to hold out until the end just because I want to, not for my dad.

But I do know that when the time is right, I’m telling the world about me and Michael. And no one’s going to stop me.