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Sterling’s fans call themselves the ‘Graylings.’ Countless think pieces have been generated on Grayling culture, consumption, and lore.

Their devotion to Sterling generates enough annual spending to match the GDP of a small nation.

They are legion: devoted, dedicated, and sometimes deranged.

When Sterling announced his tour, the Graylings broke Ticketmaster trying to sign up for the pre-sale.

When the actual tickets went live, there were widespread reports of check-out queues lasting five or six hours, and tens of thousands of disappointed fans were left empty-handed.

Sterling doubled his dates, adding extra stops and extending existing ones, but it still wasn’t enough.

Resale sites and scalpers were demanding thousands for nosebleed seats.

You were aware of the Grayling hysteria before, of course—you had eyes and ears that worked.

It was impossible to escape the hype. In the supermarket, magazines with Sterling’s handsome face gazed at you in the check-out lane.

Flipping through the channels late at night, he popped up on Hollywood news round-ups with clockwork regularity.

In public, girls with his face and lyrics plastered across their t-shirts and phone cases wandered malls, coffee shops, and dance classes, comparing notes.

How Sterling was wearing his hair. Exactly what shade of blue his eyes were—reports ranged from “sapphire” to “cornflower.” What spangled jacket he’d worn on stage, or which designer made his streetwear.

Universities were starting to teach classes analyzing themes in his music.

After that first lunch date, you are entrusted with Sterling’s actual number (not just that of his assistant’s assistant) and you guys text regularly.

Well, as regularly as two people can when one is a world-famous pop star on tour and the other is an NFA player on a fifth-year extension.

You send messages on breaks during OTA workouts and mini-camp.

It’s technically the off-season still, but now that the draft is over, things are kicking into gear again.

For his part, Sterling tours Glendale, Las Vegas, and Arlington, blazing a trail across the Western U.S.

Your TikTok algorithm feeds you nonstop concert footage, always accompanied by the shrill sound of fans screaming along to every lyric.

You start to become familiar with dance moves.

Fan call-backs. Places where the applause level goes from deafening to absolutely catastrophic. It’s almost like you’re there.

But the Sterling that you get to know in those first several weeks isn’t what you expected from the charming interviews and the concert banter.

You haven’t had a chance to meet again in person yet, but, by the end of the month, you are talking almost daily.

Sterling Facetimes you when he’s taking off his makeup, or while his highlights are processing in the chair after his stylist is done with his hair.

While he’s hooked up to a vitamin IV drip after the show, his face pale and sweaty, but triumphant.

You get to see the dressing rooms he occupies at the same stadiums you’ve played in during your career, which are packed full of flowers and fan gifts, and with people coming in and out.

The hotel suites, which are bigger and more beautiful than anything you’ve seen before.

But, most importantly, you see Sterling.

How he smiles hesitantly after a joke, how he laughs genuinely—kind of like a donkey, frequently snorting—instead of the genteel chuckle he’s perfected for the public.

How he looks with zero product on his face or in his hair.

Before you know it, it’s two weeks before you have to report for preseason, and Adalyn from Sterling’s team is texting you again and asking if you want to attend this weekend’s show at the Hard Rock.

It’s not a complete surprise—you knew the tour was coming to Miami, but you didn’t want to assume—but a welcome one, nonetheless.

You wonder why Sterling didn’t ask you himself, and you inquire about that when you two are talking that night.

“Oh.” A blush spreads across his face. It’s really cute. Distractingly so, actually. “I actually wasn’t sure if you’d be busy or not. So I guess I pawned off the question.”

“Don’t do that again,” you tell him frankly. “We’re cool. You can talk to me. If I couldn’t go, I would tell you. Or if I didn’t want to. But I can go, and I do want to, so I’m psyched. Do I have good seats?”

Sterling laughs. He sounds relieved. “You’ll be in VIP,” he says. “My personal guest. Can’t have you getting swarmed in the stands.”

You almost mention that a swarming is unlikely.

In Miami, a football player is a pretty minor star in the constellation of famous humans—and even then, only with rabid fans.

Maybe once a week you get asked for an autograph or picture.

Strangers always look twice at a guy who’s six feet four inches and built like a brick wall (you come by the nickname “the Train” honestly), but they usually don’t recognize you.

There are hotshots on the Cyclones, guys who sell millions of jerseys and do national commercials for Gatorade and insurance companies. You aren’t one of them.

But you are tickled to have a good view at the concert, so you don’t say anything else.

At four on Saturday afternoon, a car comes for you and takes you to the stadium.

You aren’t used to showing up as a spectator, so you don’t recognize the entrance you are escorted through.

The VIP tent is super close to the stage.

There is a catered spread of gourmet appetizers and finger foods, along with a complimentary bar and tons of fawning staff.

A handful of guests are milling around. You don’t recognize them, but they seem to know who you are.

They say hello and smile. The first fans are starting to fill in their seats, and the excitement is a manageable hum so far.

You sip a beer and nibble at some truffled deviled eggs, smoked salmon crostini, and Caprese skewers, trying to restrain yourself from devouring fifty servings.

You probably should have eaten before you left home, but you were nervous, dammit.

Around six, Sandy and his wife, Jamie, show up.

It’s good to see them—not only are they welcome familiar faces, but you figure that having them there will throw people off the scent of you being in the tent in the first place.

Nothing suspicious about home team players showing up for a huge event at their stadium, right? (You hope the answer is yes.)

Sandy always looks—it shouldn’t be possible—even better in street clothes than he does in Spandex pants and a jersey.

His black hair is gelled back, his olive skin is moisturized and smells good.

He’s your bro, no homo, but you deeply envy his natural swagger.

His dark eyes are lively, scanning the stadium.

“Different view, right?” he says, slapping you on the shoulder and ordering his own beer .

Jamie, who matches (if not exceeds) her husband in the looks department, is totally drunk on the Grayling Kool-Aid.

She’s got five million followers on Instagram who devour her workout reels and scoop up new pieces from her athleisure brand, but she’s acting like a little kid in a candy store.

Looking at her VIP pass with wide, shiny eyes and taking a million pictures of everything.

Teasing her alongside Sandy is a good time, and kills about twenty minutes.

“So,” she says, trying to be subtle and completely failing. “I hear that you and Sterling have been hanging out, Kai.”

You resist the urge to stare daggers into Sandy’s gobsmacked face. In fact, you focus on looking very, very cool.

“We met up once ,” you correct her. It’s not a lie.

“But, like, it went well, right?” Jamie’s dug her heels in now. She’s like a dog with a bone.

“He’s all right, I guess.”

“Did you come to see him tonight?”

You take a deep drink of your beer, wishing it was something harder. “I mean, everyone in the stadium came to see him tonight. Didn’t you come to see him tonight?” Jamie’s over a foot shorter than you. You try to out-stare her .

“C’mon, babe,” Sandy says at last. “Get up off Kai.”

Just then, a worker comes by with some swag bags, and Jamie is lost in the kind of trance that comes from rhinestone-studded lanyards and signed CDs.

Thank god, because otherwise it would be hard to miss Cal’s enormous bulk cutting across the floor and toward the tent like a ship breaking the waves.

“‘Sup?” you say, since he’s very clearly headed straight for you. (Cal still terrifies you.)

“Evening, Mister Reinhart. Mister Grayson wanted to know if you would meet him backstage after the show and go with him to dinner.”

There’s that stupid flipping-flopping thing in your stomach again. You blame it on the truffle oil.

“I would love to,” you say.

“Very good.” Cal puts a meaty paw to the earpiece that, before now, was completely invisible, and mutters something to whomever’s on the other end. You hear your name under his breath. “Just stay put, and someone will come get you shortly after the finale.”

Not too long after, the opener takes the stage.

Gabrielle Rose is a perky blonde with five-inch heels and a massive bow in her ponytail, and she’s riding the wave of her first entry on the Billboard Top Ten.

She bumps and grinds through a twenty-minute set, and the crowd noise is already loud and excited.

Gabrielle is the perfect hype person for Sterling, whipping the girls and gays on the floor into a frenzy with every flip of her hair and swivel of her hips.