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A stylist is waiting when you arrive, an Asian woman dressed impeccably who’s fussing with a rolling cart of menswear. Her name, she says, is Ven. You brought a suit in a garment bag with you on Sterling’s plane, so you are surprised when she shakes her head .

“Oh, no,” she says. “I brought outfits for you as well, Mr. Reinhart.”

You shoot a look at Sterling, who shakes his head.

“Must have been Maeve,” he says.

Ven is scrolling through her phone, and doesn’t look up as she nods. “Yep. Ms. Mukherjee called me yesterday with your measurements. Sorry, this won’t take a minute. I just needed to double-check something on the paperwork.”

“Maeve thinks I can’t dress myself,” you say to Sterling, a bit put out. “And where the hell did she get my measurements?”

“Maeve knows everything. I don’t question it anymore.” He cracks a smile. “And, to be fair, you spend most of your time in gym shorts. I think I saw you in cargos once.”

“I’m a professional athlete!” you protest.

“Which is why I’m going to make you look amazing,” Ven says without missing a beat. She pulls some hangers off the rack. “Go ahead and put these on. Ster, Valentino is dressing you tonight if anyone asks. Alessandro picked these out personally.”

Sterling picks up his phone and dictates a voice memo. “Send a thank-you note to Alessandro,” he murmurs .

You’ve wandered into another room to change, not feeling comfortable doing so in front of Ven.

The suit is not a color you would have chosen: a very pale gold, almost tan.

The jacket fits you like it was made for you, broad at the shoulders and tapering in at the waist. It must have been tailored based on the numbers that Maeve came up with.

Underneath is the softest white cashmere t-shirt you have ever felt, as thin and light as a cloud.

The shoes are pristine white low-top Jordans without a speck of dust or dirt.

You wander into the living room, where Ven intercepts you and starts fussing.

She has to stand on tiptoe to do it. First, she tucks a black silk pocket square into your breast pocket.

Then, she produces some jewelry boxes: a thick gold chain, and a watch on a leather band. She puts them both on you.

“What are these?” you ask, slightly alarmed.

Ven cracks a smile. “Borrowed,” she says lightly. “This your first time?”

You nod, holding the watch up to the light. The brand on the watch is something with a P that you’ve never heard of. It’s got a big face—which is good, because you’ve got thick wrists—and old-fashioned analog numbers. “I’m guessing this thing is worth more than my car?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Depends on what you drive. That model goes for about 50k.”

Your eyes almost bug out of your head.

But Ven has moved on, criticizing the way your shirt is tucked in beneath the jacket. “More casual,” she says. “Not as deliberate.”

You don’t know what that means, but you don’t fight back when she pulls the shirt out of your pants and re-tucks it to her liking, stuffing her small hands down the front of your pants to do it.

It’s awkward, but Ven is all business. You worry about what will happen if you need to use the bathroom and mess up the tuck job.

Just then, Sterling comes in. He looks like… well, he looks like a star.

He’s wearing a sheer black button-up shirt with a floral design raised on it in flocked black velvet.

The contrast between his pale skin and the dark shirt is striking.

His trousers are mustard-colored and ribbed, which seems outrageous to you, but it also works?

They end just above his ankle bone. He’s wearing a pair of black loafers with a horse-bit.

You just noticed that your pocket square is made of the same material as his shirt.

Ven hands him a pair of glinting diamond studs for his pierced ears, and a matching bracelet. Then an assortment of silver rings, some thick and some thin, including one with a large, bright red stone.

It shouldn’t be comforting that Sterling is clearly wearing much more expensive jewelry than you, but it is, somehow.

As Ven walks circles around him, comparing his appearance to reference photos on her phone, he looks over at you. A slow, wide grin appears on his face.

“Wow,” he says.

You roll your eyes. “I could have told you that I clean up nice. You didn’t see pictures of me on my draft day in your background investigation?”

Sterling at least has the decency to blush. “I wasn’t investigating you,” he corrects. “And I did see those pictures. But you were fresh out of college. And you look a lot better now.”

“I resent the implication that I haven’t always looked amazing.”

“I’m not saying…” he starts. Then he purses his lips. “You’re messing with me.”

Unable to help yourself, you scoot around Ven and lean down to drop a quick kiss on his mouth. “Yeah, I am.”

***

It isn’t until the SUV enters a slow line of traffic that you identify as the drop-off point that it all clicks with you.

“There’s going to be a red carpet,” you say slowly.

Across the seat, Sterling is tracing nonsense patterns on your thumb with his own as you two hold hands. “Mmm-hmm.”

“So…” You frown. “There’s gonna be people with cameras? Like, taking pictures of us?”

“Yeah.” He looks over. “Is that a bad thing?”

“I just…” You are racking your brain for the memory of the NDA. What the rules are about acting couple-y in public. Shit. You should really download the contract to your phone as a PDF, so you have it for reference at times like this. What if you fuck up? Your mind is going a million miles an hour.

“They’re probably going to be crazy, because it’s our first public appearance together,” he says, “but it’s not anything you need to worry about.

If you worry, you could freeze up. Trust me, I know how it goes.

They’ll be behind the rope. All we have to do is walk in.

Let them have a few pictures of the suit.

It’s not like we’re women and wearing amazing gowns. Just smile and do your thing.”

“I don’t want to do the wrong thing,” you blurt, too anxious to help yourself .

Sterling squeezes your hand. “I would never set you up to fail,” he says seriously. “You give interviews and stuff for work, right? You can handle this.”

You want to tell him that nobody from ESPN or Fox Sports has ever intimidated you this much.

That being a professional in the NFA isn’t anything like being professional at being a pop star’s boyfriend, no matter how similar the roles might seem on the surface.

But instead, what comes out is, “What if I fuck up? Like, what if I stare too long at how good your ass looks in those yellow pants and, like, grab it or something?”

He arches his eyebrow. After Ven got you two dressed, a makeup artist did Sterling’s face.

There’s a swoop of silvery glitter on his eyelids, and it catches the light with the face he’s making.

“Are you in the habit of randomly groping people you care about when you get nervous?” he asks.

“ That never came up in my background investigations.”

You don’t know what to say, so you just bring the back of his hand to your lips and kiss it.

As usual, being close to him—inhaling his weird, sexy Tom Ford cologne, touching his skin (it’s insanely soft, unlike yours), admiring whatever product the hair stylist put in his curls to make them shine and bounce—is driving you crazy.

You’d prefer to just stay in the limo. See if you could convince Ster to roll up the partition and make like the Beyoncé song.

But this night is important to him—it’s a private ceremony honoring celebrities who have made a significant impact on society—and so you know there’s no way. You will have to smile through your anxiety and get through it. For Sterling.

Despite you mentally wishing it wouldn’t happen, your limo pulls up to the drop-off.

The photographers are waiting like hawks on either side of the red carpet, their cameras poised and ready.

You paste a smile on your face and open the door.

Flashes go off like fireworks. You will yourself to hold your posture straight and to look calmer than you feel as you hold a hand out for Sterling to help him from the car.

He doesn’t actually need assistance, but your mama raised you with manners.

As soon as he straightens, Sterling’s smile is dazzling.

He laces your fingers together effortlessly and propels you slowly down the press walk.

Every few feet, he pauses, turning this way and that as the photographers snap pictures and yell questions.

Most, he ignores, but he apparently has excellent selective hearing, because he picks out certain ones to answer.

“Sterling, who are you wearing?”

“Hi, Lisa!” He beams at a specific reporter. “This is custom Valentino. ”

“I love you, Sterling!”

His smile gets even wider. “I love you too! I’m sending kisses to all my fans at E!”

“Sterling, what do you have to say to your fans in India, South Korea, and the Philippines that aren’t getting a tour stop?”

He doesn’t stop, just slows down. “If I had it my way, I’d tour every weekend until I’d been everywhere. It’s just logistics. I absolutely love Asia!”

“Hey, Sterling! Is there any truth to the rumors that you are boycotting companies that support politicians you disagree with?”

A flash of white teeth. “No comment.”

You are so busy being led along, trying not to look like a bumpkin as he shows off, and being frankly astounded at the skillful way that your boyfriend is courting the press, that it takes you several long minutes to realize that you are being shouted at as well.

A lot of it is garbled noise, but a few questions rise above the din.

“Train! Hey, Train! What’s it like being Sterling’s boyfriend?”