“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.
6
Mikey
I was still rubbing sleep out of my eyes when Tiller ushered me into the passenger seat of the big SUV I’d rented. The leather was cold against the fabric of my jeans, and I shivered inside the big puffy coat I’d hastily pulled on the minute my suitcase had come spinning off the carousel. Tiller chuckled and closed the door, trapping some of his exhalation vapor inside with me.
It was cold as balls.
I was a Texas boy born and raised, but I actually liked visiting places that had a true winter season. Every time we’d visited Tiller’s parents in Denver, I’d parked myself in front of their real wood fireplace and toasted my socked feet on the stone hearth until I couldn’t stand the heat anymore. I relished the chance to truly enjoy a hot chocolate without sweating my ass off.
“You got an address?” Tiller asked, hopping in the driver’s seat and slamming his door closed.
I pulled up the Waze app and clicked on the address I’d already preprogrammed. The smooth voice began navigating Tiller out of the area. We drove out of the airport I’d always thought looked like a giant white caterpillar and began making our way toward the city of Denver.
“You sure you don’t want to stop by your parents’ place?” I teased.
“Funny man. Remind me to get you a Comedy Central Standup Special for your birthday,” he grunted.
The heat finally kicked in enough for me to pull off my coat. I noticed Tiller hadn’t even put his on yet which was either a testament to his killer metabolism or his Colorado blood. Either way, he pretty much slayed the black sweater and faded blue jeans he had on. The arms of the sweater were pushed up, revealing a corded forearm still tanned from all the time spent outside in the long Texas fall. When my eyes traveled down his arm to his big hand on the wheel, I suddenly realized he was driving one-handed.
That jolted me wide-awake.
“You’re driving with a clipped wing!” I yelped. “Pull over and let me drive. Jesus, Tiller.”
“I’m fine.”
“You’re in a sling, for god’s sake.” My heart hammered in my chest. “Why didn’t you let me drive?”
He glanced over at me with a smirk. “Uh, because you were still drooling in your sleep at the rental desk?”
I didn’t remember going to a rental desk, so maybe he had a point. “Fine, then pull over at a coffee shop and we’ll kill two birds.”
Tiller shook his head. “I’ve been driving these roads for a million years. This is my hometown, remember?”
I stopped arguing but only because I knew he’d want to stop soon enough for coffee himself. Now that I’d made the suggestion, he wouldn’t be able to stop thinking about it. Sure enough, when we got to the far side of Denver, he pulled off the interstate and found a Starbucks. I pretended not to hear him order himself a sugar- and cream-filled monstrosity before he rattled off my skinny chai latte order like he’d done it a million times. When he added a slice of pumpkin bread and a blueberry scone, I decided to forgive him for almost killing us with the one-armed driving stunt.
We switched places and got back on the road. It took us almost three hours to get to Aster Valley, Colorado, but the time passed quickly with talk of what Tiller still needed to get his friends and family for Christmas, what we wanted to get for Sam—who was next to impossible to buy for since he didn’t like owning more than would fit in the saddlebags on his motorcycle—and whether or not Tiller’s teammates had started planning their big end-of-season trip yet.
When we crested the final mountain pass, a small, snow-covered town appeared in the valley below. Lights twinkled from shops and houses in the shadows between the peaks on either side while the top of the mountain to the east still shone with the last traces of the warm glow of sunset on snow. I felt like we’d found a little hidden gem nestled in a secret spot deep in the Rockies.
“Have you ever been here before?” I asked.
Tiller shook his head. “Never even heard of it, I don’t think. Wait… Aster Valley… didn’t there used to be a ski resort here?”