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Sitting on a backless stool, Sterling goes through each track and introduces it, and drops a few words about the production, or the writing process.

“Which ones are about the Train?” It’s a distinct shout above the crowd, rudely sung out in an Aussie accent.

Tucked in the corner of the screen, you see Cal take a step forward. He is meant to be undetectable, dressed in head-to-toe black, his hands crossed. But his size makes him stand out nonetheless. He’s scanning the crowd for the rule-breaker, ready to forcibly remove him if prompted.

Sterling holds up a hand.

“Guys, no questions,” he reminds them patiently.

“But I will address that one. Kind of.” He laughs.

“You all know that I never say exactly who a song is about. The way I see it, once I release an album, the songs don’t belong to me anymore.

They’re yours. The songs end up being about the people you know.

All I’ll say is that, once you get your physical copies in hand, check out the lyrics booklet. Let’s move on, okay?”

Another song starts playing. It’s Track Seven or Eight; you aren’t sure.

You set your laptop down on the arm of the couch and go grab the cover of your record.

You have to turn a light on to squint at the insert, knowing full well that it is the middle of the day and this is ridiculous. Why don’t you just open the blinds?

It takes am embarrassingly-long for you to see the pattern. On half of the songs, every K in the lyrics is capitalized.

It’s on the horniest ones, but some of the happiest ones, too.

You crack your knuckles in the silence of your living room, inexplicably trying to fight the dopey smile spreading across your face.

On the computer screen, Sterling has his eyes closed. He’s vibing to his own song being played, his mouth shaping the words. You mentally calculate how long it would take to jump on a plane to Australia. To chase him down and kiss him.

Once you sober up a bit, you’ll go on all your social media accounts and change your bio line to a lyric from the new album.

** *

“Did I hear you correctly?” you ask your screen. On the other end, Peter’s face lights up.

“You heard me right, my man,” he says jovially. “Kefi yogurt.”

Your face screws up in confusion. “That’s a big name,” you venture. “I’ve heard of them.”

“Well, they’ve heard of you,” Peter says. “They want to pay you six mil over four years to be the face of their new campaign.”

Frankly, you are struggling for words. What comes out is decidedly stupid.

“I don’t even eat that brand,” you stumble. “Isn’t that what old ladies like?”

Peter laughs. “That’s the public perception, yes.

Women over fifty are their biggest consumer demographic, but they are looking to change that.

They believe that young people of all ages could benefit from the probiotic benefits of Greek yogurt made with the most wholesome ingredients, including millions of live cultures. ”

“And they chose me?” you repeat.

“Yup,” he confirms cheerfully. “Six million, man! They also want to pay you ten grand per sponsored post or tweet you make on your socials. Why are you not dancing on the ceiling right now? This is huge! Your first nationwide endorsement, Kai!”

“Yeah, I know.” You switch your phone between hands and scratch your shoulder in deep thought. “It’s great, and all. But why me?”

Your agent scoffs. Just over his shoulder, the Los Angeles sunshine is blinding.

It’s first thing in the morning on the West Coast, but Pete is rocking that Cali-business-casual look, a tight blue polo open at his tanned collarbones, and his hair a gravity-defying swoop.

He makes a dismissive gesture, flashing his Rolex.

“Why not you, my friend? You kill me sometimes. Look at the season you just had—nineteen sacks, five forced fumbles? Two interceptions, one for a TD? How many times did you hit a QB last year?”

“Thirty-something,” you mumble.

“Thirty- four ,” Peter says, proud as a papa. “Honestly, I have no idea why you didn’t get DPOY. Why are you questioning why they want you?”

“I have great numbers,” you say bluntly. “But I’ve had great numbers in the past. Now , I’m also dating Sterling Grayson. Don’t you think that probably has something to do with it?”

Your agent nods silently, steepling his fingers.

“Okay,” he says. “That’s where the resistance is coming from.”

“I’m not resisting; I…”

“Kaius,” Peter interrupts briskly. “Stop it. Right now. Are you listening?”

Chastened by his tone, which sounds like he’s scolding a rambunctious toddler, you hush.

“Is there a possibility that this company is attracted to your heightened profile, given your current romantic situation? I’m not gonna blow smoke up your ass; yes, there is. But how many years have I represented you?”

You think it’s a rhetorical question, so you don’t answer at first. When he cocks an eyebrow, you roll your eyes.

“I dunno, Pete. How many years have I played in the Association? Whatever that number is, add one. I guess.”

He tilts his head. “This is me letting you get away with being obtuse, my man. I had an amazing spin class this morning and I can’t really feel my legs, but the endorphins are pumping.

You know what else got me pumped? Getting a call that one of my favorite clients, who happens to be one of the hardest working brothers I know, is finally getting some national recognition.

How many of those chickenshit regional deals have you done?

Mama’s Diner and Wally’s Furniture Barn-kinda places?

This is your time , Kai. This is your moment. You need to seize it.”

“Don’t call me a brother , Pete. It’s embarrassing for you,” is all you say in reply.

He snorts. “I’m going to have Sherri email you the paperwork. You can DocuSign all of it. A nice lady from the yogurt company wants to meet you ASAP. Her name is Kady Staunton. Shall I have her arrange a flight, or will you be flying private via Grayling Airlines?”

Your mind automatically flashes to the hellhole that was the airport at Christmas, and your resolve wavers.

“I’ll talk to Ster,” you mutter.

Peter claps his hands obnoxiously. “Atta boy! That’s what I like to hear. You got five more minutes?”

You look out the driver’s side window of your car at the still cars in the parking garage, thinking hungrily about the lunch you’d promised yourself at Shake Shack, to be eaten before you do some shopping.

It’s noon on a Tuesday, and you are pretty sure you can manage a Publix trip without being recognized. If you could just freakin’ eat first.

“I’ve already given you, like, ten,” you bitch.

“You have five minutes,” he decides for you.

“We’re not going to talk about the rise in homophobic search engine hits, because today’s a good day.

Today is such a good day, in fact, that it’s the perfect time to talk about your contract.

Time’s ticking away until free agency starts, Kai. You still stuck on staying in Miami?”

“I told you I wasn’t changing my mind.”

Peter tsks.

“The legal tampering period is about to start. Between you, me, and the lamppost, I’ve already had several extremely discreet and very unofficial inquiries.”

“From whom, exactly?”

“You know I can’t answer that. They didn’t actually happen, you know? That would be illegal tampering.”

You shake your head. “Then what is the point of this conversation, exactly? Tell whoever is not illegally tampering to wait until they can tamper legally. Then we can talk. But I’m sticking with Miami.”

“All I’m saying, Kaius, is that you could be leaving a lot of money on the table.

I think that, evaluating the market for your position, you could be looking at 95, 97 million.

Miami’s not going to match that. They’re stacked, and they don’t need you as much as you want them.

As close as they’ve been to a ring, they could stick a promising rookie in your spot and still get there. ”

“Miami’s been good to me,” you argue. “And maybe I want to be there when they get that ring. You ever think about that?”

“Hey, hey!” Peter holds his hands up. “True and true. I’m not saying that Miami doesn’t appreciate you. You’re part of the elite culture they’ve built up. It’s not that they want to lose you, not by any means. I’m just telling you that other teams…”

“Which ones?”

“Other teams,” he repeats, “would love to have you lay the cornerstone of an elite culture there as well. That’s all I’m saying. And they’d likely drop the coins to bring you over.”

You feel yourself squinting, despite the fact that the parking garage is dim. You rub your forehead with three tense fingers, willing it to un-furrow before you give yourself a headache.

“You got your five minutes,” you say, turning your car off with a flourish. “Message received. Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s a veggie burger and peaches ‘n cream milkshake in there with my name on it.”

Peter snorts. “Far be it for tens of millions of dollars to come between a Georgia boy and his peach milkshake. ”

You wave a twiddly bye-bye at the screen. “Bye, Pete.”

“Always a pleasure, Kaius.”