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“He’s been away for work the last six months,” his wife explains. “Asia. The time difference is not very favorable for live sports.”

“I guess it wouldn’t be,” you say. You keep trying to place where you know the man from. The champagne buzz isn’t helping. “What do you do for work?”

“I love the Yank southern accent,” he comments. “It’s always so charming. I work in film. ”

You smile. That doesn’t narrow it down. The room is swarming with actors. You have the hazy idea that it might be tactless to ask him directly what you’ve seen him in, so you don’t.

“Do you like American football?” You aim the question at the wife. “You recognized my team.”

“I’m a tremendous fan,” she enthuses. “I’ve been stateside, but when we’re on location, it’s not unheard-of for me to set an alarm for the middle of the night to catch a game. You’ll have to forgive me for liking the Strikers.”

You make a show of shaking your head sadly. “It’s always the most beautiful ladies who break my heart,” you say.

It was a gamble, but she giggles and blushes. Her husband arches an eyebrow.

“If I didn’t know you fancied the gentlemen, Mr. Reinhart, I suppose we’d have words.”

You raise your hand in a conciliatory gesture. “It’s true that I’m gay, sir, but I have eyes. And I’m just kidding, of course. The Strikers are having a good season. They’ve got a tough schedule, so a winning record is impressive. Do you think they’ll have a hard time against the Rogues tomorrow?”

She scoffs. “Divisional games are always tricky, obviously. But it’s the Rogues . ”

You give her an exaggerated wink. “I’ll pretend that I don’t know exactly what you’re talking about .”

The gentleman asks you about the team, and where you went to school, and your degree.

You tell him that you chose kinesiology and exercise science, but seriously considered public relations.

That leads to a little chat about communications professionals, including social media.

He confesses to not really being fluent in Facebook, and that he has an assistant to manage his profile.

You don’t want to break it to him that nobody uses Facebook anymore, so you nod politely.

Distantly, you wish that he had given you his name.

Not only so you could place his face, but just for good manners.

After a few minutes, you feel Sterling’s arm slip around your shoulder. You automatically reach up and grab his hand.

“Well, look who it is!” he says. “I hope Kai has been good company.”

“Your beau is delightful,” the man says. “Where have you been hiding him, Sterling?”

Sterling chuckles. “On the front page of every tabloid on the newsstand, Arch. I’m surprised that the Associated Press hasn’t settled for just blasting it on repeat in the town square.”

Arch. All of a sudden, it clicks into place. You feel your eyes get big, and blink to make the reaction less-obvious.

“Yes, well, I’ve been buried in Nepal. Rolling blackouts and all. I haven’t exactly been able to check my subscription to People Magazine .”

Archer Rubin. He’s been the most prominent director in Hollywood since before you were born.

Oscars, BAFTAs (you have only a dim idea what a BAFTA is), Golden Globes…

of course. The fact that he was filming a movie about Mount Everest had only been everywhere .

And you were just talking to him about football and Facebook like a moron.

“When are you going to come film a cameo for me, hmm?” Arch is asking Sterling. “A face like yours should be on camera.”

“I’m slightly occupied right now,” Sterling retorts dryly. “I’m sure you missed this in Kathmandu, but I’m on tour.”

“Kathmandu is quite the trek from the EBC,” Arch says. “But yes. I know about your tour. The young ladies there are all fans.”

Sterling is rubbing your shoulder. It’s probably mindless, because he’s been doing it while he’s talking. But it’s borderline overstimulating—the slight tinge of drunkenness marinating your brain. Sterling being Sterling. Archer Rubin. That must be why you catch Arch halfway through a thought .

“...about you, Kaius.” He’s looking right at you. “You have a great look as well. And the drawl… very Captain America. Have you ever thought about acting?”

You’re not sure how you do it, but you just barely keep yourself from gawping.

“Miami is quite a trek from Nepal as well, sir,” you manage.

He laughs. “I suppose it is. Well, do get in touch if you ever change your mind. You’re down to earth, Mr. Reinhart. That’s a rarity in this business.”

And then the waiters bring around the first course—small plates of baby beets with goat cheese yogurt, savory granola, citrus, and bitter greens—and Sterling slides gracefully into the chair beside you. He eats with his right hand. His left one, he places on your thigh.

What even is your life?

***

You start kissing in the backseat. Nothing happens, because this isn’t a Beyoncé video, but it gets you hot and bothered, Sterling’s mouth on your jaw, and your hand curled in his hair.

It’s almost two in the morning, West Coast time, when you make it aboard Sterling’s plane.

Maeve’s California team has made sure that all of your luggage is packed and stowed.

The lights are low in the cabin, and all the shades are closed.

Two bodyguards that you don’t recognize are onboard, along with a pair of flight attendants and two other women who Sterling introduces as junior PAs.

Everyone looks sleepy. It’s quiet, save the whir of recycled air.

“It’s been a long day,” he announces to the cabin as a whole, once you reach cruising altitude. “Kai and I are going to turn in. I’m going to take some melatonin, so don’t disturb, okay?”

You have a lot of questions as you follow him down the aisle into the bedroom you saw that first day when you flew to Nashville.

Ster doesn’t like sharing a bed. Are you going to sleep on the floor?

(You would, for him.) Are you going to get to change out of your monkey suit?

Will you even be able to sleep on a plane?

It’s not that long of a flight: just under six hours.

Is it even worth it to sleep that little time?

You’re a bit jet-lagged, and still a little bit tipsy.

You woke up this morning in Miami. You spent most of the afternoon in Los Angeles, and you’ll be in New York early in the morning.

In the bedroom, the sconces on the curved walls are throwing a dim yellow glow.

The carpet is soft. The bed is made up in white this time, with two fluffy blankets folded over the foot, one gray and one ivory.

Against the wall, a TV plays a pastel screensaver of waves crashing on a dusky beach, displaying the flight time.

The windows are bigger in here, spacious eyes on the sooty night sky and wisps of clouds.

There are two sets of clothes laid out on the bed: yours and Sterling’s.

He shuts the door to the bedroom and looks at you. The shadows are turning his blue eyes navy, dark like the sky just after sunset.

“You want the first shower? Or should I?” he asks.

“You go,” you tell him.

You don’t want to muss the sheets, so you throw yourself into the chair rolled beneath the polished wooden desk against the opposite wall.

It’s on the smaller size for your frame, but you widen your knees, lean back, and let your head rest on the back, staring at the ceiling of the plane.

Maybe you dozed off for a minute or ten, because you are jolted awake by Sterling’s hand on your knee.

“Your turn.”

Your brain’s a little boggy, so it takes you a moment to realize what you are looking at.

Sterling’s crowded between your spread knees, wearing only a towel slung over his hips.

There’s a lot of skin on display. From the open bathroom door, which is just inside the bedroom, a cloud of good-smelling steam emanates, carrying Sterling like a genie on its current.

His hair is tied back in a messy bun—he must not have wanted to wash it—but his eyelashes are wet.

“Umm…” you mumble, faltering.

Sterling just laughs. Runs his hand down your long thigh.

“Feel free to use whatever products I have in there,” he says, waving a hand in the direction of the bathroom. “Dry towels are on the shelf.”

He steps aside and lets you go by. You hope the poor lighting is sufficient to hide the fact that you’ve got half a chub.

The bathroom is elegant, but tiny. The fact that there’s a full shower on a private jet is impressive by itself, you guess.

It can only get so big. But you feel like a bull in a china shop as you undress from your designer duds in the little bit of open space, trying to make sure that the clothes don’t touch the floor.

You fold everything neatly and put them on the shelf, taking down one of the thick, plush bath towels already up there.

In the microscopic shower stall, which barely closes around your shoulders, you contemplate your decisions.

The spray is nice and hot at least, even if you feel like you are in a slippery coffin.

Sterling has some shampoo and body wash on a rack, along with some other fussy cleaners that you don’t bother with.

He was wearing a towel. Did that… mean so mething?

You aren’t sure if the sex embargo has been lifted, and you don’t know how to ask.

Yeah, you jerked off together in Newport.

But jerking off isn’t sex. It’s sexual , but not going all the way .

You’ve had scalp rubs from female barbers with long nails back in Macon that felt sexual without being sexual.

Massages from personal trainers on the Cyclones’ PT staff that made you feel good-good without being sexual.

(You are probably overthinking this.)