Page 23 of The Aster Valley Collection, Vol. 1

TILLER

Not gonna lie, I loved traveling with Mikey.

He was so organized, I didn’t have my usual worries about what I’d forgotten, whether I was going to be late, or where I was supposed to be.

He took care of all of that. Even if I had to forgo my favorite airport snacks, it was still worth it to have his company beside me.

I also credited traveling together with bringing us closer together as friends in the early days of his employment.

The first season he worked for me, he didn’t travel with me at all.

He was simply my personal chef at home. When I traveled, he packed me a giant cooler bag with enough snacks and supplemental protein meals to get me through the days I was gone.

It wasn’t until the following spring, after I’d made the permanent job offer and realized he was also doing the work of my PA and my housekeeper, that I first asked him to travel with me.

I’d been heading to Hawaii with several of the guys for a month of fun in the sun after a tough season in which we’d lost during the playoffs.

We’d booked a big rental house with everything you could ever want, including a chef.

But at the last minute, the chef had canceled for personal reasons, leaving us in the lurch.

We’d gotten together and made Mikey an offer: come cook for us and we’d all pay an exorbitant fee for his time and travel.

After that… well, I’d become closer to an NFL diva than I’d ever thought I would.

Spending a month in Hawaii without deviating from my newly healthy eating plan was kick-ass.

I felt strong and clearheaded for the first time in my life, and I didn’t want to lose it by eating heavy shit or too much takeout.

So I started bringing him on the road if I was going to be gone longer than two or three nights.

I’d taken a shit ton of flak for it at first, but once the team caught wind of how good his cooking was and how quickly my stats had improved with his nutrition help, the team got on board and started asking if they could pay him to make enough for them, too.

It had scared me at first. I thought he’d end up making so much money that he’d stop wanting to wash my dirty clothes and make breakfast smoothies for one. But he hadn’t. In five years, he’d never once implied he wanted a change.

Until now.

I couldn’t stop thinking about the cookbook offer he’d told me about. While I was excited for him—of course I was—I wasn’t going to lie. It scared me. It was the first time I’d allowed myself to see his bigger dreams.

And I wanted him to have dreams. I wanted all of his fucking dreams to come true, and I would do whatever it took to help.

But god… I didn’t want to lose him either.

I’d gotten so used to his company. His announcement about the cookbook project had been a mini wake-up call.

Was he hoping to move on to bigger and better things?

If he did, would I still see him? He was Coach V.

’s son, but I didn’t remember seeing much of him around the team before he came to work for me.

Would he go back to being a once-a-year family member after moving on?

I must have made a noise in my throat because Mikey leaned over and asked if I was okay. I shifted uneasily in the wide leather seat and looked out at the puffy clouds.

“Yeah, ’course.” I struggled to open my water bottle with one arm in a sling until Mikey grabbed it and twisted the top off. I could feel the power of his stare on the side of my face.

“Liar,” he said softly. “What are you thinking about?”

“Remember that trip to LA when the hotel receptionist thought we were a couple and put us in a king room together?”

Mikey snorted. “And you told me you were fine on the sofa except it was a love seat half your size? Yeah, I remember.”

Mikey had insisted I share the bed, and then he’d made a big production over creating a pillow divider down the middle until I’d finally agreed.

It hadn’t mattered. I’d still woken up with his warm body curled against me like a heat-seeking missile.

I’d lain awake for two hours just soaking in the incredible feeling of holding him in my arms while he slept.

I cleared my throat. “And we stayed up talking half the night,” I reminded him without looking over at him.

He was quiet for a beat before speaking. “You told me about the time your sister got lost on a trip to the Grand Canyon and your dad cried in front of you.”

I nodded. “And you told me about your Scout leader teaching you how to make table-side guacamole.” I didn’t mention that he’d also told me how much he’d always felt like a disappointment to his own dad.

Mikey laughed. “Game-changer. I’d never had avocado before, if you can believe it.

Watching him mash all of those ingredients together sparked something in me, I guess.

After that, I started making all kinds of dips.

My brothers thought it was the best thing ever.

They didn’t realize they’d suddenly become my taste testers. ”

I let the subject lighten up from where my memories had gone. “What the hell kind of Scout leader teaches the kids to make guac?”

“Oh, he was super gay. Hated camping. Thankfully, there were two leaders and the other one did all the butch stuff. But Mr. Meadows taught us how to keep the campsite tidy, how to sing campfire songs in two-part harmony, and how to convince someone else to take the scales off the fresh catch. I loved that guy.”

I lifted an eyebrow at him.

“Not like that,” he said, smacking the back of his hand against my chest above my sling. “He was a hundred and ten years old. At least to my prepubescent self.”

We continued sharing childhood stories until he cut in with a reminder about seeing my parents. “I told them we’d contact them once we got settled and let them know when they can come out to see you.”

I bit back a sigh and looked out the window again. I loved my parents, but sometimes seeing them felt like a command performance, and my dad especially would pepper me with tons of questions about why I was in Colorado instead of with my team.

“Not right away, okay?” I asked.

“Of course. Whatever you want.”

I knew Mikey wouldn’t let me get away with ignoring them forever.

He would do what he always did which was manage my parents’ expectations with my reluctance and find that sweet, delicate middle ground that would check all the boxes and leave everyone feeling like their needs had been met.

He was good at that. So very good at it.

“You should be a hostage negotiator,” I muttered.

“False equivalency, I think,” he said with a smile in his voice. “Anyway, what the hell are you going to do with yourself in the cabin besides read your new books and sneak in forbidden workouts?”

He knew me well.

“Good question. Probably pester you while you’re cooking. Eat lots of your food. Sit in the hot tub and stare off into space.”

“Maybe you should start thinking about what you want to do when you retire,” Mikey suggested casually.

Too casually.

I turned to look at him. “I’m twenty-seven.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes retirement hits you out of the blue in the NFL. Everyone knows that.”

Of course, he meant retirement by injury, and I was sure it was on his mind after yet another injury. “Can we not talk about it, please?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d brought it up.

I knew he was trying to gently nudge me to think about the future, but it was harder than he could possibly know.

When you’d been called a football star your entire life and every decision made about your future had revolved around the game, it wasn’t easy to suddenly think about something else.

“I just want you to realize there’s more to life than football. There’s more to you than football. I think you’ve spent a lot of time ignoring those other parts of you.”

“Football is who I am,” I said in a quiet hiss.

“You’re right,” he replied calmly. “But it’s not the only thing you are.”

“How can you say that?”

He turned to me and reached for my wrist, turning my arm so he could trace the tattoo on the inside of my wrist. The touch brought goose bumps up on my skin.

The tattoo was a simple profile of the mountains with GPS coordinates underneath.

“It took me about an hour of boredom in the hospital while you were asleep before I decided to google the coordinates,” he said. “It’s the Golden Peak Superpipe in Vail.”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Which is for snowboarders,” Mikey continued. “And it reminded me of the pictures of you in your bedroom at your parents’ house. You snowboarded in high school. Won some kind of medal for it and everything.”

What else was there to do but nod again? “You already know this. We’ve talked about it before.”

Mikey studied my face for a minute. “Does that mean this a subject you want me to drop? Because you’re acting like you do whenever I mention the phrase ‘cauliflower pizza crust.’”

I shifted in my seat so I could face him better. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… it’s a moot point, you know? I can’t snowboard anymore, so there’s no point in thinking about it or talking about it.”

Even my college coach had forbidden me from the laundry list of other sports and dangerous activities that could put my football career in jeopardy. I hadn’t laced up my snowboard boots since the winter of my senior year in high school.

“You’re not going to play professional football forever, you know. That’s my point. What do you want to fill your life with after you’re released? Maybe you’ll want to move back to Colorado so you can ski and snowboard again.”

I loved the mountains, and I missed the snow.

Badly. I also missed summer in Colorado with the long days and huge blue skies.

Sunshine on my back and cool evening breezes through the aspen trees.

Everything about my home state called to me, and as long as I’d lived in Texas, I’d felt the loss of it deep in my bones.

But I also loved football, and it was true what I’d said before. I barely knew who I was outside of it.

“Maybe,” I admitted, trying to think of other things I liked that I rarely had time for. “I like to plant things. My mom always made the most colorful flower baskets in the summer and hung them on the front porch. She also has baskets along the back deck railing that we used to plant.”

“She still does,” he said. “At least, they were overflowing with color the last time we were there in May.”

“I always loved the flower baskets everywhere in Vail during the summer, too. Maybe after I retire, I can go work in the plant department at Home Depot.”

Mikey snickered. “I’d love to see your reaction the first time you got that paycheck.”

“Depending on when I retire, I won’t need the paycheck. But I can’t imagine not working in some capacity. I’d go stir-crazy.”

The plane jolted and had a sudden drop in altitude. Mikey gripped my arm the way he always did during turbulence. “We’re okay,” I murmured softly as the plane steadied again.

“What about coaching?” he asked as if it hadn’t happened.

I shrugged. “I’m not great with kids.”

His brown eyes flashed at me. “Bullshit.”

“Fine, but I don’t have enough patience for teaching, and I’m not sure I’d know how to pull back from pro level at this point. I’d probably send kids to the ER left and right after running them too hard or having too high expectations.”

“I can see that.” We sat in silence for a little while. “You’re good with people, Tiller. They listen to you. What you say makes a difference to them. You could always be a motivational speaker. Remember the talk you gave at that camp?”

I remembered. The year after I’d joined the Riggers, the team captain had spearheaded a fundraiser for a camp for LGBTQ youth.

It had been the team’s way of accepting me and showing they stood firmly on my side as an out player.

I’d been asked to give a talk to the kids the following summer about what it was like to live authentically, how to handle bullies, and any other issues relevant to being LGBTQ in sports, the public eye, or life in general.

After puking several times with nerves, I’d gone out there and given it my best. And I’d loved it.

I’d loved seeing the kids collectively lean forward with interest, relax back into their seats with relief, or even tear up with the realization they weren’t alone.

I’d felt for once that my words and actions could make an impactful difference in someone’s life.

“Yeah,” I said, noticing a roughness in my voice I hadn’t expected. “Yeah, that was good.”

I spent the rest of the flight thinking about the future.

It was something I hadn’t done much of before, and I realized somewhere along the way, I’d stopped daydreaming.

After being drafted into the NFL, I’d felt like my dreams had come true, and there’d no longer been any point in daydreaming about more.

But now Mikey was throwing images at me that made me wonder if it was time to start daydreaming again.

Daydreaming about a different kind of future.

The swoosh of fresh powder under my board as I sailed through frigid air up the side of the pipe.

The scent of fresh soil being turned with a trowel while colorful pots of flowers sat nearby waiting to be planted.

The feeling of fullness in my chest as I looked out across a group of LGBTQ youth looking for connection and reassurance.

I glanced over at Mikey, who seemed to be dozing more than reading.

His book was about to slip to the floor, so I reached over and took it out of his hands gently before tucking it beside him in the seat.

After a few more minutes, he began to list sideways toward the aisle.

I grabbed his arm and pulled him my way until his head rested on my shoulder.

His hands wrapped around my arm like a hug as he settled against me.

I smelled his signature scent that was a combination of soap, deodorant, coffee, and some kind of baking spice like vanilla which I’d never been able to figure out.

He didn’t bake much since I wasn’t allowed to eat that kind of treat often.

I often wondered if it was his shampoo or something instead of actual kitchen vanilla.

As my head slipped back into the dreamworld of my post-retirement future, I wondered where Mikey would be while I was busy pursuing new paths.

Would he be on some kind of whirlwind talk-show tour touting his newest best-selling cookbook?

Would he be living in a chateau in Europe cooking for a wealthy family?

Hell, he’d probably own his own restaurant.

If he continued to focus on healthy eating for athletes, maybe he’d move to Los Angeles and open a cafe or catering business there.

I ground my back teeth together wholly unsure whether I’d ever want a life of post-retirement leisure if it meant saying goodbye to Michael Vining.