Right as Raine (Aster Valley 1)

“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?”