“It makes me itch to strap on a board,” Tiller said with a smile, turning to his sister. “Maybe thrown down with Steph if she still has some skills.”
Stephanie’s cheeks were pink from the cold, and her eyes were bright. “Name the time and place, brah,” she said with a laugh. “I’d like to see your epic wipeouts after all this time.”
They started telling stories of their adventures on the slopes. When Tiller had been in high school, Stephanie had been at Colorado College. She and her friends would plan ski outings to nearby Breckenridge and invite Tiller and his friends.
“I can’t picture Julian skiing,” I said, thinking of the buttoned-up business executive I’d met several times. He was one of Tiller’s close friends from childhood, and he’d stayed with us several times when his job brought him to town.
Steph turned to me. “Oh no. Julian loves to ski, and he’s really good at it. But the one you really need to see is their friend Parker. That man is hot shit on skis. He’s also not bad-looking in tight ski pants…”
Luke leaned over and swatted Steph’s ass. “I’m not bad-looking in tight ski pants either, wench.”
Steph chuckled. “True. We should plan a weekend soon to take the girls. I’d be happy to stare at your ass as I follow you down the mountain. We should take the girls before it gets crowded over the holidays.”
I could see Tiller’s disappointment at not being included. It was the same every season—the most we got was a quick visit and meal with our families between games. I didn’t much mind because I wasn’t as close to my family, but I knew it bothered Tiller. He’d never complain about it because Moose had told him again and again that football was only temporary. There’d be time later on for the other things in life.
“That league paycheck will make for plenty of good Christmases and ski trips after you’re retired, son,” he’d said only an hour or so ago when Tiller was grumbling about missing Santa gifts on Christmas morning with the girls.
I’d gritted my teeth and kept my mouth shut. After Tiller retired, Santa would no longer be visiting the girls. Unless Tiller had his own kids or Steph and Luke had more, that would be that.
I realized Jill was trying to get my attention. “Have you ever been skiing, Mikey?”
“If you mean water skiing, then yes, ma’am,” I said politely, shooting her a wink.
Steph’s face lit up. “Oh man, we need to get you some lessons. It’s too bad Tiller can’t teach you. He’s so patient. I wish he could teach the girls.”
I sensed Tiller’s funk deepen, so I leaned down to scoop up some snow before carefully packing it into a ball while he wasn’t looking.
While moving closer to Tiller, I said, “I think I might rather be the guy back at the lodge with hot cocoa than the guy flying down the slopes on waxed sticks. No offense.”
Bam. I nailed Tiller directly between the shoulder blades with my snow missile and then took off running toward the girls. Tiller squawked in shock and immediately promised retribution. His nieces proved to be crappy human shields and even crappier snowball throwers, so we went down in a cold and wet blaze of glory once the snow started flying.
Even as I dragged my freezing, teeth-chattering ass back to the lodge an hour later, I knew the pain had been worth it.
Tiller had gotten a fun day in the snow with his family, even though it hadn’t included skiing or snowboarding. It wasn’t exactly what he’d been missing, but it was enough.
We all took a break to shower and dress in comfortable clothes before meeting back up to watch the Monday night game between the Titans and the Chiefs. A lot was riding on the result of this game since the Titans were in direct competition with the Riggers for a spot in the playoffs.
I busied myself washing dishes and starting a butternut squash soup we could have for dinner in case anyone got hungry after the big midday meal.
When Moose started yelling at the television, I snuck away to my room and stripped the sheets off the bed before packing my things. I started a load of laundry and moved my stuff into Tiller’s room, all the while hearing cheers and groans from the other room as the game progressed.
I didn’t want to watch it. If Tiller wasn’t playing, I didn’t much care, and honestly… I was angry at the game. Angry at my dad and the kind of people who prized the game enough to push players like Tiller into playing before they were properly healed.
I knew the drill. This game was about money, and Tiller Raine put fans in the stands and money in Rigger pockets. No one wanted to come see Brent Little fumble the ball when they thought Tiller would catch every damned pass thrown to him. It wasn’t true, of course, but fans tended to think in extremes.
Sure enough, when I came back to the kitchen, the Titans were ahead and Moose was grumbling about how much trouble the Riggers would be in on Sunday without Tiller there to save the day.
No pressure.
I glanced at Tiller, who was clearly agitated as well. His hair looked like he’d been on a ride in a convertible for about a thousand miles of rough road, and even now, his fingers threaded through the thick locks as he paced back and forth.
I swallowed a sigh. If there was one thing I was used to, it was close football games and the stress of losing late in the season when every game seemed to count even more. Despite my history of hooking up with football players, I’d never wanted to end up with one. This tension was a lot to deal with, and I’d already put in a lifetime’s worth of hours watching boys throw balls around in the grass.
But this was Tiller’s livelihood and his passion. He cared about the game, about helping his team. He wanted to improve and be the best at it he possibly could.
I grabbed some baby carrots and homemade dip out of the fridge and called Tiller over to the kitchen island to have some. He dropped a haphazard kiss to the top of my head with a mumbled thanks, grabbed the bowl, and returned to his pacing area.
This time, the loud crunch of carrots punctured the sound of the crowd in Kansas City. I knew from experience it helped Tiller to have something to do when he was anxious about a game he was watching. He took out his frustration on the carrots while I went back to tending the soup.
Despite the shouted coaching help from Moose and the softly muttered curses from Tiller, the Chiefs lost to the Titans in the final two minutes of the game.
If the Riggers lost the following week at home against the Steelers, they could be in danger of missing the playoffs. There was no doubt in my mind this loss would make my father even more determined to get Tiller back on the field as soon as possible.
Thankfully, our impromptu pity party was interrupted by Winter Waites a little while later. Even though I knew he’d only been doing his job when he’d sent a status report back to the team medical professionals the day before, I still partially blamed him for the sudden end to my little fantasy vacation with Tiller.
As Winter and Tiller walked past me to the basement door for their workout session, I heard Winter ask, “Why is Mike looking at me like he wants to toss my body parts into a meat grinder?”
Tiller sighed and turned back to give me a sympathetic glance before opening the basement door for Winter. “We’re going back to Houston earlier than we expected.”
Winter stopped in his tracks. “Why? Is this because of the loss yesterday?”