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I busied myself washing dishes and starting a butternut squash soup we could have for dinner in case anyone got hungry after the big midday meal.
When Moose started yelling at the television, I snuck away to my room and stripped the sheets off the bed before packing my things. I started a load of laundry and moved my stuff into Tiller’s room, all the while hearing cheers and groans from the other room as the game progressed.
I didn’t want to watch it. If Tiller wasn’t playing, I didn’t much care, and honestly… I was angry at the game. Angry at my dad and the kind of people who prized the game enough to push players like Tiller into playing before they were properly healed.
I knew the drill. This game was about money, and Tiller Raine put fans in the stands and money in Rigger pockets. No one wanted to come see Brent Little fumble the ball when they thought Tiller would catch every damned pass thrown to him. It wasn’t true, of course, but fans tended to think in extremes.
Sure enough, when I came back to the kitchen, the Titans were ahead and Moose was grumbling about how much trouble the Riggers would be in on Sunday without Tiller there to save the day.
No pressure.
I glanced at Tiller, who was clearly agitated as well. His hair looked like he’d been on a ride in a convertible for about a thousand miles of rough road, and even now, his fingers threaded through the thick locks as he paced back and forth.
I swallowed a sigh. If there was one thing I was used to, it was close football games and the stress of losing late in the season when every game seemed to count even more. Despite my history of hooking up with football players, I’d never wanted to end up with one. This tension was a lot to deal with, and I’d already put in a lifetime’s worth of hours watching boys throw balls around in the grass.
But this was Tiller’s livelihood and his passion. He cared about the game, about helping his team. He wanted to improve and be the best at it he possibly could.
I grabbed some baby carrots and homemade dip out of the fridge and called Tiller over to the kitchen island to have some. He dropped a haphazard kiss to the top of my head with a mumbled thanks, grabbed the bowl, and returned to his pacing area.
This time, the loud crunch of carrots punctured the sound of the crowd in Kansas City. I knew from experience it helped Tiller to have something to do when he was anxious about a game he was watching. He took out his frustration on the carrots while I went back to tending the soup.
Despite the shouted coaching help from Moose and the softly muttered curses from Tiller, the Chiefs lost to the Titans in the final two minutes of the game.
If the Riggers lost the following week at home against the Steelers, they could be in danger of missing the playoffs. There was no doubt in my mind this loss would make my father even more determined to get Tiller back on the field as soon as possible.
Thankfully, our impromptu pity party was interrupted by Winter Waites a little while later. Even though I knew he’d only been doing his job when he’d sent a status report back to the team medical professionals the day before, I still partially blamed him for the sudden end to my little fantasy vacation with Tiller.
As Winter and Tiller walked past me to the basement door for their workout session, I heard Winter ask, “Why is Mike looking at me like he wants to toss my body parts into a meat grinder?”
Tiller sighed and turned back to give me a sympathetic glance before opening the basement door for Winter. “We’re going back to Houston earlier than we expected.”
Winter stopped in his tracks. “Why? Is this because of the loss yesterday?”
“No. Apparently my hand therapist thinks I’m ready to be back on the field.” Tiller said it in gentle, teasing way, but Winter balked.
“What the hell? Who? Not me. Jesus, Tiller. Are you kidding? They’re not going to put you back in yet, are they?”
The physical therapist’s shocked response made my stomach hurt. It was as I suspected. My father wasn’t about to risk qualification for the playoffs. Even if it meant putting Tiller’s health in jeopardy.
17
Tiller
I shouldn’t have been surprised by Mikey’s terrible mood leaving Colorado, but somehow I still was. He was pissy and short with me as if I’d been the one to call myself back to work. Apologies piled up on the end of my tongue, but I bit them back. There was nothing for me to apologize for. I was following orders—his father’s orders, no less.
