Page 2

The car pulls into the gated parking garage of a soaring high-rise, the building clad in limestone, toned glass, and glinting steel.

The lawyer, who never gave his name, remains in the car.

Two men, who have to be bodyguards from their sheer size, join you in the elevator.

It is always disconcerting when you aren’t the biggest man in the room, physically.

But the guards dwarf you, and are even more muscular than you are in prime shape.

They don’t say anything. You don’t, either.

One of them swipes a badge at a scanner and hits the button for Penthouse 2.

You aren't sure whether it’s the lift of the rising car or the butterflies in your gut that give you the swooping, dizzy feeling.

Outside the elevator, there is a small foyer with only one door. The guard who controlled the elevator presses the button on an intercom outside.

“Good afternoon, Mister Grayson,” he says. “We have Mister Reinhart here.”

The voice that comes through the speaker sounds curiously familiar for somebody that you have never met. Of course, like anyone in America with a pulse, you’ve heard Sterling on the radio. That must be what it is.

“Thank you, Cal. I’m expecting him. He can go ahead and come in. I’m in the kitchen.”

A moment, and then the muted click of a lock disengaging. The bodyguard— Cal —opens the door for you, and gestures a big arm inside.

“We’ll be right outside, Mister Reinhart,” he says gruffly, by way of goodbye. You are still pondering whether that was meant to be welcoming or threatening when the door closes and you are alone.

The loft apartment is of a style you’ve seen before, like a warehouse, but fancy.

The ceilings are at least twelve feet tall and crisscrossed by exposed metal beams. Just ahead of you, the cavernous living room is lined with a whole wall of windows, letting the May sunlight pour in.

A record player is going, playing something you haven’t heard before.

Bluesy notes waft through the space at a low volume.

The floor is polished concrete, scattered with expensive-looking Persian area rugs.

There are two pairs of shoes—spotless white Stan Smiths and a pair of ratty flip-flops—against the wall, so you kick yours off as well.

Momentarily regretting your choice of socks, which are purple with bright yellow bananas all over them.

To the left of where you stand, there arises a clatter of dishes and the excited barking of what sounds like a big dog. The air smells amazing, like vanilla and heated sugar.

“Kai?” That voice again. “Come on over here! Sorry I didn’t come to meet you. The oven just went off.”

Feeling like you are wandering in a dream, you walk into the kitchen.

You see expansive countertops and cabinetry.

An abundance of copper pots. And—at last!

— him , his back to you, his shoulder-length chestnut curls catching the light and mussed every which way.

He’s folded over a massive oven, the door open to reveal two trays of what look like cookies.

A brindled boxer stands obediently by his side, its tongue lolling as it stares at the goodies.

“Hi,” you say.

He sets the pans down on the vast island between you two and smiles, giving you a good look for the first time.

You didn’t exactly think about what to expect, but he looks…

just like the pictures. Shorter than you by some inches (but who isn’t?) and slender, with lots of lean muscle.

Probably from all the dancing. His skin is very pale, his eyes are very blue.

He’s gorgeous. Your heart does a queasy pitter-patter in your chest .

“I’m so glad you made it!” he says. “You’re punctual. That’s good. I wanted you to have the cookies when they were warm.”

“I love cookies,” you say, because, first of all, it is true. Secondly, because you are at a bit of a loss for words.

Sterling nods. “I read an interview in Sports Illustrated from a few years ago where you said that you had a sweet tooth. You struck me as someone who would like oatmeal cookies. I didn’t know about raisins, though. So I did oatmeal-chocolate chip.”

Struck between flattery that he researched you, oh my god , and astonishment that he made the exact right call regarding both your love for oatmeal cookies and your hatred of raisins, you just nod.

He comes around the island, revealing the fact that he’s barefoot. Noah Kahan is on his t-shirt and there’s a wide smile on his face. Before you know what’s happening, he’s on tiptoe and giving you a friendly hug.

“Thank you for flying over,” he says against your shoulder. “It’s nuts, right? I feel like I know you, despite having never met you. I’ve seen you on TV. You’re bigger, though. In person. I bet you get that a lot.”

You return the hug, mindful of proximity and pressure. Light, light, light. Sterling smells like butter and shampoo. “I’ve seen you on TV too.”

He steps back, and gestures to the dog. “This is Apollo. Apollo, say hello to Kaius. Should I call you Kai, by the way? Or do you prefer ‘Train?’”

“Oh, no,” you say. “‘Kai’ is fine. ‘Train’ is my dad’s name. I thought you had two dogs?”

“I do,” he says, giving the boxer an affectionate cuddle. “His sister, Artemis, is back in New York. She hates traveling.”

“I don’t love it either,” you admit, “but I’ve started to hate it less and less. I spend a lot of time on the team plane.”

“That must be fun,” Sterling says. “I used to be a chorus kid in middle school. We’d drive the bus driver crazy on the way to competitions.”

“It’s actually quieter than you’d think,” you say. “Most guys have their own pre-game thing. Lots of napping or listening to music. Coach doesn’t tolerate too much ruckus, unless we just came off a big win, maybe.”

“You guys have a lot of those,” he says. “Right? You’ve been doing well these past few seasons?”

“We do okay. Still haven’t won a ring, but we’ve come close. Do you like football?” you ask.

Sterling laughs. “Not exactly, no. My dad and sister are big fans. We’re from Connecticut, so they like the Minutemen. So I’ve seen you play them…”

“...twice a year. Right.”

“Do you like my music?”

You feel your lip twist as you try not to grimace in embarrassment. “Not exactly, no,” you echo, figuring honesty is the best policy. “I mean, obviously I know of it. It’s really good! I should listen to it more, I guess. The guys and I play a lot of rap in the locker room.”

“Don’t feel bad,” Sterling says. “I didn’t assume that guitar-centric pop music was the sort of thing a guy like you liked.”

“I’m really glad you wanted to meet,” you blurt out, desperate to change the subject. “When I told Sandy that I wanted to meet Sterling Grayson, I never imagined it, like… actually happening.”

“Sandro Covelli, right? Your quarterback?”

Sandy’s a household brand, the highest-paid QB in the Association. Hearing Sterling pronounce his name like a mutual colleague is kind of wild.

“Yeah. Dude can’t keep his mouth shut. It was stupid, really. One of those ‘Marry, Kiss, or Kill’ games. We had both been drinking. He told people, and then they told people. Embarrassing. Next thing I know…”

“Yeah.” Sterling leans back against the island. “Sorry about all that. A lot more things get done if I can get other people to make phone calls for me. Most times, it seems like there aren’t enough hours in the day.”

“I know that feeling.” You cross your arms, because you aren’t quite sure what else to do with them. Your stomach grumbles audibly, protesting the fact that it’s mid-afternoon, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast. Oh, god. The fucking humiliation will not end .

Sterling cracks a grin and goes to make a comment, but just then, there is a chime overhead that must be what the other side of the intercom sounds like. He crosses the room to a receiver mounted by the dishwasher.

“What’s up, Cal?”

“Lunch is here, Mister Grayson.”

“God, I love when plans fall into place!” Sterling enthuses. “That pretty much never happens.” And then, into the intercom: “I’ll come get it. Gimme a sec.”

Sterling gestures to you. “Sit! I’ll be right back.”

There are four high-top stools beneath the bar on the opposite side from the oven. You perch on one, worried that you are going to break it. It’s sturdier than it looks, though.

Sterling sweeps back into the kitchen with a takeout sack. He sets it down before you and makes quick work gathering napkins and plates. He pauses at a cabinet full of glassware.

“Want some wine?” he asks. “I don’t do alcohol or caffeine the week before a show, but please don’t let that stop you. I’ve got soda, too. Water? Pretty much anything you want.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” you demur politely.

Whatever you’re having turns out to be green tea, unsweetened and slightly bitter with an aftertaste of grass clippings. Your Southern tongue recoils at this insult to the good name of iced tea, but you sip it politely. Sterling breaks the disposable chopsticks and rubs them together deftly.

“I made sure to get California rolls,” he says gravely.

Your heart does that uncanny pitter-pat again.

Somewhere around your sixth piece of sushi and Sterling’s third, you feel the weight of nerves lifting from your shoulders like taking off a heavy coat.

He jokes about your appetite, and you make him snort-giggle when you open your mouth wide and inhale a seventh and eighth piece in one bite.

His undignified laughter is contagious, and you nearly choke on your enormous mouthful of avocado, seaweed, and imitation crab, the salty-pungent waft of soy and wasabi shooting up through your sinuses and making your eyes water. Rice sprays the surface of the island.

He whacks you on your broad back, bubbling over with mirth even as his tone is concerned.

“Do I need to get Cal in here? I don’t know if my arms are long enough to do the Heimlich on you!”