Page 17 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 1

MIKEY

I wasn’t a big football fan despite growing up immersed in it.

Or maybe because of growing up immersed in it.

But I still went to every home game out of habit.

Maybe I’d stopped for a little while during the Nelson Evangelista years since he had a habit of making illegal hits that turned my stomach, but as soon as I’d started working for Tiller, suddenly I was interested again.

Whatever.

Anyway, on this particular Sunday, I was grateful for it.

Sam had come with me, and we were sitting in my dad’s box with my mom and brothers when it happened.

It was late in the third quarter, and the Riggers were up by fourteen over the Raiders.

Tiller had made several incredible catches, two of which had resulted in touchdown runs, and one had been a TD reception in the end zone.

He was on fire as usual. His reputation as a focused professional had certainly made my father proud over the past few years, especially after his role in helping bring home the Super Bowl win last year.

He’d begun using Tiller as the example, even though Tiller had no work-life balance whatsoever.

Other than swimming and reading thrillers and mystery novels in the sun by his pool, he didn’t seem to have much of a hobby.

I knew at one point growing up he’d been an avid snowboarder, but once he’d been recruited to play college ball, he’d had to promise to give up any and all other dangerous sports.

Now that he was a multimillion-dollar NFL player, there wasn’t a chance in hell his contract would let him on the slopes.

I hadn’t even seen him bring home a man in the five years I’d lived there.

Well, he’d brought home teammates, and I’d met his family when they’d come to visit from Denver or we’d traveled to them.

But I’d never heard about his love life or even a sex life to speak of.

I’d asked Colin about it the night we’d hooked up.

“He pays for it on road trips,” he’d said with a laugh. “Gets rent boys up in his hotel room and goes at it all night to work off the stress. Coach finds out, it’ll be his ass.”

I’d felt sick to my stomach then. At least until I’d begun to question whether or not Colin had been telling the truth. It didn’t matter either way. It was none of my business, but I wondered why a man so built and beautiful and talented would ever have to pay someone to sleep with him.

Sam grabbed my arm. “Fuck, double coverage.”

My eyes snapped to number twenty-three in the white uniform with navy and orange accents as he tried his hardest to lose the two magnets attached to his ass.

The ball came sailing his way just as he juked left and found a spot. He snatched the ball out of the air and turned.

Right into a Mack truck.

The linebacker had been braced and waiting. Tiller had hit him shoulder-first so hard, his helmet bounced when his head hit the ground.

I gasped and clawed at Sam’s arm. “No. No, fuck.”

Mom patted my shoulder. “He’s okay, honey. He’s taken worse hits than that before.”

How the hell did she stay so calm? I’d often wondered if maybe she was medicated. How else could she have watched my brothers all get the shit beat out of them on the field and mat without having to be admitted into some kind of program for chronic anxiety?

“He’s not okay,” I said quietly enough that only Sam could hear.

“No,” he agreed in his usual gruff way. Sam wasn’t an easy person to read at the best of times, and when he was worried about someone he cared about, it was even worse.

I stood up and went forward, grabbing a pair of nearby binoculars and trying to focus them on the still player on the field with my hands shaking as much as they were.

“Get up, get up,” I muttered. “Get your ass up, Raine.”

The medical professionals rushed out and helped him up to thunderous applause.

“See, honey? Right as Raine.”

I’d heard that phrase about a million times too many over the last several years.

The man was known for shaking off hard hits, it was true.

But when he came home to me, I saw the real-life aftereffects of it.

He’d never, ever been “right as Raine” after one of those hits.

He’d been bruised and bloodied, weakened by pain.

Even after tending to him with ice packs, ice baths, and even massage in some cases, I’d had to watch him move gingerly and return to work way too soon.

“I’m going down there,” I said as soon as they started helping him off the field.

He was cradling his right arm against his body, and if he had an injury like that, it could mean the end of the season for him.

The Riggers had won the Super Bowl last season, so they were expected to return to defend their title this year.

They wouldn’t have nearly as good a chance without Tiller.

Sam nodded and stayed where he was. He wasn’t all that great with emotion, and he probably expected I was going to lose my cool pretty rapidly.

I, too, wasn’t all that great with emotion.

Instead of bottling it up and smashing it down, I poured it out and frothed at the mouth with it.

It was part of what made me special. Or so I’d been told.

It was also part of what made me damp during Super Bowl commercials.

My feet flew as I made my way down to the locker room and medical bay.

It didn’t matter what kind of security pass I had when everyone who worked at the stadium knew I was Coach Vining’s son.

Several of the guards had known me since I was young, and the assistant coaches had all gotten lectures from me behind the scenes about helping keep junk food out of my dad’s hands after his cholesterol and blood pressure results had come in too high.

“Mikey, what’s shakin’?” Krystal asked from the hallway outside the medical offices. She was one of the physical therapists on staff.

“Where’s Raine?”

She opened the door next to her and pointed. “Second bay on the right. Dislocated shoulder went back in already. Hopefully nothing more than a deep hematoma from impact other than that.”

I made my way toward the bay, ignoring a man I didn’t know telling me this area was off-limits to fans. Finally, I saw Dr. Bindi come out of the bay and stopped short. “Michael. Good to see you.”

“How is he?”

He held up a finger and ducked back into the bay where I heard him ask Tiller if I could come in. I didn’t wait for a response. I hustled in there and started snapping.

“Why the fuck did Maple Leaf throw that pass to you when you were in double coverage and that giant fucking side of beef was standing there waiting to take you out?”

My eyes roamed over every inch of his body, taking in the sweaty, matted hair, the tired and pained eyes, and the missing jersey.

Other than holding a very painful arm against his front, he seemed okay.

My body began to shake violently as the adrenaline crash dropped.

I didn’t like to think about why I cared so damned much.

He let go of his hurt arm and reached out a hand to me. “Come here.”

I took it and stepped closer, still examining every inch of him I could.

Tiller eyed Dr. Bindi. “Can you give us a minute? And look out for my agent—he’s probably going to come storming in any minute, too.”

As soon as we were alone, Tiller pulled me close and gave me a tight side hug. The move surprised me. We’d never hugged before or shown any other kind of physical affection other than the odd slap to the back of his head when he annoyed me or him ruffling my hair because he knew it drove me crazy.

I didn’t mind the sweat at all. In fact, I might have liked it a little too much.

It was the fact he was shaking too that I minded. A lot.

“Fuck,” he said gruffly into my neck. Even his voice was shaking. “You’re a sight for sore eyes.”

“Are you okay?” His voice wasn’t the only one shaking. “I thought maybe you’d lost consciousness. I couldn’t breathe.”

“I think I was just stunned for a minute. My mind kept going toward the goal when my body had been laid flat out.”

“Concussion protocol?” I asked, pulling out of the hug so I could look at his face.

He nodded. “They’re going to put me in the tube regardless, but they’re pretty sure there’s nothing like that. They’re more worried about my arm. I can’t really… I can’t really move it.”

I grabbed a nearby towel and began to wipe the sweat off his face and push his hair out of his eyes. “You need a haircut,” I murmured.

His voice was rough with pain. “You like it shaggy like this.”

I caught his eye at the unexpected observation. “Is that why you canceled the haircut appointment with Ricki?”

He blushed and looked down. “How mad is your dad going to be?”

I felt my nostrils flare. “Well, I hope he skins Maple Leaf alive. He deserves it.”

Tiller winced out a slight smile. “His name is Mopellei. Or you can call him Derek.”

“I’m not calling him shit. Stupid Canadian asshole. Does he even have any other play than send the ball to Raine and hope Raine saves everyone’s fucking bacon? Jesus. Shake it up a little. Doesn’t he realize that’s why you’re in double or triple coverage to begin with? Fuck.”

“You sound like your dad right now.” Tiller tugged on the hem of the Raine jersey I wore. “When did you get this?”

Oh god, he was going to be insufferable. “I spilled beer on my Saris jersey and this is all they had on the clearance rack at the concession shop.”

Thunderclouds darkened his face. “I will find every Saris jersey in my house and burn them in your favorite oven.”

I laughed. It felt good to laugh. Whatever his injury was, we’d get through it the way we always did. “Mess with my ovens and see how many eggs I can fit on one salad. I dare you.”