Page 2 of Catching Kyle
I try to calm my beating heart as I crouch down in front of their towering center, but I can’t help but blame myself for the current situation. My botched interview has put the Tigers all over the news. But they haven’t been talking about our stats or players. They’ve been talking about potentially having a gay player on the team. And this embarrassing limelight has thrown many of us off our game.
The worst part is that if I win, they won’t ask me about how it feels to raise the world record for linebacker touchdowns, or how it feels to honor my daddy’s, former Coach Weaver’s, wish to win the Championship Game. No. Instead, it will be speculation about whether or not a gay man can really handle a career in the NFO.
The center snaps the ball. The quarterback pretends to throw it out to a wide receiver to my right. But, just like I predicted, he jukes us and throws it to their tight end. Already running that way, I barrel to the spinning football. I jump high. And the moment I catch it, I run like hell. Just like my daddy taught me.
The color of our team’s uniforms blur in my vision as I run, but I don’t stop. There are screams. Deafening ones. But I can hear my heartbeat. Twenty yards away. Fifteen. Hands try to reach me, but I’m too fast. I’m going to win us the Championship Game.
But the question echoes in my mind again: ‘How is it that Sexiest Man Alive is still single?’
I don’t fucking know. Shouldn’t I have some hot girl by now? What the fuck is wrong with me?
My speed falters. A hand grabs onto my thigh. Momentum yanks me backwards. The ball flies out of my hands. I collapse onto the turf, and the crowd goes wild. The Vanguards have won the Championship Game.
And I just broke my promise.
Chapter 1
Michael Cunningham
“Thatwassomeofthe best sex I’ve ever had.”
I roll my eyes as I wash the lube off my hands in my bathroom. That’s what theyalwayssay 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.
Andthisis why dating is fruitless. Guys are always so kind, so sweet, sointoyou. 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.
