I shoved the food into my mouth and groaned. Like clockwork, as soon as I’d downed half my portion, Mikey reached back to pour me a coffee from the carafe on the counter. I was sure he was already on his second, or even third, cup himself, but he didn’t allow me to have coffee on an empty stomach, and I sure as hell wasn’t allowed more than one cup.
“What are you doing today?” I asked, taking my first sip and savoring it.
“I’m delivering muffins to Kiki’s, two lasagnes to D’Angelo’s house, and a cold couscous salad to Hilltop Cafe.”
“The one with the feta?”
He nodded and took another sip of his coffee. “They’re putting it with their veggie panini on the daily lunch special, I think. I had to make four giant trays after it sold out last time.”
“Did you save me some?” It was a stupid question, and his facial expression confirmed it.
“It’s in your lunchbox along with grilled salmon, a big salad with eggs on it—shut up, I don’t want to hear it—an apple, some almonds, and your lunch smoothie.”
“I hate eggs in my salad,” I muttered under my breath anyway.
“Cry into your giant piles of money,” he shot back. It was one of his favorite expressions, and it kind of made me laugh every time he said it. Not that I’d tell him that.
“I can’t. Last time I did that, I tried wiping my eyes and my Super Bowl ring gave me a black eye.”
Mikey snickered, and that’s all I needed to hear to know I was going to have a great day.
And I did. It was the day after that when everything went to hell.
2
Mikey
I wasn’t a big football fan despite growing up immersed in it. Or maybe because of growing up immersed in it. But I still went to every home game out of habit. Maybe I’d stopped for a little while during the Nelson Evangelista years since he had a habit of making illegal hits that turned my stomach, but as soon as I’d started working for Tiller, suddenly I was interested again.
Whatever.
Anyway, on this particular Sunday, I was grateful for it. Sam had come with me, and we were sitting in my dad’s box with my mom and brothers when it happened. It was late in the third quarter, and the Riggers were up by fourteen over the Raiders. Tiller had made several incredible catches, two of which had resulted in touchdown runs, and one had been a TD reception in the end zone. He was on fire as usual. His reputation as a focused professional had certainly made my father proud over the past few years, especially after his role in helping bring home the Super Bowl win last year. He’d begun using Tiller as the example, even though Tiller had no work-life balance whatsoever.
Other than swimming and reading thrillers and mystery novels in the sun by his pool, he didn’t seem to have much of a hobby. I knew at one point growing up he’d been an avid snowboarder, but once he’d been recruited to play college ball, he’d had to promise to give up any and all other dangerous sports. Now that he was a multimillion-dollar NFL player, there wasn’t a chance in hell his contract would let him on the slopes.
I hadn’t even seen him bring home a man in the five years I’d lived there. Well, he’d brought home teammates, and I’d met his family when they’d come to visit from Denver or we’d traveled to them. But I’d never heard about his love life or even a sex life to speak of. I’d asked Colin about it the night we’d hooked up.
“He pays for it on road trips,” he’d said with a laugh. “Gets rent boys up in his hotel room and goes at it all night to work off the stress. Coach finds out, it’ll be his ass.”
I’d felt sick to my stomach then. At least until I’d begun to question whether or not Colin had been telling the truth. It didn’t matter either way. It was none of my business, but I wondered why a man so built and beautiful and talented would ever have to pay someone to sleep with him.
Sam grabbed my arm. “Fuck, double coverage.”
My eyes snapped to number twenty-three in the white uniform with navy and orange accents as he tried his hardest to lose the two magnets attached to his ass.
The ball came sailing his way just as he juked left and found a spot. He snatched the ball out of the air and turned.
Right into a Mack truck.
The linebacker had been braced and waiting. Tiller had hit him shoulder-first so hard, his helmet bounced when his head hit the ground.
I gasped and clawed at Sam’s arm. “No. No, fuck.”
Mom patted my shoulder. “He’s okay, honey. He’s taken worse hits than that before.”
How the hell did she stay so calm? I’d often wondered if maybe she was medicated. How else could she have watched my brothers all get the shit beat out of them on the field and mat without having to be admitted into some kind of program for chronic anxiety?
“He’s not okay,” I said quietly enough that only Sam could hear.
“No,” he agreed in his usual gruff way. Sam wasn’t an easy person to read at the best of times, and when he was worried about someone he cared about, it was even worse.
I stood up and went forward, grabbing a pair of nearby binoculars and trying to focus them on the still player on the field with my hands shaking as much as they were.
“Get up, get up,” I muttered. “Get your ass up, Raine.”
The medical professionals rushed out and helped him up to thunderous applause.
“See, honey? Right as Raine.”
I’d heard that phrase about a million times too many over the last several years. The man was known for shaking off hard hits, it was true. But when he came home to me, I saw the real-life aftereffects of it. He’d never, ever been “right as Raine” after one of those hits. He’d been bruised and bloodied, weakened by pain. Even after tending to him with ice packs, ice baths, and even massage in some cases, I’d had to watch him move gingerly and return to work way too soon.
“I’m going down there,” I said as soon as they started helping him off the field. He was cradling his right arm against his body, and if he had an injury like that, it could mean the end of the season for him. The Riggers had won the Super Bowl last season, so they were expected to return to defend their title this year. They wouldn’t have nearly as good a chance without Tiller.
Sam nodded and stayed where he was. He wasn’t all that great with emotion, and he probably expected I was going to lose my cool pretty rapidly. I, too, wasn’t all that great with emotion. Instead of bottling it up and smashing it down, I poured it out and frothed at the mouth with it. It was part of what made me special. Or so I’d been told. It was also part of what made me damp during Super Bowl commercials.
My feet flew as I made my way down to the locker room and medical bay. It didn’t matter what kind of security pass I had when everyone who worked at the stadium knew I was Coach Vining’s son. Several of the guards had known me since I was young, and the assistant coaches had all gotten lectures from me behind the scenes about helping keep junk food out of my dad’s hands after his cholesterol and blood pressure results had come in too high.
“Mikey, what’s shakin’?” Krystal asked from the hallway outside the medical offices. She was one of the physical therapists on staff.