Right as Raine (Aster Valley 1)

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.