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“No Heimlich,” you gasp out, cleaning up your mess. “Oh God. That guy would crack my ribs and Coach would come to the hospital and finish me off for an off-field injury before preseason even started.”

“Remind me to never challenge you to an eating contest,” he says seriously.

“You must have to eat a lot to keep up with those three-hour concerts two or three nights a week,” you venture. “What’s that look like?”

“A lot less yummy than this,” he says. “I told my nutritionist and dietician I was taking a cheat day today. But they travel with me and pretty much control what I eat, 24/7. It’s a lot, but it’s all healthy, and the macros are really specific to make sure I can keep up with my cardio and strength training on the road.

Lots of veggies, protein shakes, and lean meats. ”

You nod in surprise. “That sounds a lot like my life. Well, what the team’s trainers want me to eat like, anyway. The reality usually involves more pizza. But, like. You’re kind of an athlete too, aren’t you?”

He shrugs modestly, pushing a sliver of ginger around his plate.

“My backup dancers all have to do the same things,” he says. “People run marathons all the time. It’s not that impressive.”

“Yeah, but do they, like, sing fifty songs in a row?” You gesture emphatically with a chopstick. “That would be a workout all by itself.”

“It’s only thirty-five songs. Some of them are in medleys, so it’s not even the whole thing.” Sterling taps his fingers on the speckled marble. “Hey! Are you almost done? We have cookies.”

“Cookies!” Delighted, you push your plate aside. You’ve demolished two entire rolls. “You’re speaking my language.”

Over dessert, and more of the lame excuse for tea, you guys sketch the outlines of one another.

Most of what Sterling tells you could probably be found in his Wikipedia entry—not that you read it, because you definitely did not—like the fact that he has an older sister, or that his mom is his best friend, or that he didn’t attend his senior prom because the Billboard Music Awards were the same night, and he got nominated.

It’s been a while since you’ve checked out your own Wiki, but you guess you could say the same: you are one of four brothers, all of whom played college ball.

You went to Alabama and didn’t declare for the draft until you’d finished your degree.

Your parents live in Macon, and you bought a house there with your rookie signing bonus, but you almost never make it home these days.

You bank your salary and live off your endorsements, since football has a short shelf life as a career.

You aren’t the only openly gay player in the Association, but definitely the most prominent.

You try to keep a low profile and not freak out the red state fan base.

“What would the Budweiser-and-barbecue crowd have to say about you seeing someone? Seriously?” When Sterling looks up at you, his tone has lost its earlier playfulness.

“I’m not exactly a stranger to very quiet hookups, but that’s not what I’m looking for.

I want to make sure we’re on the same page.

If we’re not, I’m still super glad that we got to meet. But…”

His directness is both terrifying and impressive.

It inspires you to be forthright as well.

“I think that’s a bridge I would cross if I met someone I wanted to date seriously.

Since we’re on the same page, was this lunch about us hanging out?

Or an audition for the role of Sterling Grayson’s Boyfriend? ”

He nods thoughtfully. Rubs his finger absently over a leather bracelet on his wrist. He has long fingers, you notice. You think that maybe he plays the piano? Definitely the guitar. (You’ll have to check Wikipedia.)

“It’s a fair question,” he says finally.

“But no, not exactly. When my team told me about you showing interest, I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I thought the optics would be good.

But I watched videos of your interviews over a few days, and you seemed like a nice guy.

Genuine. Someone I would like to know. I don’t exactly meet a lot of people.

I mean, I do. But not eligible guys. Especially eligible guys with Southern accents and upper arms like yours. ”

You two have demolished half a tray of cookies. There’s the tiniest hint of chocolate on Sterling’s upper lip. He apparently likes your accent.

“What do you think now that you’ve met me?” you ask, noticing that your own voice has gone husky.

Sterling looks up. “I think I’d like to get to know you even better.”

Summoning every shred of courage you have, you lean in and kiss him.

You brush your tongue over that tiny spot of chocolate and lick it off, but don’t drive things further.

You are half-worried that Cal is going to bust down the door and Tazer you for violating his client.

But no such thing happens. Sterling kisses you back, tasting like oatmeal cookies and taking big steps into the unknown.