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On to Asia! I’m so excited! Can’t wait to see the #graylingnation looking beautiful in the crowds.

***

Every year, Spring Breakers flood Miami.

The college kids are drunk and rambunctious, clogging the streets with Ubers and jaywalking as they talk on their cell phones.

They wear string bikinis and douchey-looking micro-short swim trunks, consuming their weight in sugary coffee and tequila.

The beaches are absolutely packed, and the bar crowds spill out onto the roads, snarling traffic for miles. The locals hate it .

You and five of your fellow Bama alumni meet up for your annual getaway.

It started when you guys were in college, partying during Spring Break, and now that you are grown, you still try to make it happen annually.

Y’all met as freshmen living in the dorms and stayed tight through the years.

Some guys have started to get married or have adult jobs, so there are fewer now than in the first couple of years post-grad.

No girlfriends or wives (or boyfriends, in your case) are allowed, so five days with the bros is a tougher sell than before.

There are no hard feelings, though. If someone can show up, great. If not, the love still exists.

It’s a lot easier to make travel arrangements for six people than twelve (the max from senior year), which is the one advantage to a smaller party.

This year, you guys settle on a cabin in Crystal River.

It’s a five-hour drive up the Florida Turnpike for you; the rest of the guys fly in.

There are tourists here as well, but it’s a little easier to take in the abundant shade of the green canopy trees and sparkle of the pristine, cold springs just beyond the dock in the backyard.

The cabin looks like it was made of Lincoln Logs and plopped on the riverbank, with a blue tin roof and a perfectly rectangular back porch encased in mosquito netting.

There’s a full kitchen, a fire-pit, and a dock begging to be jumped off.

As far as ideas go, it’s one of the group’s best. There’s tubing the river, drinking copious amounts of beer, and staying up late.

Spotting manatees. Long talks about the good old days, catching up, and sharing pictures of new houses, significant others, and pets.

You are the only football player in the group, and definitely the only person dating a celebrity, but your bros are respectful.

They treat the twin specters of your job and your boyfriend like they are both normal.

Nobody pretends that they don’t know who Sterling is, but they’re chill.

Sterling Grayson gets the same regard as the French exchange student you hooked up with as a sophomore or Patrick Walker, your drum line crush.

Which is to say, you get teased excessively.

Steve, your freshman-year roommate, gets to dig at you the hardest. He’s like a fourth brother to you when you get together.

You both are bad about staying in touch during most of the year, but when you reunite, the camaraderie comes roaring back.

Steve’s a small guy compared to you—he’s only five-eight on a good day—and shaped like someone’s dad.

He’s got pipes on him that could shatter glass, though.

“Stop the presses!” he shouts when you come through the front door, weighed down with all your shit for the week. “It’s the world-famous Tra-a-a-in!” He makes obnoxious chugging noises.

“Shut the fuck up, Steve-o,” you mutter .

He wraps his arms around you in a bone-crushing hug. His head only comes up to your shoulder.

“Did you grow even taller?” he asks. In his Deep South patois, it comes out didjoo and e’en . You know that you yourself have a drawl, but Steve’s accent could curdle milk.

“Maybe. Get off me, asshole. You’re like a Yorkie humping a chesterfield.”

Steve retreats with a huge smile on his face. “How’s your mama an’em?”

“Tolerable. How’s Sarelle?”

“Tryna get me to move to New York.” He rolls his eyes. “I tried to tell her, woman , I ain’t no Yankee.”

You try hard to curb the grin quirking the side of your mouth. “Like you wouldn’t do anything for that girl. Come the fuck on, man. Might as well start getting a quote on the U-Haul now.”

He pretends to look mightily offended, but his green eyes are twinkling.

“Come put your stuff down,” he offers. “You, me, and Brick are the only ones here. Reckon the rest’ll get here before dinner.”

The cabin has three bedrooms: a primary with a queen bed, and two other rooms with double twins. They are all pretty small .

“We’re givin’ you the master, since you’re the biggest,” Steve says, brooking no argument with his tone. “And, I mean, on account-a you payin’ for the whole week.”

“Shoo,” you mutter dismissively. “I told you not to bring that up.”

You don’t put up a fight about taking the bigger bedroom, because, frankly, there’s no way you’re fitting on either a twin bed or the pull-out couch in the living room.

Also, you don’t want to hear any additional praise connected to footing the bill for the Airbnb.

While all your friends are successful, like graduates of a good college ought to be, it’s an unspoken understanding that you have the greatest earnings of the group.

That doesn’t mean that everyone isn’t willing to split the cost. It just makes you feel good to take care of people you love.

Steve leaves you to get settled in, and you can’t help a small shudder at the decor of the primary bedroom.

The whole cabin is very sportsman-core; lots of weathered leather and plaid.

The theme carries into the bedroom, which has a hand-pieced crazy quilt spread over the mattress and lamps in the shape of crossed shotguns.

Prints of ducks in flight over a lake adorn the walls over the dresser; next to the window there’s a poster with curly cursive: Do it Floridian Style: Ride a Gator!

As the pièce de résistance, a taxidermied deer’s head stares blankly from its mount over the bed .

It’s awfully redneck for your blood, but you’re not sure what you thought you were getting into, renting some good ol’ boy’s Sunshine State pied-à-terre.

You roll your shoulders and turn your back on poor, dead Bambi.

Your phone’s in your pocket, and you become aware of the fact that you haven’t felt it buzz in a while.

On habit, you pull it out and look at the screen.

The icons in the corner tell you that there’s no signal; neither Wi-Fi nor cellular.

It’s not that big a deal: on top of No Girlfriends, the second rule of Boys’ Week is No Cell Phones.

There’s a landline in the kitchen if there was a genuine emergency.

Unable to help yourself, you thumb over to the last message you received that morning.

Ster ?: Good evening from Singapore! I just wanted to catch you before you got on the road.

Have the best time this week. You’ll have to introduce me to your friends some time.

I’m going to miss talking to you, but I know it’s for a good cause.

Think of me? You’ll be on my mind when I’m in bed, trying to sleep.

Maybe in the shower? Maybe even on my plane. ;)

It’s an atomic bomb of a text message for several reasons.

First of all, this will be the longest you’ve gone without talking to Sterling since you started dating.

That’s some teenage-girl shit, but you are going to miss him, and it feels amazing to think that he might miss you as well.

Secondly, he wants to meet your friends, and that also feels really good.

Thirdly—and this really makes your head spin—did Sterling Grayson send you a message suggestive of masturbating?

There’s no doubt about it, that’s the dirtiest thing he’s ever committed to writing.

It’s adorably tame on the suggestive side of things, but it still almost made your eyes pop out of your skull.

You: yowza

He hadn’t replied, but reacted to the message with a HAHA.

You kind of want to print out the exchange and frame it, taping it over the duck pictures.

But, alas, there’s no printer in the cabin.

Reluctantly, you power your phone off and slip it into a drawer along with your underwear and swim shorts.

You won’t be needing it for the next four days.

There’s a knock on the front door. Your bedroom is closest to the entrance, and you saw Steve heading out back.

If you know your friends, that’s where Brant—“Brick,” as he’s lovingly nicknamed—is hanging out, and he’s probably rolled a few joints.

The cabin has a strict no-smoking policy, but the screened porch is fair game.

You hustle to the door, assuming that it’s more of your buddies. Instead, it’s a stocky middle-aged guy with a mustache. He’s wearing a white polo shirt and khakis, with a safety vest and hard hat. There’s a camera hanging off a strap around his neck .

“Can I help you?” you ask politely. Nervously.

“Afternoon, sir. You the homeowner?”

“Uh, no.” You scratch your head. “It’s a vacation rental. I’m just visiting for the week.”

“That’s fine,” he says. “You the one whose name is on the contract?”

“Yup.”

“I’m with Withlacoochee River Electric Cooperative.” He flashes a badge attached to his belt with a clip. “Local power company. I’m guessing the homeowners didn’t tell you that they requested an energy audit for today?”

You stare at him blankly. “I had no idea.”

He laughs shortly. “Lots of homeowners ‘round these parts trying to cut back on their bills. Insurance rates through the roof. Are you okay with me doing the audit now? I just need to come in and take a few pictures.”

Torn between your inborn, default courtesy and bubbling irritation, you bite your lip. “Any way you’d be willing to reschedule, man? I don’t know about liability and all that, and I don’t really feel comfortable making that decision.”