Right as Raine: An Aster Valley Novel Read online

  Right as Raine

  An Aster Valley Novel

  Lucy Lennox

  Copyright © 2021 by Lucy Lennox

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover Art: Natasha Snow Designs

  Cover Photo: Wander Aguiar

  Editing: One Love Editing

  Proofreading: Victoria Rothenberg

  Beta Reading: Leslie Copeland, May Archer, Shay Haude.

  Contents

  Author Note

  Prologue

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Epilogue

  Letter from Lucy

  About the Author

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  Other books by Lucy:

  Made Marian Series

  Forever Wilde Series

  Aster Valley Series

  Twist of Fate Series with Sloane Kennedy

  After Oscar Series with Molly Maddox

  Licking Thicket Series with May Archer

  Virgin Flyer

  Say You’ll Be Nine

  Visit Lucy’s website at www.LucyLennox.com for a comprehensive list of titles, audio samples, freebies, suggested reading order, and more!

  Author Note

  Thank you to my husband for trying to help me make the football details as accurate as possible. Despite being a Falcons fan for almost twenty years, I don’t have a head for the game. I’m sure I’ve made mistakes, and I promise you they’re all mine.

  I made up a fictional Houston football team named the Riggers, so let’s just pretend the Texans don’t exist. M’kay? Thanks.

  Thank you to my older sister who is a physical therapist and who consulted with me on some of the injuries described in the novel. In this story you will meet an OT who is sometimes referred to as a PT. I included this in the story because it is a common mistake, but I wanted to clarify that there is a difference between the two. (For more information about the OT in this story, check out the novella Winter Waites.)

  Finally, thank you for picking up this book. With so many amazing stories out there, I know it’s often hard to choose. I hope you find the following story worth your precious reading time. Enjoy!

  Prologue

  Tiller

  “Raine!” Coach V.’s bark was as familiar to me as the sound of the crowd cheering on a Friday night or Saturday afternoon. The problem was, this time the sound was muffled by thousands of gallons of blood rushing through my ears. I could have sworn I felt my heartbeat in my brain.

  “I’m fine, Coach,” I mumbled. Only, it sounded like “Mah fo” for some reason.

  “Like hell you are. Q-bie! Get your ass over here with the med kit and some glucose. Raine’s bonked. Again.”

  I wasn’t sure bonked was a term used in football, even at the pro level. But then again, I was a rookie. What the hell did I know?

  I turned on my side and dry-heaved. Coach Vining squatted down a safe enough distance away to avoid any vomit, but close enough he only needed to hiss for me to hear him. “This ain’t peewee league no more. Your coach told me you had a problem forgetting to eat. Remember we had a little conversation about it when I recruited your sorry ass?”

  I tried to say, “Yes, Coach,” but it came out as more dry-heaves.

  “So we had a conversation, you and me. And I told you to get your nutrition in order. Hell, I even suggested you hire a professional meal service or some shit. You remember what you said?”

  I coughed and rolled back to my back. The scorching heat of the turf against my sweaty jersey was reassuring. It meant I was alive and still in Houston busting my ass for the Riggers. Playing for the NFL was a dream come true, but right about now I would have given my left nut for a different dream.

  “I said I’d handle it, Coach.”

  “Damned right you did. You said you’d handle it. And here we are only four games into regular season and you’ve passed out three times already from low blood sugar. What the hell you eating, son?”

  He didn’t give me time to answer before he continued.

  “Whatever it is, it ain’t enough. Pro ballers have to eat a minimum of four thousand calories per day. You know this. And if you don’t, you’re even more of a dumb shit than I already thought. So here’s what we’re gonna do. One of my boys has some kind of nutrition degree and knows how to cook healthy. You’re going to find someone like that who knows what’s what and hire them to keep your body fueled like a goddamned pro baller. You got me?”

  I thought of his four grown sons. One had played football for Alabama, one for Clemson, one for UT, and the other had wrestled for A&M. They were hard workers, and all had big, muscled bodies. Hell, one of them currently played for the Bengals. If Coach wanted me to consult one of them for nutrition help, I would do it.

  “Richie?” I asked, thinking of the wrestler. He probably had the most experience in managing his nutrition, but he was a mean fucker—always spouting off about fairness but only when it cut against him.

  “Nah. My youngest. You met Mikey at the WAGs dinner before preseason.”

  Fuckin’ A, I’d forgotten. Coach had a fifth boy. A little runt of a guy with nerdy glasses and dark, messy hair. He was the opposite of a ballplayer. The kid had looked like he’d been plucked out of a riveting lecture on the periodic table to come to the friends-and-family thing.

  “Mikey,” I said stupidly. “He’s a chef?”

  Coach shrugged. “Nah. He’s a gopher. I only said find someone like him who knows about nutrition and cooking for athletes. Not him, though. He works for Bruce as an errand boy. Someone like him. You got me?”

  Q-bie had come racing back from the sidelines and was busy sticking me with an IV to push his magic fluid. Within a few moments, I was well enough to sit up.

  “I don’t need a chef,” I muttered. “I need a bodyguard to keep the media away from me.”

  I was the first out player in the NFL who’d made the starting lineup. Since I’d been out since high school, there’d been no way of putting that Genie back in the box, even if I’d wanted to. Which I hadn’t. The Riggers had known I was gay when they’d recruited me, but my stats made me downright irresistible. If they hadn’t drafted me, someone else would have. I was a Heisman winner, and that trumped sucking dick any day of the week.

  Coach narrowed his eyes at me. “Then get you one of them, too. Just fucking get your shit together, rookie. And remember what I told you about earlier. This ain’t the time for any of that crap. No dating. Just football. A lot of us are counting on you. Understand? We need you to stay focused.”

>   The reminder wasn’t necessary. Football was everything, and I had no plans to fuck it up with any kind of media attention if I could help it. My goal was to lie low and concentrate on being the best damned wide receiver in the league. As my dad always said, “The rest of it can wait. Football can’t. You’re only in prime shape for a small window of time. Make it count.”

  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.

  “Nobody’s asking you,” my father growled at me with a pointed stare. “You working for Nelson was clearly a recipe for fucking disaster.”

  It turns out, you can be a grown-ass adult and still be cowed by your parents. My jaw clenched against the words begging to spew out. Words about parenting ultimatums needing to die a quick death before the child in question turned twenty-four fucking years old. I fought against the desire to go to work for his player just to prove my father wrong.

  “Who is it?” I asked instead, knowing I was tipping my hand. It had to be a rookie if he was having trouble keeping up with the demands of his job. And rookies were total assholes.

  “Raine. Wide receiver from University of Colorado.”

  My stomach swooped. Tiller Raine. Tiller Raine who’d won the Heisman. Who’d been on the cover of magazines. Who’d made my father strut around like a jackass for months bragging about his first-round draft pick. Who was currently, albeit secretly, saved into my Favorites photo album in a screenshot from an ad for Under Armour. In the ad he was wearing nothing but compression shorts with a giant, NFL-sized bulge in the middle.

  But I’d cropped his face out of the photo because his expression said he knew exactly how fucking beautiful he was. Cocky asshole. I’d met him once at a cookout thing my father had forced me to. Raine had looked right through me like I’d been a hologram. If I couldn’t do anything for him, I didn’t matter to him. It was behavior I’d seen time and time again over the years from my brothers’ jock friends and my dad’s jock players, including Nelson Evangelista.

  “Extra no,” I said firmly.

  Mom reached over and squeezed my hand. “But honey, he’s so good-looking. And he’s gay.”

  The last part was whispered because even after my being out for over a decade, my family still had a hard time with it in some ways. I’d actually been impressed with my dad recruiting an out player—even now, no one knew about Nelson—until I’d heard him brag about Raine’s stats to one of his other coaches. Coach had sounded prouder of Tiller Raine than he’d even been of my brothers, who’d all been successful athletes themselves.

  Hell, even my brother Jake played pro ball for the Bengals. But he was no Tiller Raine.

  My father blustered. “Don’t matter if the man’s gay, Loretta. Ain’t nothing happening between these two. Mikey will stay away from Tiller Raine. I only wanted you to help find him a goddamned personal chef! Forget I said anything. Jesus.”

  “His sexuality has nothing to do with anything anyway,” I said peevishly. “Even if I did take the job, it’s not like I’m going to sleep with my boss for god’s sake.” The “again” was left unspoken since my mom presumably didn’t know about my stupid slipup with Nelson.

  “Damned right you’re not,” Coach said in his most blistering
voice, the scary-as-fuck one that made grown men cry.

  I tried not to roll my eyes and remind him I’d said it first. “It doesn’t matter. I’m not doing it.”

  Coach banged his fist on the table. “No one asked you to!”

  “Good,” I said, trying not to cry at the lost money. It couldn’t be worth dealing with a cocky rookie like Raine. “Then there’s no issue.”

  My mom frowned. “Didn’t he buy Dougie Crenshaw’s house?”

  I thought of the kicker who’d retired and moved to Florida last year. He was a total sweetheart. He’d been on the team for years and years. Hell, the man had practically been around during my entire childhood. I’d been to his house a million times. I fucking loved his house. And my mom got to the most important part before I could even put it into words.

  “Yes,” she said, answering her own question. “The one with that big commercial kitchen. Dougie’s wife, Kate, liked to throw parties, and she had a catering team come in all the time. Remember?”

  “Are you sure Raine bought Dougie’s house?” I asked, imagining cooking in that incredible facility. There was a giant picture window with a view of a lake on the golf course with a little bridge over it and fountains in the water. Not only that, but there was a comfortable sitting area in the kitchen that I’d always snuck away to during the Crenshaw’s parties. I’d curl up in one of the overstuffed chairs and watch the caterers bustle around with trays of canapés while the chef worked his magic at the stove and barked orders to his sous chefs.