So that was my objective. Avoid any media attention that was unrelated to my skill on the field. Keep my head in the game. Save the dating and relationship stuff for later. My position playing on the starting lineup for the Riggers was still unbelievable to me, and I was going to bust my ass to prove I was worth the time and money this man and the Rigger franchise had chosen to invest in me.
“Yes, sir.”
He stood up and wandered off, muttering under his breath about rookie idiots. When he got a few feet away, he turned back. “Might as well have Bryant and D’Angelo come over and eat some healthy shit too when you find someone to cook for you. Those guys don’t know their ass from a complex carbohydrate.”
With another nod, he turned and strode toward the fumble drill happening on the other side of the field. “Tighten up, Butterfingers!” he yelled to Jamal Johnson, a three-time Super Bowl–winning running back. The man almost never gave up a fumble, so it was kind of funny to see him called Butterfingers in practice.
I closed my eyes and groaned. I’d been an NFL player for only a couple of months and I was already fucking up. Hopefully this Mikey kid could recommend someone. And if he couldn’t do that, at least asking him for help would convince Coach I tried.
I’d do just about anything to keep Coach Vining happy and convince my teammates, the fans, and the league that football was my number one priority. My only priority.
Prologue
Mikey
“I got a player needs a chef,” Coach—because god forbid we be allowed to call him Dad—said across the dinner table.
My ears perked up for a split second before I remembered my new rule. Never, ever work for another one of my dad’s players. Ever.
Coach eyed me as he shoveled in a forkfull of the veggie lasagne I’d made. The man probably hadn’t noticed it didn’t have meat in it. I’d been sneaking vegetarian meals into my family’s dinner rotation for years. The only one who noticed was my mom, who appreciated eating “lighter” from time to time.
“Not you, obviously,” he mumbled as he ate. I looked away. “Someone you know. From school maybe.”
“I don’t know anyone looking for a job right now.” Except for myself, of course. I didn’t intend to sound so petulant, but it was true. Besides, working for a pro baller was a pain in the ass. Most of them were used to being treated like prima donnas. However, the money had been amazing…
I sighed and sent another silent apology to my bank account for losing our sweet gig with Nelson Evangelista. Even though I currently had a temporary job as a stand-in personal assistant for the owner of the Riggers while he looked for someone more permanent, I’d never again have as sweet a deal as I had living and working with Nelson.
“Be a team player, son,” he said with his mouth full.
“I’m not one of your players,” I reminded him for the millionth time.
“He needs a professional. Someone who knows nutrition. The man needs to learn how to fuel his body. Surely you know someone.”
I took a long swallow of ice water. “His manager should be able to help him find a personal chef.”
Coach shoveled in another bite as my mom made a sound of interest. Then he continued as if I hadn’t said anything. “The kid keeps passing out. He’s not eating enough, or he’s eating junk. Hell, I have no idea. But it’s clear no one ever taught him how to eat like a performance athlete.”
I cringed at the idea of any young, healthy pro athlete trying to fuel their body with crap. Poor kid.
I’d had to move home after Nelson had cut me loose. He’d decided to give his new girlfriend the job of being his live-in personal assistant. I wondered how that was going. If Miss Gulf Coast could navigate her way around an Excel spreadsheet, I’d eat my shoe.
Not really. But I’d eat trans fats, and that was pretty much the same thing.
“I’d volunteer to help him out, but I’m not interested in working for another player,” I said, lying through my teeth. In fact, I’d loved living in Nelson’s multimillion-dollar home with its amazing gourmet kitchen. That kitchen had been a dream come true for a wannabe chef like me. And having my own suite of rooms far away from Nelson’s own living space had been amazing—far better than any kind of apartment I could have afforded.
Until I’d moved my shit into his bedroom. But that was a subject for another time. And by “another time,” I meant never.
Although, I couldn’t deny how nice it had been not to pay rent for those two years. I’d socked money away like crazy, saving for the cafe I wanted to open one day. Now that I remembered the feeling, I was almost tempted to find out more about becoming a full-time personal chef. But how much money would make it worth dealing one-on-one with another spoiled, entitled ballplayer? At least it would be an opportunity to actually work in my field instead of doing these PA gigs.