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The man smiles encouragingly. “Totally get it. Can I ask your name? Mine is John, by the way. John Deere.”

You squint. “Your name is… actually John Deere ?”

He chuckles, and brandishes his badge again. “Swear to god. Check it out.”

Sure as shit, that’s the name on the tag, along with a matching picture.

“I’m Kai,” you say.

“Nice to meet you. Let me level with you, Kai. I could reschedule you, but my boss is going to be pissed. We have a tight schedule on these things, and we book out weeks in advance. I don’t do this audit, I don’t get paid.

And the homeowners are going to get penalized.

Automatic no-show fee charged to their next bill.

I don’t want to see you get a nastygram from whomever the dumb hosts are.

Clearly, they weren’t thinking about either you or me. ”

Your cogs start turning as you run the mental calculus on your options. The guy seems nice. You don’t want to cost him any money. And you definitely don’t want beef with the cabin’s owners. All your friends aren’t even there yet. What’s the harm, really?

“How long will it take?” you hedge.

“Fifteen minutes, tops. And I’ll be out of your hair,” he says encouragingly .

You open the door wider, and admit him with a sweep of your hand.

“You go about your day,” John tells you. “Pretend I’m not here. Once I have my shots, I’ll collect a quick signature from you, and you won’t be bothered again.”

Nodding, you idly wonder if this is the kind of thing that warrants a lower rating on the booking site. You want to give the property owners a piece of your mind. On the other hand, they are clearly gun nuts. Maybe you’ll just suck it up.

John wanders off, and you have no sooner retreated to your room than there’s another knock.

It’s Stetson and Eric, two more of the group.

They are both still based in Tuscaloosa, and so they flew over together.

Hugs and back-slaps are exchanged. By the time you’ve exchanged the essential pleasantries and shown them to one of the bedrooms, twenty minutes have flown by.

You duck into the kitchen to grab a cold one, and John finds you there.

“All done, Mister Reinhart!” he says brightly. “I really do appreciate your help. Just sign here, and I’m outta here.”

He brandishes a small tablet and a stylus that were formerly attached to his belt with a holster.

You sign your name slowly .

“You know, John,” you say casually. “I didn’t tell you my last name.”

He shrugs easily. “Got me. Sorry. I’m a big Miami fan. I would have never said anything, of course. But I did recognize you. It was a pleasure, Kai.”

He shakes your hand and, true to his promise, takes off for his vehicle. It’s a big, white F-350, which you figure must be useful for getting around in the woods in these parts.

“Who was that?” Steve demands. He enters the kitchen through the sliding back door, a waft of skunky smoke following him. On the patio, Brick is blasting Post Malone on an ancient boombox. Stetson and Eric are passing a joint back and forth.

“Power company,” you shrug.

“Bogus,” he comments. “Yo, Stets gotta call from Powder at the Tampa airport. His plane got delayed at the layover in Atlanta. He won’t be here ‘til after midnight.”

You groan. “Good thing he’s got the couch.”

Steve leans around you to grab a beer. “He said to settle in and start havin’ fun without him. Says we’ll really light it up tomorrow.”

You take a contemplative pull of your beer.

It fizzles golden down your throat, cool and bitter.

Outside, Eric curses a blue streak as he tries to ignite the grill.

There’s enough steaks in the fridge to feed an army, enough booze in the larder to drown in, and the river is a cool seventy-two degrees, just begging for some night-swimming.

“Yeah,” you agree. “Havin’ fun sounds just about right.”

***

You don’t check your messages until you arrive back in Miami.

It extends the bubble of the getaway for a few hours, plus you have over a thousand notifications that you want to delay dealing with.

You don’t mess with it until you have unpacked your car and gotten into your condo.

The air is set low, the way you like, and the place is impeccably clean and stocked with food.

You really, really appreciate your housekeeper.

Your body has new tan lines from your swim shorts and flip-flops, and your nose is even a little sunburned.

You ate too much, drank too much, and smoked too much, but that’s the beauty in being on the off-season and done with your annual Association-mandated piss test. You are scratching your belly idly, thinking about how your trainer is going to razz you and make you do extra crunches tomorrow, when you open your notifications and the torrent hits you.

TMZ: PHOTOS! The Train Takes Cabin Weekend With Bros (Minus Sterling )

TrainspottersDigest: Ten Takeaways From THOSE Cabin Pics

TheDISH Daily: Who Are Kai’s Friends? A #CabinSix Deep Dive

SportsToday: brEAKING! The Train Takes a 420 Weekend Getaway--Is Trouble Afoot?

Your heart sinks into your asshole. Feeling the blood drain from your face, you click on that last headline. Sports Today is a notorious rag, and the “journalism” doesn't disappoint.

The celebrity-NFA crossover world was rocked Tuesday when an anonymous tipster sent TMZ.com photographs of a Nature Coast cabin where Kaius “The Train” Reinhart and several of his college friends were kicking back, enjoying a mini-reunion.

The six men all attended the University of Alabama and graduated with the Class of 2019.

The “Cabin Six” rented a three-bedroom, 1,415-square foot Airbnb in Crystal River.

The rental was made in Reinhart’s name, and he occupied the primary bedroom of the residence.

Reports say that the men planned to enjoy the clear waters of the springs, catch up with one another…

and partake of illicit drugs? At least three of Reinhart’s friends were spotted toking up, despite the fact that recreational marijuana is illegal in the state of Florida.

Reinhart himself was not seen indulging, but experts have questioned whether the NFA will look into the matter fu rther.

Also notable was the fact that Reinhart’s boyfriend, superstar Sterling Grayson, was not in attendance.

Grayson was busy on the other side of the world, performing a four-night residency in Singapore.

Given Reinhart’s predilection for same-sex lovers, one has to question what Grayson was thinking, letting his paramour stay in close quarters with a pack of strapping young men all week.

This story is developing. Check back for more details.

The men in question:

● Steven Foster: Reinhart’s freshman-year roommate. A Georgia boy like Reinhart, Foster works in business consulting. His girlfriend, Andrea “Andi” Whitton, is a former Miss Alabama.

● Brant “Brick” Childress: Childress was known as the “party animal” of his social set. A Sigma Chi pledge, he existed on the fringes of the group until graduation, as reports say that he used to be closest to his frat brothers. Childress works as a lobbyist in Atlanta.

● Aldous “Stetson” Stockard: An Alabama native, currently a programmer working in Tuscaloosa.

● Eric McDavie: Formerly of Mississippi, currently lives in Northport, AL and is an associate at Baker, Davis, & DeMostra Law Firm.

● Huxton “Powder” Mayfield III: A scion of the Mayfield agricultural dynasty, the man called “Powder” (for his pale complexion and light hair) is perhaps the most old-money of the “Cabin Six.” Mayfield’s roots run deep in Alabama, but he currently resides in New York City.

The article has pictures of all your friends, along with photos of the cabin.

Special attention was given to your room—you recognize the Ride a Gator sign and the deer head.

There’s a fuzzy shot of Steve, Brick, and Eric passing the joint.

It must have been taken through one of the back windows.

You bite your tongue hard enough to taste blood.

The fucking energy audit.

As if summoned by some invisible string being tugged up I-95, your phone rings. The caller ID says that it’s Steve.

“I saw it,” you say by way of greeting. “Man, I’m so sorry…”

“Is this for fuckin’ real?” Steve groans. “Brother, I knew you were gettin’ famous, but this is batshit crazy. Cuckoo-loco.”

“It was that asshole who came to take pictures for the power company. ” Steve can’t see the air quotes you make around those words, your phone on your shoulder, but you make them anyway. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“I found out from Powder,” Steve offers. “His family’s some kinda pissed. Eric and Brick ain’t real happy, neither. They got the kinda jobs that depend on stayin’ outta the papers, you know? Don’t matter so much for me n’ Stets.”

You want to sink through the well-scrubbed floor of your condo. Your face is burning, despite the fact that the ambient temperature is cool, and you kind of feel like you are going to vomit.

“I don’t know what to say,” you blurt helplessly. “This is so fucked up and embarrassing. I never thought…”

Steve bites off a mirthless chuckle. “Kai, my man. Your boyfriend is a mega-star. He’s the biggest thang since sliced bread.

I don't know why you’re still pretending like your life is normal, because it ain’t .

I’m actually not that surprised, actually.

Don’t Sterling got those bodyguards? Big motherfuckers that protect him from stupid people? Maybe you oughta get you one.”

You pinch the bridge of your nose, and sink onto your couch. “Steve, I don’t need a bodyguard. Might need a lawyer, but not a bodyguard.”