It wasn’t until Tiller came and booted me out of the window seat that the flight attendant finally noticed me.
“I’ll have a vodka cranberry, please,” I said politely. “And he’ll have a bottle of water.”
Tiller leaned across me to smile at the flight attendant. “Actually, Lisa, I’d love a coffee, please. Cream and sugar. Thanks.”
I tried not to sound like his mother, but I failed. “He’ll also have a bottle of water,” I repeated.
Her eyes flicked between us before nodding and assuring us it would only take a moment. I sat back and exhaled. Traveling with Tiller was always a production. Any minute they’d start general boarding and the Train of Stares and Whispers would begin.
“Sorry,” he muttered so low only I could hear it.
The apology surprised me. I turned to him and asked what he was apologizing for.
“I know you hate all of this. The fans and stuff.” His cheeks were a little ruddy, and his eyes wouldn’t meet mine.
I put a hand on his arm. “I love that they love you. And I love how kind and attentive you are to them. It’s just…” I stopped to think through how I really felt. “I hate that you can’t have a normal life sometimes.”
Tiller’s eyes widened. “I love this life. Are you kidding? Everywhere I go people tell me how good I am at my job.”
“Not always,” I reminded him carefully, trying not to think about the time a guy walked right up and sucker punched him while accusing him of single-handedly losing a game that week. I’d scrambled on top of the asshole like a rabid spider monkey and tried scratching his eyes out in retaliation. Maybe it hadn’t been pretty, but it was the only tool in my personal assault toolkit.
Tiller’s face softened to an expression of warm affection that made me squirm in my seat. He grinned. “No, not always. But when the haters attack, I have you.”
“Mpfh.” I turned back around to receive our drinks. “Thanks,” I murmured to the flight attendant.
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.”