My mother started talking about her Tesla and how he should get one of those for the drive to and from practice. I tuned them out as I scrolled through the mental list of friends I had who might be interested in and capable of this job.
I still came up empty.
“What if, until he finds someone, I use his kitchen while he’s at work and leave the food for when he gets home,” I said. “I wouldn’t even need to see him.”
As the idea fleshed out in my head, I continued thinking out loud. “In fact, if I used that kitchen, I could offer a healthy meal service to all of your players and deliver them to the practice facility. Maybe I could turn it into a catering side business.”
Mom’s face lit up. “Honey, what a wonderful idea.”
Coach still looked annoyed. “No. Besides, you already have a job. Bruce counts on you.”
He was right. And I actually liked Bruce. Working for him was easy, and running errands meant getting out of the office and into the Houston sunshine. I hated the heat but craved the sun. Being stuck in a dark office was my biggest fear, and I couldn’t even imagine sitting at a desk all day.
Being Bruce Lester’s temporary yes-man was the perfect way to keep money coming in while I found the right permanent job. Ultimately, my dream was to open a cafe, but I still needed both more cooking and some small-business management experience before I would feel confident going out on my own.
“By the way,” I said, happy to change the subject, “Bruce asked me to arrange for lunch for the management meeting tomorrow. Will you be there? If not, I can bring some food to your office. It’s nothing fancy. I’m making grilled chicken and the pasta salad you like.”
Coach nodded and said he’d be in the meeting. Mom smiled at the news and offered to help. “I’m happy to be your co-pilot, dear. We can get started prepping after dinner.”
I returned her smile. My mother was well-meaning but flighty. I’d tried to teach her the phrase sous chef many times, but it never stuck. “That would be great. Maybe we can make some extra to take next door since Mrs. Nibert is still recovering from her knee surgery.”
Mom tittered happily at my offer and began regaling us with neighborhood gossip. For once, the topic of conversation around the table was no longer about Coach’s cocky players, the Riggers, or football in general.
The following day was jam-packed. I got up early to finish prepping and packing the lunches and made it to the practice facility just in time to help Bruce’s secretary, Greta, handle a group of unexpected VIP visitors who wanted a last-minute tour. After showing them around and returning to serve lunch, I thought things would slow down enough for me to catch my breath.
But then Bruce called me into his office after the meeting, and I caught sight of Tiller Raine.
No gay man on earth could catch his breath when faced with this guy.
“Mikey, have you met our newest wide receiver yet? This is Tiller Raine. Tiller, Michael Vining, Coach V.’s youngest boy.”
I stared at the wide receiver like I’d never seen a famous pro football player before, which was pretty funny considering I’d been around them practically my whole life and usually didn’t give a shit one way or the other.
But this guy? I gulped. This guy was freaking gorgeous. Like… melt your feet to the floor and make you beg beautiful. His body was muscled perfection, and his messy golden-brown hair made me immediately wonder what he looked like freshly fucked.
I swallowed again, wondering if I needed a saliva gland checkup since mine seemed to be malfunctioning.
“H-hi?” I managed to say.
Tiller nodded and held out his hand for a shake. His reaction was all business, and his face was impossible to read. “Nice to meet you.”
I reached for his giant paw hesitantly. Wide receivers were known for big hands and strong grips. But when Tiller’s hand clasped mine, it was gentle and kind. I stared down at our joined hands and wondered how much these hands were insured for. Incidentally, I wondered how much I’d have to pay him to keep his gentle, warm hand in mine.
I jerked my hand back and hid it behind my back. “Can… can I help you with something, Mr. Lester?”
Bruce raised his eyebrows at my formal language. He’d known me since I was a preteen, and I’d called him by his first name since I graduated high school. “Mikey, you okay?”
No. No, I was not. I shook my head to clear it from the ridiculous baller-induced brain fog and focused back on my boss. “Yes, sir. Bruce. How can I help?”
“Markus Harris reached out to me in hopes of getting some help finding a personal chef for Tiller, here. I remembered this was an area of expertise for you, so I hoped you might be able to help us.”
It wasn’t until that moment, I realized there was another man in the room. Markus Harris was a well-known sports agent who represented several of the Riggers, so I’d come across him several times in the past few years.
He didn’t like me for some reason, which meant I avoided him like the plague. I was disappointed to realize Tiller was one of his clients.
I nodded at Markus, cleared my throat, and looked back at Bruce. “I spoke to Coach about it last night. I can’t think of anyone who would be a good fit. I’m sorry. You might—”
Just as I was preparing to suggest he reach out to the department at UT to inquire about recent grads looking for work, he held up a hand to stop me.
“You misunderstand,” Bruce said with a kind smile. “I was hoping you might help him directly. Greta has found a permanent PA for me, so I thought this would be a great way for you to stay employed while you’re continuing your job search. You can cook for Tiller through the season and start any new position afterward. That way he gets help learning how to manage his diet, and you have the freedom to continue your search without feeling rushed. What do you say?”
Every square inch of my body began to sweat at once.
“Oh.” I could have really used some of that saliva right about now. My throat clicked as I tried to swallow again. “Oh.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Tiller’s full mouth turn down briefly. I closed my eyes and tried not to notice him. Reason number one, this would never work.
“It’s just that…” I began. I didn’t have anything else to say, really, but I’d never been one to abide awkward silence.
Markus eyed me from his spot on a nearby chair. “Didn’t you work for Nelson Evangelista?”
“Yes, but—”
“Then you already know the demands of a professional ballplayer’s career and schedule,” he interjected. “You’re familiar with the demands of confidentiality. In fact, I assume you already have an NDA on file with the league as you are Coach Vining’s son.”
“Of course, but—”
His smile was sharklike. “Then it’s settled. The sooner Tiller can get this sorted out, the better. You can move into the apartment over the garage and start tomorrow.”
My heart thundered as I remembered my dad’s fist banging on the table last night. “I don’t think Coach would—”
Bruce offered me another familial smile. “Don’t you worry about Coach. I’ll handle him. Besides, it was his idea Tiller get a personal chef in the first place.”