Prologue
Tiller
“Raine!” Coach V.’s bark was as familiar to me as the sound of the crowd cheering on a Friday night or Saturday afternoon. The problem was, this time the sound was muffled by thousands of gallons of blood rushing through my ears. I could have sworn I felt my heartbeat in my brain.
“I’m fine, Coach,” I mumbled. Only, it sounded like “Mah fo” for some reason.
“Like hell you are. Q-bie! Get your ass over here with the med kit and some glucose. Raine’s bonked. Again.”
I wasn’t sure bonked was a term used in football, even at the pro level. But then again, I was a rookie. What the hell did I know?
I turned on my side and dry-heaved. Coach Vining squatted down a safe enough distance away to avoid any vomit, but close enough he only needed to hiss for me to hear him. “This ain’t peewee league no more. Your coach told me you had a problem forgetting to eat. Remember we had a little conversation about it when I recruited your sorry ass?”
I tried to say, “Yes, Coach,” but it came out as more dry-heaves.
“So we had a conversation, you and me. And I told you to get your nutrition in order. Hell, I even suggested you hire a professional meal service or some shit. You remember what you said?”
I coughed and rolled back to my back. The scorching heat of the turf against my sweaty jersey was reassuring. It meant I was alive and still in Houston busting my ass for the Riggers. Playing for the NFL was a dream come true, but right about now I would have given my left nut for a different dream.
“I said I’d handle it, Coach.”
“Damned right you did. You said you’d handle it. And here we are only four games into regular season and you’ve passed out three times already from low blood sugar. What the hell you eating, son?”
He didn’t give me time to answer before he continued.
“Whatever it is, it ain’t enough. Pro ballers have to eat a minimum of four thousand calories per day. You know this. And if you don’t, you’re even more of a dumb shit than I already thought. So here’s what we’re gonna do. One of my boys has some kind of nutrition degree and knows how to cook healthy. You’re going to find someone like that who knows what’s what and hire them to keep your body fueled like a goddamned pro baller. You got me?”
I thought of his four grown sons. One had played football for Alabama, one for Clemson, one for UT, and the other had wrestled for A&M. They were hard workers, and all had big, muscled bodies. Hell, one of them currently played for the Bengals. If Coach wanted me to consult one of them for nutrition help, I would do it.
“Richie?” I asked, thinking of the wrestler. He probably had the most experience in managing his nutrition, but he was a mean fucker—always spouting off about fairness but only when it cut against him.
“Nah. My youngest. You met Mikey at the WAGs dinner before preseason.”
Fuckin’ A, I’d forgotten. Coach had a fifth boy. A little runt of a guy with nerdy glasses and dark, messy hair. He was the opposite of a ballplayer. The kid had looked like he’d been plucked out of a riveting lecture on the periodic table to come to the friends-and-family thing.
“Mikey,” I said stupidly. “He’s a chef?”
Coach shrugged. “Nah. He’s a gopher. I only said find someone like him who knows about nutrition and cooking for athletes. Not him, though. He works for Bruce as an errand boy. Someone like him. You got me?”
Q-bie had come racing back from the sidelines and was busy sticking me with an IV to push his magic fluid. Within a few moments, I was well enough to sit up.
“I don’t need a chef,” I muttered. “I need a bodyguard to keep the media away from me.”
I was the first out player in the NFL who’d made the starting lineup. Since I’d been out since high school, there’d been no way of putting that Genie back in the box, even if I’d wanted to. Which I hadn’t. The Riggers had known I was gay when they’d recruited me, but my stats made me downright irresistible. If they hadn’t drafted me, someone else would have. I was a Heisman winner, and that trumped sucking dick any day of the week.
Coach narrowed his eyes at me. “Then get you one of them, too. Just fucking get your shit together, rookie. And remember what I told you about earlier. This ain’t the time for any of that crap. No dating. Just football. A lot of us are counting on you. Understand? We need you to stay focused.”
The reminder wasn’t necessary. Football was everything, and I had no plans to fuck it up with any kind of media attention if I could help it. My goal was to lie low and concentrate on being the best damned wide receiver in the league. As my dad always said, “The rest of it can wait. Football can’t. You’re only in prime shape for a small window of time. Make it count.”
So that was my objective. Avoid any media attention that was unrelated to my skill on the field. Keep my head in the game. Save the dating and relationship stuff for later. My position playing on the starting lineup for the Riggers was still unbelievable to me, and I was going to bust my ass to prove I was worth the time and money this man and the Rigger franchise had chosen to invest in me.
“Yes, sir.”
He stood up and wandered off, muttering under his breath about rookie idiots. When he got a few feet away, he turned back. “Might as well have Bryant and D’Angelo come over and eat some healthy shit too when you find someone to cook for you. Those guys don’t know their ass from a complex carbohydrate.”
With another nod, he turned and strode toward the fumble drill happening on the other side of the field. “Tighten up, Butterfingers!” he yelled to Jamal Johnson, a three-time Super Bowl–winning running back. The man almost never gave up a fumble, so it was kind of funny to see him called Butterfingers in practice.
I closed my eyes and groaned. I’d been an NFL player for only a couple of months and I was already fucking up. Hopefully this Mikey kid could recommend someone. And if he couldn’t do that, at least asking him for help would convince Coach I tried.
I’d do just about anything to keep Coach Vining happy and convince my teammates, the fans, and the league that football was my number one priority. My only priority.
Mickey
“I got a player needs a chef,” Coach—because god forbid we be allowed to call him Dad—said across the dinner table.
My ears perked up for a split second before I remembered my new rule. Never, ever work for another one of my dad’s players. Ever.
Coach eyed me as he shoveled in a forkfull of the veggie lasagne I’d made. The man probably hadn’t noticed it didn’t have meat in it. I’d been sneaking vegetarian meals into my family’s dinner rotation for years. The only one who noticed was my mom, who appreciated eating “lighter” from time to time.
“Not you, obviously,” he mumbled as he ate. I looked away. “Someone you know. From school maybe.”
“I don’t know anyone looking for a job right now.” Except for myself, of course. I didn’t intend to sound so petulant, but it was true. Besides, working for a pro baller was a pain in the ass. Most of them were used to being treated like prima donnas. However, the money had been amazing…
I sighed and sent another silent apology to my bank account for losing our sweet gig with Nelson Evangelista. Even though I currently had a temporary job as a stand-in personal assistant for the owner of the Riggers while he looked for someone more permanent, I’d never again have as sweet a deal as I had living and working with Nelson.
“Be a team player, son,” he said with his mouth full.
“I’m not one of your players,” I reminded him for the millionth time.
“He needs a professional. Someone who knows nutrition. The man needs to learn how to fuel his body. Surely you know someone.”
I took a long swallow of ice water. “His manager should be able to help him find a personal chef.”
Coach shoveled in another bite as my mom made a sound of interest. Then he continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “The kid keeps passing out. He’s not eating enough, or he’s eating junk. Hell, I have no idea. But it’s clear no one ever taught him how to eat like a performance athlete.”
I cringed at the idea of any young, healthy pro athlete trying to fuel their body with crap. Poor kid.
I’d had to move home after Nelson had cut me loose. He’d decided to give his new girlfriend the job of being his live-in personal assistant. I wondered how that was going. If Miss Gulf Coast could navigate her way around an Excel spreadsheet, I’d eat my shoe.
Not really. But I’d eat trans fats, and that was pretty much the same thing.
“I’d volunteer to help him out, but I’m not interested in working for another player,” I said, lying through my teeth. In fact, I’d loved living in Nelson’s multimillion-dollar home with its amazing gourmet kitchen. That kitchen had been a dream come true for a wannabe chef like me. And having my own suite of rooms far away from Nelson’s own living space had been amazing—far better than any kind of apartment I could have afforded.
Until I’d moved my shit into his bedroom. But that was a subject for another time. And by “another time,” I meant never.
Although, I couldn’t deny how nice it had been not to pay rent for those two years. I’d socked money away like crazy, saving for the cafe I wanted to open one day. Now that I remembered the feeling, I was almost tempted to find out more about becoming a full-time personal chef. But how much money would make it worth dealing one-on-one with another spoiled, entitled ballplayer? At least it would be an opportunity to actually work in my field instead of doing these PA gigs.
“Nobody’s asking you,” my father growled at me with a pointed stare. “You working for Nelson was clearly a recipe for fucking disaster.”
It turns out, you can be a grown-ass adult and still be cowed by your parents. My jaw clenched against the words begging to spew out. Words about parenting ultimatums needing to die a quick death before the child in question turned twenty-four fucking years old. I fought against the desire to go to work for his player just to prove my father wrong.
“Who is it?” I asked instead, knowing I was tipping my hand. It had to be a rookie if he was having trouble keeping up with the demands of his job. And rookies were total assholes.
“Raine. Wide receiver from University of Colorado.”
My stomach swooped. Tiller Raine. Tiller Raine who’d won the Heisman. Who’d been on the cover of magazines. Who’d made my father strut around like a jackass for months bragging about his first-round draft pick. Who was currently, albeit secretly, saved into my Favorites photo album in a screenshot from an ad for Under Armour. In the ad he was wearing nothing but compression shorts with a giant, NFL-sized bulge in the middle.
But I’d cropped his face out of the photo because his expression said he knew exactly how fucking beautiful he was. Cocky asshole. I’d met him once at a cookout thing my father had forced me to. Raine had looked right through me like I’d been a hologram. If I couldn’t do anything for him, I didn’t matter to him. It was behavior I’d seen time and time again over the years from my brothers’ jock friends and my dad’s jock players, including Nelson Evangelista.
“Extra no,” I said firmly.
Mom reached over and squeezed my hand. “But honey, he’s so good-looking. And he’s gay.”
The last part was whispered because even after my being out for over a decade, my family still had a hard time with it in some ways. I’d actually been impressed with my dad recruiting an out player—even now, no one knew about Nelson—until I’d heard him brag about Raine’s stats to one of his other coaches. Coach had sounded prouder of Tiller Raine than he’d even been of my brothers, who’d all been successful athletes themselves.
Hell, even my brother Jake played pro ball for the Bengals. But he was no Tiller Raine.
My father blustered. “Don’t matter if the man’s gay, Loretta. Ain’t nothing happening between these two. Mikey will stay away from Tiller Raine. I only wanted you to help find him a goddamned personal chef! Forget I said anything. Jesus.”
“His sexuality has nothing to do with anything anyway,” I said peevishly. “Even if I did take the job, it’s not like I’m going to sleep with my boss for god’s sake.” The “again” was left unspoken since my mom presumably didn’t know about my stupid slipup with Nelson.
“Damned right you’re not,” Coach said in his most blistering voice, the scary-as-fuck one that made grown men cry.
I tried not to roll my eyes and remind him I’d said it first. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”
Coach banged his fist on the table. “No one asked you to!”
“Good,” I said, trying not to cry at the lost money. It couldn’t be worth dealing with a cocky rookie like Raine. “Then there’s no issue.”
My mom frowned. “Didn’t he buy Dougie Crenshaw’s house?”
I thought of the kicker who’d retired and moved to Florida last year. He was a total sweetheart. He’d been on the team for years and years. Hell, the man had practically been around during my entire childhood. I’d been to his house a million times. I fucking loved his house. And my mom got to the most important part before I could even put it into words.
“Yes,” she said, answering her own question. “The one with that big commercial kitchen. Dougie’s wife, Kate, liked to throw parties, and she had a catering team come in all the time. Remember?”
“Are you sure Raine bought Dougie’s house?” I asked, imagining cooking in that incredible facility. There was a giant picture window with a view of a lake on the golf course with a little bridge over it and fountains in the water. Not only that, but there was a comfortable sitting area in the kitchen that I’d always snuck away to during the Crenshaw’s parties. I’d curl up in one of the overstuffed chairs and watch the caterers bustle around with trays of canapés while the chef worked his magic at the stove and barked orders to his sous chefs.
“I’m sure,” Coach said around another bite of food. “Had to pick him up on the way to practice the other day because his car wouldn’t start.”
I pictured all the rookie players and their hundred-thousand-dollar sports cars and jacked-up SUVs. “His car wouldn’t start?”
He scoffed. “Good ole boy refuses to replace the pickup his granddad gave him when he was in high school. I’m surprised that piece of shit can pass inspection, much less start on a regular basis. I told him he’d better at least buy some kind of backup for the days his junker throws fits.”
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.”
I snuck a glance at Tiller, who was standing next to me looking as shell-shocked as I was.
“But…” I tried again.
Markus let out an impatient sigh. “Whatever Evangelista was paying you, we’ll double it and include room and board if you’re willing to use the apartment. Especially if you also agree to take on some PA duties. So long as you’re using his kitchen, you may as well manage the household as well.”
Suddenly, the vision of my own little cafe became a little clearer. Nelson had paid me an outrageous sum to be his personal assistant. Even if I only spent the next six months working at twice the rate, I’d save up a ton of money and get the hell out of my parents’ house.
“And the garage apartment is completely separate?” I asked, clarifying that this would not exactly be a live-in situation like before.
Tiller nodded. “I’m not looking for live-in help, but you’re welcome to the apartment. There is a back entrance to the kitchen, so you can use it without coming into the rest of the house.”
He said it in a way that implied I was somehow interested in getting all up in his personal business. “I know the house,” I snapped. “I’ve been there many times.”
Tiller’s eyes widened in surprise. “Good, then you won’t need my help getting settled,” he gritted out.
As if, I wanted to hiss. Instead, I turned back to Bruce. “And it’s just for the rest of the season?”
Markus was the one who answered. “Definitely. In the meantime, I’ll look for someone more permanent for Mr. Raine during the off-season so you can be on your merry way.”
I didn’t bother looking at him. “Fine.”
Bruce chuckled lightly under his breath. “Mikey, you’re your father’s son. Fiery and forthright. Can’t hide your real feelings to save your life. Carry on.” He gestured me out the door with a flap of his hand.
When I stepped back out into the open space by Greta’s desk, I let out a deep breath and put my hands on my knees as if I’d survived running through a maze full of creepy-crawlies.
“Everything alright, dear?” Greta asked with a knowing smile.
“A little heads-up would have been appreciated,” I muttered.
Her eyes sparkled above her reading glasses. “Aw, where’s the fun in that?”
“You hired a PA?”
She nodded. “You remember April Samina from the travel department?”
I pictured the young, energetic woman and knew right away Greta had made the perfect choice. “Fine,” I said with a dramatic huff. “I know when I’m outshined and outmatched.”
“It’s always good to maintain your dignity as you depart the field, darling,” she said with a sniff. “Even after a historic loss.”
“I want my pasta salad back,” I told her with a laugh, standing up straight and trying to stretch the tension out of my body. I’d brought her an extra tub of it to take home for her husband.
She grinned. “Too late. I ate the whole thing, even Reggie’s portion.”
I snorted and began to twist at the waist, but I ran right into a delicious-cologne-smelling beast.
“Oh, fuck,” I blurted, windmilling my arms in an effort not to keel over.
Strong hands grabbed my sides and held me upright. I glanced up into Tiller Raine’s stormy-gray eyes and tried not to get a stupid crush on a cocky rookie football player which meant I jumped back with a choking grunt sound and almost fell over again.
The edge of Tiller’s mouth turned up the barest amount. I glared at him. “I’m fine, thanks,” I snapped before reminding myself this person was now my boss.
Tiller’s nostrils flared. “Listen, Mikey. You don’t need to like this,” he said in a low voice. “And I don’t need to like this. But we both have a job to do, so let’s just focus on the job. Got it?”
For some reason, that hurt. I wanted to be allowed to dislike him for no reason, but the same didn’t apply to him disliking me.
“It’s Michael, actually,” I corrected, even though absolutely zero people used my full name outside of doctors and government offices. “And yeah, focus on the job. Fine.”
How many times could I possibly use that word in one day?”
“Fine,” he repeated with a nod.
“Yeah. Fine.”
We stared at each other for a few beats before Tiller seemed to snap out of it and reached into his pocket for his keys. He pulled one off the key ring, and I tried not to notice the ancient worn leather fob that looked like it belonged in some kind of museum. My dad had mentioned Tiller’s old truck. I didn’t want to notice endearing things about my new boss. Therein lay madness.
“Key to the apartment,” he said gruffly, handing it over. “I’ll get a copy of the house key made and bring it over to you after practice.”
I noted his use of the word practice instead of calling it as work like the old-timers did. Rookie. “Thanks,” I managed before remembering what I’d been hired for. “Any allergies, picky eating, or health issues I need to know for your diet?”
He shook his head. “Whatever is fine.”
Great. Fine. I’m sure I could narrow down the choices from about ten thousand options. No problem. “So… I’ll just… throw together anything?”
Markus had joined us at this point and decided to weigh in with a big annoying clap on Tiller’s shoulder. “He’s a pretty laid-back guy. It’s what makes him such a team player. Isn’t it, Raine?”
Team player or annoyingly unhelpful?
The great Tiller Raine gave us a sum total of one word in response. “Sure.” Which suited me just fine. This time I’d made myself a promise. No sleeping with jackass ballplayers. No sleeping with players of any kind, in fact. And absolutely no sleeping with my boss.
