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It’s nice, but you guessed it would be. Its dimensions are shaped by the gable above it, the ceiling arched and tall in the middle.

The walls are painted the palest yellow, and the thick molding is present here, too.

Either side of the door features built-in shelves from floor to ceiling, which are stacked with books, bowls of sea glass, and curios.

Breezy gingham curtains blow in the breeze from the open windows, letting cool air into the room.

The bed is big and soft, laid with a white coverlet and shams embroidered in blue scrolls.

A low vase of showy, rambunctious asters is set on the side table.

Everything looks thoughtfully-arranged. Inviting.

Hoisting your bags on the dresser, you wonder whether you should unpack them, and decide not to.

You’re only staying for two nights; you have to fly back Sunday afternoon in preparation for practice Monday morning.

You also know that you’ve packed things that maybe, at the time, made sense for your first weekend away with your new boyfriend.

Things that you aren’t sure about any longer, and that you don’t want to look at right now.

You hold your stare in the mirror on the wall for a few moments too long.

Back in Miami, leading up to this weekend, you had been so excited.

Sterling seemed like it, too. You guys talked about it nonstop; about how good it would be to spend time together.

How much you were both looking forward to it.

Why are you feeling like maybe this was a mistake?

You hate the churning feeling in your gut, so you will yourself to push it away.

You use the bathroom, which is spacious and elegant, and put your toothbrush in the holder.

The temptation to push open the door to Sterling’s room is strong, but you hold back. Free of your bags, the trip back downstairs is much lighter.

You find Sterling in the kitchen, sitting beside a short, striking woman with black hair twisted into a coil and skin the color of nutmeg. They are staring at the screen of a tablet, and the woman is ticking items off at what seems like the speed of light.

You clear your throat.

Sterling looks up in mild surprise. “Hey! I wasn’t expecting you so soon. Kai, this is Maeve Mukherjee, my incomparable PA. Maeve, this is Kai. But you probably knew that already.”

“I could pretend that I didn’t, if you like?” When Maeve smiles, it reaches her big, expressive dark eyes. Leaning over the counter, she extends her fingers. “It’s so nice to meet you in person, Kai.”

You shake her hand, dimly aware that Maeve does everything for Sterling.

The woman runs his life, pretty much. Sterling mentions her in conversation constantly.

It seems like Maeve is the center of the constellation of employees that work for Sterling and Sterling’s business—all roads lead through her.

She’s a very important person in Sterling’s life.

Furthermore, you know that it was Maeve who got you two in touch way back in May.

“I’m honored,” you say.

“Oh, stop.” Maeve stands gracefully. “We can go over these tomorrow, Ster. There’s no rush.”

“Please don’t let me interrupt,” you insist. “I’m sure that’s important, whatever it is.”

“It’s the final versions of my revised costume designs for the international leg of the tour,” Sterling explains. “Gotta keep things fresh.”

This part, you understand. NFA players wear uniforms, but there are many variations on the official jerseys and pants: Color Rush, throwbacks, home/away, and all kinds of alternates.

Different towels and gloves for Veterans Day and Breast Cancer Awareness.

A lot less spangles and skin showing than Sterling’s unis, but a similar thought process.

“Did you do, like, the same outfits in different colors?” you ask. “Or completely different costumes?”

“A little of both,” Maeve explains. “There are about thirty costumes that just need a final fitting, and then they’ll construct a few copies of each and add them into the tour wardrobe. ”

You do some quick mental math. “There must be at least a couple hundred separate outfits.”

Maeve nods. “Yup. I think it’s actually closer to three hundred.

But keep in mind that so many of those are back-ups, and also that we maintain two complete show sets.

While Sterling’s performing in one location, we already have the “B” sets and costumes and staging all getting set up at the next city. ”

“And all that’s going overseas in a couple of weeks, pretty soon?”

“Some of it is already there,” Maeve says.

“But yes. There’s a one-month break between the last U.S.

date and the first night in Stockholm. It sounds like a lot, but there’s just an insane amount of logistical stuff involved.

Sterling’s tour manager, Ezra, has their hands full. I don’t envy them their job.”

“It’s not like you’re any kind of slouch,” Sterling tells Maeve.

He’s been intently watching your conversation with her, and this is the first time he’s spoken up in a few minutes.

“Everyone knows you’re the best in the business.

There’s a reason that other artists are always trying to poach you off my team. ”

She shrugs. “I’m very happy where I am, Ster. Can’t get poached if I don’t want to leave. ”

He twists in his chair and kisses her on the temple. “Good. Go do something fun. You are supposed to be relaxing this weekend. I wouldn’t have let you come along if you said you’d be working all day. I would’ve left you in New York.”

“Where I could work all day without you knowing about it?” Maeve arches one perfectly-shaped eyebrow.

But she relents, and gathers her tablet and some papers scattered on the countertop.

“I booked a massage and dinner in town. I’ll see you guys tomorrow.

Kai, I mean it. I’m really glad we got to meet in person. ”

You agree, absolutely charmed. Maeve heads off in the direction of the garden wing.

Sterling smiles. “I didn’t know that you were so interested in behind-the-scenes tour stuff.”

“I didn’t either. The more I learn about it, the crazier it gets. You should make a documentary or something.”

“It’s not out of the question. We have a crew around pretty much constantly. Just in case we want the footage later.” Sterling jumps out of his chair. “How about that walk?”

***

The Cliff Walk is a rocky, elevated trail that divides the crashing gray-blue of the Atlantic from the tidy streets and wide lawns of Newport on the other side.

It runs for three-and-a-half miles, winding past most of the historic mansions that the city is known for.

In latest September, the peak of tourist season is past, and most visitors are further inland.

Only a few passersby rollerblading or pushing strollers share the path with you and Sterling.

Apollo is leashed, walking obediently ahead and occasionally getting distracted by other dogs.

At a quarter ‘til six, the sun is starting to sink toward the ocean. Despite the fact that it’s no longer very bright out, Sterling is wearing big sunglasses and a baseball cap.

Without asking, you know it’s so that he doesn’t get recognized.

You walk together, fingers laced. Whitecaps crash against the rocks, and the air is taking on a distinct chill.

Gulls wheel overhead, yelling nonsense to one another.

When sunset starts in earnest, a fiery show spread from horizon to horizon, you two find a bench and sit to watch. Sterling’s sunglasses cover half his face, and you don’t like it.

“Are we good?” you ask tentatively. The conversation has been flowing well, and Sterling hasn’t mentioned anything about what happened earlier. The insecurity is entirely yours, but it’s been nibbling at your gut like a hungry fish with sharp teeth.

He looks straight ahead. “We’re fine. I’m glad you’re here.”

“Don’t… like, don’t bullshit me.” You’re worrying your bottom lip between your teeth, your incisors little saws.

It wouldn’t be the first time you bloodied it this way, but you’d prefer to stop.

You try to focus on complete honesty instead.

“I’m happy to be here. I’m glad to be with you.

I feel like we started off on a bad foot.

I guess I don’t want you to think… um. I don’t want you to think that you can’t trust me. ”

“It’s not bullshit, Kai. I’m not mad. You did something that a lot of people do. It’s not the end of the world. I’m sorry if I made you feel like you screwed up. If I didn’t trust you, we wouldn’t be together.”

“But…” The words keep evading you. Sterling has what your mom would call the gift of gab .

Of course he does; he’s a writer. You struggle a bit more, and you are struggling now.

“It’s something that was important to you.

I want to understand it. If you have boundaries, I want to respect them.

I just wish that we could talk about it.

I’m okay signing stuff for cover-your-ass purposes, but I want us to discuss things. ”

Sterling nods. He’s still not looking at you.

As if he’s not thinking about it, he tugs off his cap and ruffles his long hair before putting the hat back on, backwards.

The curly ends stick out riotously. At this moment, he could be any guy in America out on an evening walk.

His white sneakers are dirtier than a lot of your teammates would be able to handle.

His legs are long. If you had to guess, you’d say he’s about 5’10”.

(It’s another factoid for Wikipedia.) He’s fucking beautiful, to the extent that it’s slightly concerning.

And that’s not even the half of it. He’s funny, and considerate, and the most talented person you’ve ever met. He kind of scares the shit out of you.