Page 22 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 1

When general boarding began, I tried to remind myself he liked the attention.

It was something he’d told me many times before, but I had a hard time believing him.

Maybe it was because every time my father had been approached in public, he’d griped about it later in private.

When I was in elementary school, Coach had worked at SMU in Dallas, so when he’d moved up to coach for the Riggers, most of Texas’s football fans already knew exactly who he was.

He’d been a local celebrity in Texas my whole life.

There’d never been a time I could remember when he wasn’t approached in public to talk about the game.

I’d gotten so used to the invasiveness of it, the fact it took my dad’s attention away from our family, that I had a hard time believing Tiller could see it as a good thing.

But I watched him respond with smiles and nods, thoughtful responses to questions, and humble gratitude for compliments. The man was fucking gorgeous, and watching him respond with enthusiastic kindness… well, it did stuff to me.

Dirty stuff.

I cleared my throat and pretended to check my email on my phone.

Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Tiller’s thick, muscular thighs stretching the faded denim of his favorite pair of jeans.

I knew from doing our laundry that there was a thin, threadbare spot in the crotch of those jeans, and…

not gonna lie… I’d spent some time trying to figure out if I could spot any of his colorful boxer briefs through the loose threads.

The man probably thought I was a perv.

I was a perv.

A high-pitched shriek made me jump. I glanced up to see a teenage boy frozen in shock next to me. He stared at Tiller for a beat before breathlessly asking, “Are you Tiller Raine? The Tiller Raine?”

The kid had smudged eyeliner around wide eyes, and his cheeks were rapidly turning red as he stared at my boss. Under his half-zipped hoodie, I saw a Riggers T-shirt I recognized as one of the ones shot out of the fan cannon at home games. Lucky bastard.

“Sure am.” Tiller reached out his hand to shake. I tried not to notice the familiar scent of our laundry detergent on his sleeve. For some reason, it smelled ten times better on his body than mine.

“Omigod,” the boy wheezed as he took Tiller’s hand. “You have no idea… you…”

An older woman put her hands on his shoulders and leaned forward to smile at Tiller. “You’ve made a big difference in our house. Thanks to you, Barrett came out to his team last year like it was no big deal.”

I felt more than saw Tiller’s entire body language change. It wasn’t the first time someone had said something similar, but every time it happened was just as special and important to Tiller as the first had been. I felt the familiar lump form in my throat.

“Kick-ass, man,” Tiller said gruffly. “It takes guts to do that. Big guts. Proud of you.”

I reached into my wallet and pulled out a card to hand to Tiller. Tiller shot me a thankful smile before handing my card to Barrett. “This is Mike, my right-hand man, and here’s his card. Shoot him an email and we’ll hook you up with some signed merch when we get home in a few weeks, alright?”

Barrett noticed me for the first time and blushed even more. “Is he… are you two…?” It was clear what he was asking, and it also wasn’t the first time we’d gotten this particular question either.

“No,” I said quickly. “I’m his assistant and personal chef. My job is to make sure he eats more avocado and broccoli and less Snickers bars and cheese dip. Some days are harder than others.”

Tiller elbowed me in the side. “He’s a strict mofo… er, guy,” he said, blinking up at Barrett’s mom and mouthing an apology.

She nudged the kid forward and smiled again. “I’m married to an actual offshore rigger. I promise you don’t know words I haven’t heard after Barrett’s dad comes home from the rigs. Thank you so much. You made our day.”

As Barrett moved away grudgingly, he called out, “Our week! Our year!”

Tiller grinned as he sat back in his seat. “That was cool. And his dad is an actual rigger. What’re the chances?”

In Houston? Fairly high, but I didn’t say it.

He continued. “Can you imagine a football player at your high school growing up having the balls to wear eye makeup and be out?”

“You were out in high school,” I reminded him before taking a sip of my drink. Oh god, that was amazing. I took more of a gulp the second time around.

“I was. Mostly because my dad told me you couldn’t be out and play professional ball.

I realized early on that if I didn’t come out while I was a nobody, I’d for damned sure never be able to come out when I was somebody.

So I ripped off the Band-Aid. It didn’t hurt that I was dating the hottest guy in school at the time. The bragging rights were worth it.”

I rolled my eyes and continued making love to my cocktail. “Must be nice to be you.”

His eyebrows crinkled. “I thought you were out in high school, too?”

I sighed and put down my glass. “Not by choice. And I didn’t date anyone because I had four older brothers who all played varsity ball and were four times the size of normal high school kids, remember?

If anyone had gotten the urge to do anything other than run the other way when they saw me, my brothers would have pounded their gay asses into the ground. ”

His confusion turned to anger. “Your brothers are homophobes?”

I realized my mistake and tried to correct it.

“Wait. No. Not at all. Well… actually, yes, they were. Before I came out. But when I came out, they were suddenly the most uninformed group of dude-bros to ever try to be supportive. They were protective as hell. No one was good enough for their baby Mikey, and they didn’t make a secret of the fact that anyone who messed with me messed with all the Vining boys.

You wanted to get the shit beat out of you by two defensive backs, a running back, and the best varsity wrestler in the state?

Then you could think about looking at Mikey V.

And by the way, the V very quickly came to stand for something besides ‘Vining’ if you catch my drift. ”

Tiller barked out a laugh that made everyone’s head turn. I scooted down in my seat and waved my hand in the air for another drink.

After the flight attendant nodded and smiled at me, I felt a warm breath against my ear. “When did you finally get that sorted out, Mikey?”

I shivered and quickly cleared my throat before lying my ass off. “First week freshman year in college. Gang bang in the dorm next to mine.”

If I’d been expecting shocked silence, I was disappointed.

He barked out another laugh of pure disbelief. “Liar.”

He was right, but not for the reason he thought.

Technically , the V still stood for virgin, but I’d be damned if I’d ever tell that to Mr. Popular Superstar, who, one had to assume, was about as far away from being a virgin as I was from catching a Super Bowl–winning touchdown pass.

I may have slept with a few men along the way, including Nelson Evangelista, but I’d never given up my ass to anyone.

I was a control freak, and I’d never been with anyone I trusted enough for that.

Why the hell hadn’t I seen that as a red flag with Nelson?

I’d let him do damned near everything else to me, including deny me in front of his family, the team, and even his closest friends.

When I’d asked him why he wouldn’t claim me even in front of the close friends and teammates who’d known he was gay, he’d told me I wouldn’t understand the difference between the team’s “tolerance” of a gay player and their acceptance of a player who actually brought a man around and flaunted his sexuality in their face.

I hadn’t believed him at the time. My father had done his best to accept me after I’d come out, and he’d been the first coach to draft and start an out player in the NFL. Yes, he’d freaked out when he’d found me with Nelson, but that had been a fraternization problem, not a gay problem.

Right?

Sometimes I wondered if I was being deliberately obtuse.

I closed my eyes and tried not to think too closely about it since it didn’t matter anymore.

Nelson and I had been broken up for five years, and Tiller was my boss.

I’d had a little lapse in judgment hooking up with Colin Saris, but that was history.

What I needed was to find a normal man to go out with. Someone who was as far away from professional football as you could get.

Maybe I’d meet my very own mountain man in Colorado and have a vacation fling. I decided to spend the rest of the flight daydreaming about it.

Only, the mountain man who showed up in my daydream looked surprisingly like the star wide receiver for the Houston Riggers. Dammit.