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.
“What the fuck do you have on?” Coach V. barked at me when I walked into the locker room on Thursday. I looked down at the old Rigger shirt I wore.
“A T-shirt?”
He walked up and got in my face. The scary vein popped in his neck, reminding me of the game against Arizona last year when I’d truly thought he was going to have to be taken out on a stretcher. “And do you know whose T-shirt that is?”
I thought back to this morning when I’d tried swallowing his son’s load while doing sixty-nine on the kitchen floor. Some had dribbled onto my shirt. I was already late because of the sixty-nine, so I’d grabbed a clean tee from Mikey’s room instead of heading back to mine.
“Is it Mikey’s?” I asked carefully. “Maybe he got his mixed up with mine in the laundry.”
“It’s mine, actually.” His voice was scary low. “We will continue this conversation in my office.”
I followed him dutifully, wishing I could quickly text Mikey to ask him what was up with the shirt. He and I both had a million Rigger T-shirts. How could Coach possibly know this one wasn’t mine?
When he closed the door behind me and grunted at me to take a seat, I started to sweat. His eyes were like lasers of death, looking deep into my soul and finding a wasteland of immorality.
“Before you ask, that shirt is from Coach Warren’s retirement party. That’s how I know it’s not yours. It was before your time. Explain to me why my son is doing your laundry.”
Was that all? I could handle that. “Because he likes to. Because he fired my housekeeper and the three other people I tried hiring to replace her.”
I wanted to ask him how it was any of his damned business, but I wasn’t that stupid. Until he asked the next question.
“Are you sleeping with my son?”
I almost swallowed my tongue. “Wh-what?” I spluttered. I tried letting my shock that he had the balls to ask that question masquerade as surprise at the very suggestion I would do something so inappropriate and unprofessional as to sleep with Michael Vining.
“Answer the question,” he growled.
I wanted to ask for a time-out, a recess, a stay of execution, anything that might buy me a little time to contact Mikey in a complete panic. Regardless of how inappropriate the question was, I could not lie to my coach’s face.
The laser eyes started cutting into my soul. “If you lie to me, Raine, I will know it and we will be done here. Do you understand?”
“I understand,” I managed. “But I also feel like you’re crossing a line.”
I didn’t die. Instead, I simply sat there while the eyes carved more of my soul away. “And do you not feel that sleeping with your coach’s son is crossing a line? Do