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There are things you can do in Europe that you (okay, Sterling) would never get away with in America.

The third week, ahead of his Vienna shows, you fly over in the wee hours of the morning and take a pre-dawn tour of the Schonbrunn Zoo, which is, according to your tour guide, the oldest in the world.

Hand-in-hand, you and Sterling stroll through the rainforest house and the Polarium, your guide chirping away in her German accent as dew dries on the grass and the animals start to wake up.

After, you eat a catered breakfast overlooking the broad lawn, with the freshest smoked salmon, croissants, and boiled eggs that you have ever tasted.

Maybe the fresh air has made you hungry.

There are mimosas in whisper-thin glass flutes and strong coffee in gilded demitasse mugs.

The eggs are served in funny little cups that make them stand upright.

You wolf down three servings of everything, and Sterling laughs and laughs.

After, you don’t leave, despite the day guests starting to trickle in.

You visit the elephants, the Siberian tigers, and the giant pandas, who are apparently the most successful mating pair in the world.

Sterling, wearing sunglasses and a backwards ball cap, gets some prolonged second glances, but most people keep a respectful distance.

He takes hundreds of pictures, like a total tourist. Cal starts to deter a cluster of rather pushy Asian teenagers who want a photo, but Sterling relents and gives them a few, anyway.

He kisses you in front of the Baroque pavilion, smack in the center of the gardens.

Members of the crowd are staring. Sterling smiles against your mouth, and takes a selfie.

The NFA Draft starts that Thursday. You watch it on satellite at two in the morning, Sterling naked and sleepy by your side.

The Cyclones’ first pick is late in the first round.

They take a wide receiver from USC named Nyko Waters.

You’ve heard his name, obviously—your ear is always close to the college scene, not just as a professional football player, but as a fan.

The kid is jacked and fast. It’s actually a little bit of a wonder that the Cyclones get their hands on him when they do.

You would have expected him to go higher.

You’re explaining all this to Sterling as he dozes on and off.

“But you guys have a wide receiver,” he says. “You have GoGo, and some other ones, right?”

“Yes,” you tell him patiently. “But you always want depth. If GoGo were to get injured—” There’s an intrusive frisson of something like excitement at that thought, and you tamp it down. “Or a great trade happened, we would want someone who could step in and step up.”

“Mmm,” Sterling murmurs. “Is it exciting?”

“What?”

“The draft. What was it like?”

You curl him close to you, settling his head against your stomach, and smile.

How do you describe the feeling of the draft?

Sitting in the lounge—as a high prospect, you and your family were guests of the NFA at the event—in a snappy suit, your entire future dangling in front of you?

You were picked sixth, which was lower than your agent anticipated, but higher than you yourself hoped for.

The Cyclones traded up to get you, the top choice of sixteen Bama players who would ultimately end up getting drafted that year.

You’re well aware that your production spoke for itself, but you’re pretty sure Sandy also put a good word in for you.

The guy has always been your biggest cheerleader.

You remember excitement, anxiety, and being too nervous to eat any of the appetizers in the lounge.

Your mother and Quill flanked you. You still remember Mama’s nails on your knee, Quill’s shaky inhale every time a pick came in.

It’s a lot to try and encapsulate when your boyfriend is too tired to absorb most of it, so you just smile.

“It was cool,” you say.

The next morning, the conversation about the draft forgotten, Sterling sits across from you at the kitchen table and paints your nails. You let him pick the color.

“Green for the Cyclones,” he decides.

It’s not the right shade, but you don’t say that out loud.

He bends over your big hands with exquisite concentration, close enough that you can feel his breath on your knuckles.

It makes you hold your own breath in your lungs, not wanting to move an inch.

Sterling has people that give him manicures; you aren’t sure how he got so good at painting nails.

But it comes out perfect: two layers of color and one glossy top-coat.

You examine the job carefully, admiring the way the overhead light hits the varnish.

“Do you like it?” he asks.

“You’re gonna have to do it again when I go to camp,” you say. “Show it off to the guys.”

***

@FOOTBALLCHIPS_OFL: Who’s got eyes on GoGo Heller? The Cyclones WR was seen storming out of a Vegas draft party, cursing a blue streak. Some of his companions, who spoke under the condition of strict confidentiality, say that he was PISSED about Miami’s choice of Nyko Waters (WR - USC) as a CONT…

@FOOTBALLCHIPS_OFL: first-round pick. The owners of the casino didn’t comment on reports that Heller broke a glass door in his dramatic exit from the private event space. Our source says that Heller had “partied hard… I mean, really hard” and that s/he hoped GoGo wasn’t driving. CONT…

@FOOTBALLCHIPS_OFL: Heller’s antics have kept him in the news nearly nonstop lately, inviting comparisons to such historic gridiron bad boys as Johnny Manziel and Antonio Brown. What will he get up to next?

** *

“How’s London?” Peter asks.

“I’m actually in Vienna,” you say. “And, other than it being five in the afternoon and me being cooped up inside the hotel, it’s pretty freakin’ great.”

“Austria. Very nice,” Peter nods. “You lucky bastard. It’s only eight in the morning here. I’ll have you know that I battled rush hour traffic to get in early so I could talk to you at a respectable time”

You gaze up at the ceiling. The plaster is carved in intricate fans and swirls.

Very fancy. The whole hotel is over-the-top luxurious, with velvet and embossed wallpaper everywhere.

Lots of polished gold-toned fixtures. There’s only an hour before you need to get to the stadium for Sterling’s final Viennese show, and then you two can return to London.

For all the other stops except Lisbon, Sterling—and, by extension, you—are commuting in his plane.

But you spent some extra time in Austria, and, besides, the flight is just over two hours.

“To what do I owe the honor, Pete?” you ask, despite the fact that you have a pretty good idea.

On the other end of the line, Peter pumps his fist.

“Free agency, baby!” he says, with way too much pep for someone who probably woke up before the sun. The Los Angeles sun, which is, as usual, doing the most, all showy and golden over Pete’s shoulder. “Are you hyped?”

“My hype is contained at the moment,” you say. “What do you have for me?”

“Several inquiries,” he says. “All very promising…”

“...But?”

“ But , I think you can do better. And, despite what you might believe, I know that you want to stay in Miami. I’m being respectful of that.

I’ve been reviewing the market on your position.

And I’ve got to say, Kaius, I think you’re either the top agent, or damn close to it.

In terms of leveraging your performance, you couldn’t have done better.

DPOY would have been a great feather in your cap, but I feel like that will come.

You have strong relationships in Miami and a very favorable public image. You hold all the cards, my friend.”

“What has Miami said?”

“They are hemming and hawing about franchise tags and contract structure. You’re not the only person they need to lock down, and I know they have some salary cap issues in the next few years.

Make no mistake—they want to hold onto you.

They’ve got mad love. Plus, they just re-signed Covelli to a monster deal last year, and I know that keeping you makes him happy.

I’m just not sure that they are going to deliver you the payday that you deserve. The max numbers.”

You hold a hand up.

“Lemme stop you there, Pete.”

He groans.

“I know what you are going to say…” he starts.

“Then let me say it. I’m happy in Miami. I want to see us go all the way. We keep sniffing the ring, and I know we’re gonna get it if we keep reaching. Also, I don’t like the idea that I might be more valuable to anyone because of my relationship.”

Peter laughs shortly.

“Is that what’s got you tied in knots?” he asks. “The idea that teams might want you because you’re Missus Sterling Grayson?”

You don’t give him the satisfaction of a response.

“Okay,” he says. “Let’s break this down, shall we?

Do the Cyclones make bank every time your boyfriend shimmies over to the Hard Rock and cheers you on in the box?

Sure, they do. But NFA teams aren’t writing deals based on that, Kai.

You guys could break up tomorrow, which would be bad publicity.

Maybe… just humor me, here… maybe everyone’s beating down my door because you’re a generational talent.

Your modesty is kind of annoying, honestly.

We gotta break you of all that shit. You aren’t a rookie anymore. ”

“Are you done?” you ask archly. “Is there a point here? Or did you just call to bust my ass?”

“Oh, there’s a point, my friend.” Pete points at the camera, his smile reaching all the way to his eyes. “I’ve got one word for you: Tennessee.”

“Tennessee?”

“Yes, Tennessee. Good ol’ Volunteer State. Little team called the Goliaths. You heard of ‘em?”

You roll your eyes. “Of course I’ve heard of the Goliaths, Pete.”

“Let me break this down for you. They want you something fierce. Never won a ring…”

“Probably never going to, at this rate. They were bottom of their division last year. And the year before that.”

He makes a dismissive shooing gesture. “Minor details. They’re better than their record would suggest. They’ve got a second-year coach…”

“...And a QB who’s more famous for putting mayonnaise in his coffee than his numbers…”

“Are you going to let me talk, man?” He sounds annoyed.

“Sorry. ”

“I really think, and I’m not bullshitting you, that they are building something.

Maybe not this coming season. But the big picture is there.

They’re a young team. And let me tell you some things about Tennessee, Kai.

Beautiful state. You ever visit the mountains?

No state income tax, just like Florida, but with a lower cost of living.

Amazing climate. And that Southern hospitality?

To die for. Which reminds me, do you know where the Goliaths play? ”

“Nashville,” you say automatically.

“Nashville!” he crows. “Just over a one-hour direct flight to Atlanta if you want to fly and see your parents. And, tell me, Kaius. Who lives in Nashville? At least most of the time?”

Just like a key being turned in a lock, the tumblers in your brain click into place. “Ster. Ster lives in Nashville.”

“Got it in one!” Peter sounds way too excited.

He wags his index fingers at you. Not quite finger-guns, but disturbingly close.

“That was what really clicked for me. All that flying back and forth that you and Sterling do. It’s easy when you have a private jet, but think about the emissions, bro.

You get a little place in Nashville, you don’t have to travel.

And he’s almost done with his tour, right?

Going to be spending a lot more time at home. ”

You wrinkle your nose, loathe to admit that Pete, with all his California bluster, has made a point.

From Miami International to Nashville is two-and-a-half hours, not counting the travel time between your homes and the airports.

Not the longest distance, but not the shortest, either. What if there was ever an emergency?

“I hear your gears spinning,” Peter observes. “Is that permission to talk to the team? Run some numbers?”

“It’s not a no ,” you admit. “Definitely not a yes ; don’t get it twisted. But I guess it wouldn’t hurt to find out more.”

Peter nods, obviously tremendously satisfied. “You’re a good man, Kai,” he says. “Let me do the hard work. You just think about it. Enjoy your vacation. Discuss it with Sterling. You can’t tell me that he wouldn’t be excited.”

“I will,” you say noncommittally, not specifying which one of those instructions you were agreeing to.

“Okay, man. Talk soon, okay?” Peter flashes his million-watt smile across the connection.

You nod and hang up.

Your brain is whirring all the way to the stadium, and—though you’d never admit it—for at least half the time that Sterling is on stage. You try not to feel bad, telling yourself that you’ve seen the show three days in a row, and, as amazing a performer as Sterling is, not that much has changed.

After the show, he hugs you, sweaty and happy.

You make the decision not to tell him about your talk with Peter. You need to ponder all this.