I’d tried explaining that Tiller and I were not in an inappropriate relationship of any kind, but Coach seemed to think two gay men in the same proximity couldn’t keep their dicks in their pants.
After five years of valiant effort, I could now confirm we could, in fact, keep our dicks in our pants.
Regrettably.
Coach: I’ll be there in five. You can leave now.
I didn’t respond.
“Baby?”
I looked over to see Tiller blink awake. He looked dazed and confused, which explained the endearment. Over the past few years, he’d slipped and called me baby when he’d been very tired, hurt, or sad. I’d tried not to think too much about why he did it or why it socked me square in the gut when he did.
“Yeah?” I reached out and took his good hand in mine. “How you doing?”
“Wanna go home.”
“I know. Why don’t I go find someone and ask how much longer?”
“You have your car?”
I smirked at him. “Actually, I have your car. The SUV.”
The corner of his mouth quirked up. “You love that thing.”
“If you’re going to leave an eighty-thousand-dollar vehicle in the garage, then hell yeah I’m gonna use it.”
“My truck,” he slurred. “Granddad.”
I squeezed his hand. “I know.”
He turned his head on the pillow and locked eyes with me. “Wanna go home with my… Mikey.”
Oh hell. No. No, no, no. I was not going to get soft and smushy for Tiller Raine. My boss. My dad’s star wide receiver. No.
I cleared my throat and stood up, dropping his hand like a hot potato. “I’ll go check on your status. Hang tight.”
When I found a nurse, she paged the doc and got the go-ahead for us to get the hell out of there. I helped Tiller change into the warm-up suit and running shoes I’d had the foresight to grab from the locker room before leaving the stadium.
Just when I was finishing pulling his shirt on and getting his arm back into the sling as gently as I could, my dad and Tiller’s agent came racing in.
“Shit,” Markus said the minute he saw the sling.
“Fuck,” Coach groaned, raking a hand through his thinning hair. “Fucking Mopellei. I’m gonna kill him.”
Tiller narrowed his eyes at my dad despite his hazy pain medicine fog. “You called the play, Coach.”
I stepped back and tried to disappear into the corner of the room. If he was going to challenge my father’s coaching, I was going to do my best to become one with the beige vinyl wallpaper.
Markus, in his efforts to be the consummate mediator, held his hands out in a calming gesture. “That’s unproductive. Why don’t we talk about what it’s going to take to get you back in the game? Where are the doctors?”
After consulting with the doctors and learning that Tiller was out for at least four weeks, the mood in the room dropped a thousand degrees and the tension rocketed up.
“What are you still doing here?” my father snapped at me.
I opened my mouth to respond, but Tiller beat me to it. “He’s my ride.”
Coach’s nostrils flared. “What, did you just abandon your boyfriend midgame?”
So… I may or may not have told my dad a little white lie. No harm, no foul, right?
Tiller’s eyes snapped to mine. As far as he knew, I hadn’t dated anyone. Ever. We simply didn’t discuss our love lives with each other. I assumed it was one of the reasons he’d reacted so strongly when I’d mentioned hooking up with his teammate.
“Um. He’s… he had to leave,” I said lamely.
“Who?” Tiller asked. “I thought you brought Sam.”
Coach looked at Tiller in confusion. “Yes. Sam.”
Tiller’s eyes widened in surprise, and I saw that shit was going to get out of control very quickly if I didn’t do something. Fast.
I cleared my throat and looked at Tiller as casually as I could. “Remember when you told that fan about your eyebrow—”
He didn’t even let me finish because he knew exactly what I was going to say. Tiller was asked all the time about a scar in his eyebrow. When he’d told the story of tripping over a crack in the sidewalk while eating an ice cream cone, the fans were always so disappointed. So he’d decided to start telling people he’d gotten a late hit in a game in college. It wasn’t true, but it was simply more believable.
Like me telling my dad I was dating Sam so he would stop worrying about me hooking up with Tiller.
Tiller nodded. “Oh, right. Sam. Sorry. It’s the meds. They’re messing with my head.”
Markus was pecking away at his phone. He finally glanced up at me. “I’m shooting you an email with the contact information for the rehab manager to coordinate getting Raine back out on the field. Let me know if you get any pushback and we’ll find someone else.”