Right as Raine (Aster Valley 1)

“Maybe you should start thinking about what you want to do when you retire,” Mikey suggested casually.

Too casually.

I turned to look at him. “I’m twenty-seven.”

He shrugged. “Sometimes retirement hits you out of the blue in the NFL. Everyone knows that.”

Of course, he meant retirement by injury, and I was sure it was on his mind after yet another injury. “Can we not talk about it, please?”

It wasn’t the first time he’d brought it up. I knew he was trying to gently nudge me to think about the future, but it was harder than he could possibly know. When you’d been called a football star your entire life and every decision made about your future had revolved around the game, it wasn’t easy to suddenly think about something else.

“I just want you to realize there’s more to life than football. There’s more to you than football. I think you’ve spent a lot of time ignoring those other parts of you.”

“Football is who I am,” I said in a quiet hiss.

“You’re right,” he replied calmly. “But it’s not the only thing you are.”

“How can you say that?”

He turned to me and reached for my wrist, turning my arm so he could trace the tattoo on the inside of my wrist. The touch brought goose bumps up on my skin.

The tattoo was a simple profile of the mountains with GPS coordinates underneath.

“It took me about an hour of boredom in the hospital while you were asleep before I decided to google the coordinates,” he said. “It’s the Golden Peak Superpipe in Vail.”

I nodded. “Yep.”

“Which is for snowboarders,” Mikey continued. “And it reminded me of the pictures of you in your bedroom at your parents’ house. You snowboarded in high school. Won some kind of medal for it and everything.”

What else was there to do but nod again? “You already know this. We’ve talked about it before.”

Mikey studied my face for a minute. “Does that mean this a subject you want me to drop? Because you’re acting like you do whenever I mention the phrase ‘cauliflower pizza crust.’”

I shifted in my seat so I could face him better. “No, it’s not that. It’s just… it’s a moot point, you know? I can’t snowboard anymore, so there’s no point in thinking about it or talking about it.”

Even my college coach had forbidden me from the laundry list of other sports and dangerous activities that could put my football career in jeopardy. I hadn’t laced up my snowboard boots since the winter of my senior year in high school.

“You’re not going to play professional football forever, you know. That’s my point. What do you want to fill your life with after you’re released? Maybe you’ll want to move back to Colorado so you can ski and snowboard again.”

I loved the mountains, and I missed the snow. Badly. I also missed summer in Colorado with the long days and huge blue skies. Sunshine on my back and cool evening breezes through the aspen trees. Everything about my home state called to me, and as long as I’d lived in Texas, I’d felt the loss of it deep in my bones.

But I also loved football, and it was true what I’d said before. I barely knew who I was outside of it.

“Maybe,” I admitted, trying to think of other things I liked that I rarely had time for. “I like to plant things. My mom always made the most colorful flower baskets in the summer and hung them on the front porch. She also has baskets along the back deck railing that we used to plant.”

“She still does,” he said. “At least, they were overflowing with color the last time we were there in May.”

“I always loved the flower baskets everywhere in Vail during the summer, too. Maybe after I retire, I can go work in the plant department at Home Depot.”

Mikey snickered. “I’d love to see your reaction the first time you got that paycheck.”

“Depending on when I retire, I won’t need the paycheck. But I can’t imagine not working in some capacity. I’d go stir-crazy.”

The plane jolted and had a sudden drop in altitude. Mikey gripped my arm the way he always did during turbulence. “We’re okay,” I murmured softly as the plane steadied again.

“What about coaching?” he asked as if it hadn’t happened.

I shrugged. “I’m not great with kids.”

His brown eyes flashed at me. “Bullshit.”

“Fine, but I don’t have enough patience for teaching, and I’m not sure I’d know how to pull back from pro level at this point. I’d probably send kids to the ER left and right after running them too hard or having too high expectations.”

“I can see that.” We sat in silence for a little while. “You’re good with people, Tiller. They listen to you. What you say makes a difference to them. You could always be a motivational speaker. Remember the talk you gave at that camp?”