“No. Apparently my hand therapist thinks I’m ready to be back on the field.” Tiller said it in gentle, teasing way, but Winter balked.
“What the hell? Who? Not me. Jesus, Tiller. Are you kidding? They’re not going to put you back in yet, are they?”
The physical therapist’s shocked response made my stomach hurt. It was as I suspected. My father wasn’t about to risk qualification for the playoffs. Even if it meant putting Tiller’s health in jeopardy.
17
Tiller
I shouldn’t have been surprised by Mikey’s terrible mood leaving Colorado, but somehow I still was. He was pissy and short with me as if I’d been the one to call myself back to work. Apologies piled up on the end of my tongue, but I bit them back. There was nothing for me to apologize for. I was following orders—his father’s orders, no less.
I still hated to see him unhappy.
Leaving him at the airport was hard as hell. The team had sent a car for me, so Mikey would have to drive the SUV back to the house with our luggage on his own.
“Will you be home for dinner?” Mikey asked hesitantly. We stood outside the door of baggage claim trying desperately to figure out how to say goodbye to each other under these new circumstances—whatever those happened to be. I wasn’t quite sure yet what we were since it was both temporary and something I never wanted to end.
“Markus is in town,” I said. “He wants to catch up over dinner.”
Mikey’s face was neutral while his eyes were anything but. They sparked with a mixture of uncertainty and annoyance. He hated my agent, and the feeling was most likely mutual. Markus worried Mikey was some kind of mole sent by Coach V. to keep an eye on me in case I ever got the urge to leave the Riggers. Which was laughable. Not only did I not want to leave, Mikey was the last person who’d give his father insider information about me.
He cleared his throat. “Yeah, fine. Maybe I’ll have Sam over if he’s not stuck on a jobsite.”
“Mikey,” I said softly, leaning down to whisper in his ear. His body leaned toward me with or without his permission. “I’ll be home for dessert. Will you wait up for me, please?”
He shivered and pulled back, sniffing as if none of this mattered. “It depends on how late you get in. I’m kind of tired.”
I grabbed the front of his shirt and pulled him close again, not giving a shit who saw. This time, my lips brushed his ear, and he made a noise in his throat that went straight to my cock. “If you go to sleep before I get home, it had better be in my bed. You got me?”
His eyes fluttered closed for the briefest moment before he opened them again and stared at my chest. “Mm-hm.”
I let go of his shirt and smoothed the wrinkled fabric down, pressing my hand firmly over his heart for a long beat. “Look at me.”
He tilted his head back until he met my eyes.
“I would kiss the fuck out of you right now if I could,” I told him in a low voice. “You know that, right?”
He nodded and sighed. “Yeah. Okay. Good luck today. Text me and tell me what they say. If Dad tries to play you this weekend, I might have to…” His voice trailed off as he hopefully remembered it wasn’t his place to get between me and my coach even if the coach in question was his dad. “Cry,” he finished.
Not being able to kiss and hug him killed me. “Call Sam, okay? Have some fun. Maybe contact your publishing lady to ask about the cookbook photo shoot.”
He waved me off. “Go. I’ll be fine.”
As I watched Mikey walk away, trailing both of our suitcases behind him, I realized a chunk of my heart was going with him. I ducked into the town car and thanked the driver for waiting for me before I settled back into the plush leather seat for the drive to the practice facility. I needed to get my head back in the game. Markus would be willing to go to bat for me if I truly felt like I wasn’t ready to return to regular play, but if the team PTs thought I was ready, maybe they knew better than I did.
I wouldn’t know until I got out there and tried.
Of course the first person I saw when I arrived was Coach V.
“Thank fuck. Get your ass in there, we’re about to start.” He slapped me on the back and nodded toward the film room. When I entered the room, half the team was already milling around. There were shouts and catcalls as everyone’s eyes landed on me, and the warm welcome was nice. My friend Peevy jogged over and threw his arms around me with a mock wail. “Where have you been all my life? I missed youuuu!”
Antone walked by and pinched my ass. “Good to see you back, lazy-ass.”
“Fuck me,” someone said from up in the tiered seats. “It’s the prima donna herself, come to save the day.”
Someone else added, “You know things are shit when Coach calls babygirl back from vacay.”
I shot a bird in their general direction and smacked Antone on the ass before following him up to the third row to take our seats. Peevy took the seat on the other side of me and leaned in to ask if I’d hooked up with any hotties from high school on my visit home.
“I didn’t really go home. Mikey and I rented a cabin in the mountains,” I said without thinking. The guys on either side of me went strangely quiet. “What?” I asked.
“You banging your assistant, Raine?” Peevy asked.
Antone’s forehead creased in concern. “Better yet, you banging Coach’s baby boy?”
I swallowed, frantically searching for an answer that wasn’t a lie. “Why are you asking me that after all this time? Mikey always travels with me.”
Antone sat forward. “Raine…”
Before Antone could warn me off something we all knew was stupid and inappropriate, Coach V. came in and told us all to shut up and listen.
It was hard to concentrate with the sting of Antone’s unspoken rebuke in my ears. Every time I focused on Coach, I couldn’t help but see him as Mikey’s dad instead of my boss. He did the same odd little head tilt Mikey did when waiting for someone to answer a question, and he used the expression “You snooze, you lose” just like Mikey did every time I complained about not getting one of his peanut butter brownies before everyone else ate them all.
For an hour and twenty minutes, all I saw was proof I was banging the boss’s boy. It was like sitting in a courtroom while the prosecutor trotted out every single piece of irrefutable evidence against the defendant. And I was the defendant.
I squirmed in my seat and jostled my leg until Peevy clamped his giant hand down on my knee and squeezed to get me to stop. When the meeting finally finished, I blew out a sigh of relief until Coach called out, “Raine, Mopellei, meet me in my office.”
The cool, modern hallway leading from the film room to Coach’s office filled as players made their way to different post-meeting appointments. Some went to the locker room to change out for practice, some headed to the trainers or the weight room, and a few walked in the same direction I was going in order to meet up with the assistant coaches. Derek Mopellei caught up with me and asked how I was feeling. I could see the hope in the quarterback’s eyes.
“Shoulder feels stronger,” I said. “But my hand still feels numb and tingly sometimes, and my grip isn’t where it should be.”