The silence in the room was so thick, I thought it might strangle me. And, quite frankly, I deserved it.
Because I hadn’t actually booked shit. I’d made it up on the spur of the moment when I thought about sitting in that stadium box watching Tiller get smashed to bits by another linebacker. I may not have been the world’s biggest football fan, but I knew the Steelers’ secondary well enough to know they ate cement blocks for breakfast just like the guys on their defensive line. And one more hit like the one he got against the Raiders and he could kiss his hotshot career goodbye forever.
Because of my dad and his incessant need to win.
“Really?” Tiller asked. I couldn’t quite figure out his mood from his tone, and I sure as hell wasn’t going to look at him. I’d probably break. I’d blubber out an apology and promise to come to every football game played on earth for as long as I lived.
“Mm-hm.” I busied myself adding more fresh parsley through the little hole in the top of the blender lid.
“Are you going to talk to the Civettis about the lodge?”
It hadn’t even occurred to me, but now that he mentioned it… that would be a good excuse for my trip. I shrugged. It wasn’t a lie if I actually did it.
“Wow. That’s… No one would do it better than you would, Mikey.”
I couldn’t read his eyes. “I mean, it’s all up in the air…” As in, I’d just invented it. “Who knows if or when it would even happen?”
He cleared his throat and nodded. “They’d be fools to turn you down. Have they made an offer on the property yet?”
Every question made my guilt flag flap more briskly in the lying-liar wind.
“I’m, ah, not sure?” I glanced over to see Sam’s knowing gaze piercing me. I shot him a look that warned retribution if he narc’d on me. “Anyway,” I said, looking everywhere but at him, “let’s eat.”
After dinner, Sam and Tiller went into the movie room to watch SportsCenter before our scheduled movie night. I snuck off to my room to do some quick emailing to see if I could arrange a time to talk to the Civettis.
I had mixed feelings about it. When the Civettis had originally floated the idea, I’d assumed it was too good to be true. Then, when Pim had confirmed the Civettis’ conversation in the diner, I’d realized maybe there was something to it. But the truth was… I hadn’t wanted to truly consider a life away from Tiller. I still didn’t.
My hands shook as I typed my request for a meeting. Even if the Civettis didn’t have any serious interest in me, it was a good excuse to go to Aster Valley and avoid the game. I wasn’t Tiller’s boyfriend. Not really. And if I went to that game, in front of my family no less, I’d be an obvious nervous wreck. There’d be no way my mom and brothers wouldn’t notice. My mom probably wouldn’t care. She adored Tiller. But my brothers? They’d notice and care very much. More than that, they’d tell Dad.
And Tiller would be shipped out, especially if his hand didn’t fully recover and his stats started to suffer from his injury. Being traded while down with an injury would be a huge step down in his career. Speculation would run rampant about the exact nature of his hand and the possibility he’d never be the Super Bowl–winning, Heisman-winning man he’d been before the bad hit.
I couldn’t let that happen.
My stomach wobbled with nerves. I wondered what would happen if I made a plea to my dad, if I told him this time was different. Unlike with Nelson, I had real feelings for Tiller. Surely my father would understand that? But what if my floating the idea was enough to make him take action against Tiller? Even if he didn’t trade him, he could treat him like shit on the field.
My father was a professional. Wasn’t he? Maybe not. I remembered every clip from a game where my dad had lost his cool and gone apeshit on the sidelines. Hell, there was probably a video montage on YouTube of all those stellar moments spliced together.
My father was not a professional. He was an emotional child fairly often, especially if the stakes were high. And right now, the stakes were high. The Riggers were on the cusp of losing their playoff spot and not even getting the chance to defend their Super Bowl title. I knew the pressure was intense on the team and its coaches.
But I was his son. That had to count for something, right?
In the end, it didn’t even matter. Because he found out in the stupidest, most unexpected way.
19
Tiller
I wore the wrong damned shirt. The stupidest thing I could have done and I didn’t even know it was a thing.