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brEAKING NEWS: MIAMI CYCLONES HAVE BEEN ELIMINATED FROM PLAYOFF CONTENTION!

The Mustangs will proceed to the Conference Championship, which will be hosted by the Baltimore Blackbirds. It’s only been an hour, but the Blackbirds are already heavily favored. Still, who wants to bet against the little team that could, especially after toppling Mighty Miami?

***

Not making it to the Mega Bowl after a phenomenal season is disappointing.

Getting kicked out in the second round of the playoffs is humiliating.

The Mustangs can’t even believe their own luck.

They’re hugging and crying in front of the cameras, thanking God and talking earnestly about what great opponents the Cyclones were, as if they’d already clinched a trophy.

Sandy’s on the sideline, talking to Erin Andrews.

He looks tired, and older than his twenty-seven years.

The public has no idea how badly his shoulder’s fucked up.

It’s been a source of conflict for him the whole second half of the season: his desire and drive to succeed versus his need for recuperation.

You know he’s frustrated. You feel it too, deep in the marrow of your bones.

Your height gives you excellent sight lines on the field.

A whole clutch of reporters are making the rounds.

You’ve given dutiful soundbites to most of them.

You’ve doled out back-slaps and handshakes to your opponents.

Black-and-yellow confetti litters the grass.

The Cyclones fans have long since beat feet, off to drink away their disappointment or play armchair quarterback in forums on the internet.

Your hands find the collar of your shoulder pads, and you raise your eyes to the friends-and-family suite.

Your mom is at the glass, her arm around Sterling.

They make a funny picture: Mama tiny and round with her big glasses and her long red braids, Ster tall and thin in his jersey and a pair of thousand-dollar jeans.

They hit it off famously. Pops can be gruff, but you get the sense that he approves, too.

He’s talking with Sandy’s father, their lined faces betraying no emotion.

Gabi and Jamie are in tears, holding each other like the world is ending.

You breathe the moment into your lungs and hold it. The last game of the season is always more bitter than sweet. Not just the losing, but not having all this for a few months: the crowd, the loved ones all in one place, the game .

Later that night, you and Sterling will fly to New York to spend the next three nights holed up in his apartment with Apollo and Artemis, ordering takeout and streaming true-crime documentaries.

Coach will deliver a blistering post-game press conference, blaming the loss on locker room drama and poor cohesion.

GoGo will get kicked out of a five-star hotel on Miami Beach after throwing a massive, unsanctioned pool party in the middle of the night and ending up fully-clothed on an inflatable alligator float, flinging the bird with one hand as the other holds his bottle of booze.

He’ll call the hapless concierge a sad-ass n****r , and the whole thing will get captured in 4K on someone’s phone and sold to a tabloid. Nobody will be surprised.

You will watch everything with mild disgust and a feeling of gut-churning defeat, and make a resolution to shelve it all for a few months.

***

February 28, 2025

Golden : STERLING GRAYSON : **8.3 (BEST NEW MUSIC)**

Genre: Pop

The international mega-star delivers an intimate opus: a reflection on private life, sexuality, and—yes!—love. Captivating hooks marry lush instrumentals amid lyrical moments of raw self-discovery. And Grayson’s voice has never sounded better.

***

Sterling hosts a listening party for his new album at midnight on release day.

It’s on a rooftop in Sydney, Australia, which is twelve hours ahead of your time zone.

At nine in the morning that day, Miami time, a courier shows up at your condo with a square package wrapped in plain brown paper. Inside, there’s a note.

Kai—

This is as early as I could handle. Remember that you promised to be honest.

xo,

Me

It’s a vinyl copy of the new album. Feeling like you are holding an irreplaceable treasure, you immediately stop what you are doing and flip open the top of your turntable.

Your trip to the gym can wait. You close all the blinds, roll a joint (god bless the off-season), and lie down on the couch.

There’s about two seconds of the homey scratch of the record, and then Sterling’s voice washes over you.

You blow smoke rings at the ceiling and hang on every word.

It’s a secret thrill to be like this, cocooned in your own space, the surround-sound speakers making it seem like Sterling’s giving you a private concert.

You listen to it once through, just to get a sense of the vibes, and then start the album over, paying closer mind to each song as it plays.

Track Five catches your attention. You almost ask Siri to play it again, until you remember that the technology is analog. Slightly stoned, you stumble to your feet and set the needle back in the last groove. According to the album’s slipcover, the song is called “keening.”

It’s immediately obvious that Zhavia produced the track. Sultry and thumping, it’s got a good beat. Sterling’s voice, though. It’s plaintive. Wailing, almost. It sounds like…

…well, it reminds you of the sounds he makes in bed.

had a dream, made it last all afternoon

your hands in my hair, yeah, we’re up in my roo m

you say you want me bad, boy, you don’t Know

better maKe it fast, I can’t do this slow

your lips on my lips, this bed made for two

i’m pleading, i’m begging, i’m Keening for you

You bite your lip. There’s no way Sterling wrote a song about you.

Right? You decide that it’s unlikely. You certainly aren’t going to ask him about it.

It’s just a song about sex. Just because you’re the person Sterling is currently having sex with, that doesn’t mean you can assume he’s singing about sex with you .

You are picturing him in Sydney. It must be almost 11 PM, and you can just imagine him pacing his dressing room, wanting everything to be perfect.

The two hundred fans at the event have been hand-picked, screened, and vetted.

You wouldn’t be surprised if they were fingerprinted first. Cal will be there, along with three other members of Sterling’s bodyguard team.

There will be dedicated time set aside for pictures and autographs after the album is played, so nobody should be too crazy.

Still, you know that these events get him wired and tense.

What the space is going to look like. What he’s going to wear.

The right tone to give his guests; the way he should smile and pose.

You send him a selfie, and try not to look too high.

You: tfw your bf just released the best album of the yea r

There are three dots for a while, like Sterling is typing something long. Or maybe just revising what he wrote, because, when he replies, it’s not that deep.

Ster ?: You really like it?

You: love it, actually

Ster ?: What’s your favorite song?

You: “pretty please” goes hard. It’s a great opener. funny thing is that i really love the closer too… “sound and light?” as for the middle, gotta go with “rocksteady”

Ster ?: Congrats on identifying all the horny songs.

You: it’s all pretty horny on main tbh. parents of impressionable young graylings in shambles.

Ster ?: It has an explicit label!

Ster ?: All kidding aside, I really hope that the fans like it. Early reviews are promising. But it’s no good being loved by critics if the public rejects it.

You: who are we kidding? you could sing the alphabet and the graylings would stream it round the clock.

A few minutes go by, strung out pleasantly on the indica strain that’s got you buzzing. You’ve just considered closing your eyes when your phone vibrates again .

Ster ?: Sorry. The coordinator just came by to tell me that everyone’s ready on the roof, and they want me to record a few voiceovers for internet promo before I head out. Gotta go.

You: good luck. You got this xoxo

Sterling’s listening party is being livestreamed.

Balancing your laptop on your chest, you join the tens of thousands of people in the virtual waiting room, your head high keeping you pleasantly loopy and blissed-out.

Maybe you drifted off for a bit in the dark, cool nest of your living room, because, the next thing you know, the screen is full of screaming girls and a vision of Sterling, holding a mic.

“Hi, guys!” he says brightly, addressing the cameras. “Welcome to Golden ’s release party. I’m so glad you’re here.”

Then he addresses the two hundred people on the roof, saluting them with a wave and a blown kiss.

The camera pans to them crying and holding each other.

Beyond the rooftop, the Sydney midnight is alight with stars.

It’s summertime there, you realize belatedly, when you see that the girls are wearing sundresses.

For his part, Sterling looks casual. It’s all a farce—you know from dating him that the “casual” looks sometimes take the longest to achieve—but an appealing one.

His hair, which has grown out to his shoulder blades, is side-parted so that a cresting fall of curls frames his face like a 50s bombshell.

He’s got a slouchy pinstriped blazer over a tight, low-cut white tank top tucked into navy blue trousers.

There’s a light blue silk scarf tied rakishly around his neck like an afterthought.

His nails are painted a shimmery gold, an Easter egg to the title of the album.

You’ve actually slept with him and your mouth is watering—you actually pity all the swooning girls.