It was clear Mikey had never heard this part of the Tiller Raine story. I chuckled as I began to make us both lattes with the beans Mikey had clearly brought from home. He was a snob about his coffee beans to the point he had separate expensive ones for him and cheap-ass shit for me.
“I thought you were spoon-fed filet mignon as a student athlete,” he said. “No job needed with a full ride.”
“Yeah, well, the full ride didn’t pay for the new transmission I needed on my truck or the North Face parka I wanted to replace my stupid wool peacoat with.”
The sound of the machine’s burr grinder was familiar, and I moved through the process of preparing the coffee from muscle memory. When I finally moved to pull the milk from the fridge, I almost accidentally knocked into Mikey.
“Whoa, did you fall asleep on me?” I asked, grabbing his upper arm to keep him from slamming against the counter. The movement in my bad shoulder made me wince, but I bit it back so Mikey wouldn’t notice.
He shook his head. “I… I just assumed you’d never had to work for anything.”
I let out a loud bark of laughter. “Are you fucking kidding? You don’t think I work hard in my job for the Riggers?”
He looked up at me in surprise. “What? No. I mean, yes, of course you do. You work your ass off.”
“Damned right.” I poured the milk into the little pitcher. “And I worked my ass off in high school and college with part-time jobs until sophomore year at Boulder when the coach told me to fish or cut bait.”
“That sucks,” Mikey muttered.
I shrugged. “Not really. After I quit Starbucks, I spent more time on conditioning and stuff. Probably wouldn’t have done as well if I hadn’t been able to focus on football.”
Mikey made another grumbled sound of disagreement but didn’t say anything. It was rare for me to witness his pre-coffee moments in the morning, but it was always entertaining when I did.
I handed him the first latte. “Here you go, sleepyhead.”
He took it over to the overstuffed chair by the dark fireplace and plopped down in it, pulling his knees up to his chest and inhaling the steam from his mug. “Praise the lord.”
When I finished prepping my own cup, I took it over to the sofa and set it down on a table before moving to start the fire. Thankfully, someone had already laid it out, so all I had to do was open the flue and light the newspaper under the kindling.
We sat in companionable silence for a little while as the flames caught and the wood started to burn. Once Mikey had enough caffeine in his system to function, he began to speak. His eyes remained on the fire.
“We dated for over a year,” he said softly. “He wasn’t out. Obviously. But some of his close friends knew. About him, I mean. Not about me.”
I realized he was talking about Evangelista, and I wasn’t quite sure I was prepared to hear it. He continued despite my silence.
“It was so stupid. I just… I was lonely, I guess. And I…” His voice trailed off. I glanced over at him and saw him staring into the fire with flared nostrils.
“You…?” I nudged.
“I wanted to be wanted. I was tired of being alone. I’m not really a hookup guy.”
I thought about his hookup with Colin Saris but kept my mouth firmly closed. It wasn’t my place to judge. Besides, there was nothing wrong with hooking up. For god’s sake, I’d do anything for a hookup these days. It simply wasn’t easy when you were a recognizable public figure and there were people hoping to sell your story to the highest bidder.
“You don’t have to explain yourself to me,” I told him. “You deserve to be wanted and loved.”
He snorted softly. “He didn’t love me. I’m not sure Nelson is capable of loving someone besides himself.”
I’d never played with Evangelista. He’d been traded to Seattle right before I was drafted, but I’d heard all about him, and I’d had plenty of chances to watch him on the other side of the field when we’d played against his team. He was a typical cocky bastard, a dime a dozen in this business. Mikey’s assessment didn’t surprise me. But imagining the two of them in a relationship did.
“That was five years ago,” I said. “What about since then?”
For the first time, he looked over at me and met my eyes. “Since then I’ve had you to keep me busy.”
Heavy silence descended for a beat while I tried to figure out what he meant by that. Suddenly, he grinned and shifted in his seat, stretching an arm up over his head. “And my right hand. Anyway, let’s go out for breakfast at that little diner we saw. I feel like playing hooky today.”
I sat there frozen with a rapidly filling dick, imagining Mikey V. stroking himself under my roof—down the hall from where I was doing the same thing half the time. Even though he’d originally moved into the apartment over my garage, two years into his employment, we’d discovered black mold in the walls. He’d temporarily relocated into one of the guest rooms down the hall from my bedroom and had never left. We’d never talked about it, but it was pretty clear we both preferred being under the same roof. Neither of us enjoyed being alone all that much. It was one of the reasons we encouraged Sam and some of our other friends to stay over whenever they were hanging out with us late at night.
Lately, though, I’d begun to recognize part of the reason we encouraged others to stay over was to keep us from having too much time alone together. Because now that it was just the two of us, I couldn’t stop thinking of crossing the line with him, of touching him, of tasting him, of fucking his sweet ass deep into the mattress in the bedroom or even taking him on his hands and knees right here in front of the blazing fire.
I clenched my teeth together and tried to imagine anything that might kill my erection.
Coach Vining finding out you want to bone his baby boy.
Done.
I stood up and swallowed the last of my lukewarm latte. “Give me five minutes to get dressed and we’ll go.”
8
Mikey
The drive into the little town of Aster Valley was completely different in daylight. The atmosphere was still charming, but this time we could clearly make out the abandoned ski slopes leading straight down to the main part of town. It turned out that our Rockley Lodge had originally been a ski-in/ski-out location perched right on the edge of one of the main runs. The abandoned lift stood silent and still in the clear mountain air, and the sun cast shortening shadows through the fir trees at the edges of the open trails.
“Hell, we could have taken a sled into town,” Tiller muttered as he pulled into a parking space in front of the Mustache Diner. “Who knew how close we were as the crow flies?”
I hauled myself out of the large SUV. “But then we would have had to climb back up with a stomach full of waffles,” I added. “Which basically means you would have had to pull me on the sled.”
When we entered the old-fashioned diner, there wasn’t a hint of recognition on anyone’s faces. Maybe it was the fleece beanie Tiller had on or the scarf wrapped around his neck, but it was surprisingly refreshing.
“Sit anywhere, hon,” a man around fifty with salt-and-pepper hair and scruff said from a nearby booth he was busy wiping down.