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Skin! Skrillex! Skivvies! Grayson’s Big Party Was a Night to Remember… And Wait Until You See What The Train Got Him For His B-Day!

Frish enlisted burlesque artists from France’s Moulin Rouge cabaret to put in an appearance, but one performer, speaking under the promise of anonymity, stated that Grayson was nowhere to be found when the troupe took the stage for their acclaimed topless fan dance.

It was “disappointing,” she said, “but maybe he had to step out for a while. ”

In lieu of gifts, we’re told that Grayson asked for donations to his favorite charities, including No Kid Hungry, Point of Pride, and The Arts Council of England.

That doesn’t mean that all guests came empty-handed, however.

Sources say that Elton John gave Grayson a notebook of handwritten lyrics and photos.

Zendaya, an ambassador for Louis Vuitton, fittingly picked out a customized Around Me PM bag in the brand’s signature print, the tag of which was monogrammed with Grayson’s last initial.

And Gwyneth Paltrow gift-wrapped an opulent selection of candles from her Goop line.

***

You’re awake before the phone rings.

In the bedroom, at the London apartment, Sterling is sound asleep beside you.

He’s wearing nothing but his new necklace, the “K” charm resting in the hollow of his throat.

The “S” must have slid toward the mattress.

His hair somehow looks amazing even after the long party and the rest of the night after, three hours of sleep and counting.

The sheets are tangled around his waist. He’s an active sleeper, always rolling and kicking in dreams, but right now he’s still.

Apollo is lying at the foot of the bed, his heavy body both crushing and warming your feet. He’s snoring. On her cushion in the corner, Artemis is staring at you quizzically. Breakfast?

Actually, you’d prefer to still be holding Sterling and sleeping, yourself. Unfortunately, even after almost four weeks of relaxation in Europe, you’re still an early riser in any time zone. So your eyes are open. It’s 6 AM, and you’re very badly rested, but that’s a problem to tackle later.

The curtains are pulled closed, but the thin gray light behind them tells you that it is going to be another dreary day in London.

You don’t know how the locals handle so much rain, but it’s all right.

You love the city anyway. Thoughts of grabbing an umbrella and crossing the street to Delilah’s for a chocolate croissant and a latte are filling your brain.

You plan on meeting your trainer at ten, and he doesn’t love all the carbs you’ve been shoveling, but you know your body’s limits better than he does.

A little indulging is okay. It’s almost time to buckle down and start hitting your preseason diet: protein-loading and a clean bulk, but not just yet .

Not just yet. It’s that thought that makes you linger, gazing at Sterling’s clear, smooth skin, just a minute or two longer, and that’s why you are able to grab his phone so fast when it rings.

Fuck! He must have forgotten to set it to Do Not Disturb.

Well, he was still a bit drunk when you two got home.

You catch the iPhone like it’s an interception ball, snatching it off the nightstand before the first chime of his alert sound can finish cycling.

You’re ready to quickly shut the ringer off and send the call to voicemail—you don’t feel comfortable answering Sterling’s phone for him; you aren’t that kind of couple—when you see Gabi’s name on the caller ID.

Before you can really think it through, you’re swiping to answer.

“Hey, Gabi. It’s Kai,” you say. You beat feet for the stairs, so that your voice doesn’t wake him up. You’re already halfway down the landing when you realize you are still ass-naked yourself. “What’s up?”

At first, you think there’s a bad connection; that there’s static on the line, like an old-timey land phone. But then, you realize that crackly, hitching noise is crying . It’s Gabi, and she’s sobbing. The sound stops you in your tracks. You sink down where you are, on the bottom few steps.

“Gabi, baby, what’s wrong?” you say in a low voice.

“I need to talk to Ster,” she chokes out. “I need… I ne ed…”

“What do you need?” you ask. You know you need to get Sterling. Wake him up. Gabi wants him. But you are rooted to the spot, shocked and horrified by the guttural, primal tones this woman is choking up.

“It’s GoGo,” she manages finally. It takes her several tries to get the words out. “They arrested him. And it’s all my fault.”

***

In the end, you don’t have to wake Sterling up. He either notices you aren’t in bed or hears the phone call, because all of a sudden he’s sitting by your side, wrapped in a fluffy white bathrobe and rubbing your shoulder blade.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sleepily. “Is that my phone?”

“It’s Gabi,” you say. Nothing else. You just hand him the phone.

You leave Sterling on the steps, and go back upstairs two at a time to get to your own phone plugged in on the dresser. Unsteady fingers type GoGo’s name into the search bar, somehow knowing that you are about to discover something dark and ugly, your heart in your throat.

NFA STAR ARRESTED FOR DOMESTIC INCIDEN T

The headline screams across your screen, with every subsequent one a permutation on the same theme. You click on the first link, not even caring what the source is. There’s a banner for a Miami TV station.

NFA wide receiver Grenville “GoGo” Heller, 29, was arrested at his home in Miami Beach, Florida, last night, by officers investigating a credible report of suspected domestic abuse.

When Miami-Dade Police Department officers arrived at the premises, they found Heller’s fiancée, Gabrielle Burgess, who performs under the name Gabrielle Rose, with visible contusions on her arms and thighs.

According to a tip received by this station, an incident took place at the Hibiscus Island home which Burgess shares with Heller, between six and seven in the evening. A neighbor walking her dog on the sidewalk reported hearing “shouting, crying, and the sound of breaking glass.”

Court documents showed that police were initially looking into a “substantiated” tip that Heller was abusing Burgess.

There are reportedly photographs taken by an unknown person or persons showing Heller grabbing Burgess by the arm and shoving her on a sidewalk at an undisclosed location.

The provenance of the photographs is said to be top-secret.

Heller is being held in jail until his first appearance in court, scheduled for later today. It is expected that he will post bail.

In a statement prepared for the Miami Herald, a spokesperson for the Cyclones said: “We are aware of the situation. We have been in touch with GoGo, his representatives, and the NFA. There will be no further comments at this time.”

Heller is no stranger to trouble on and off the field.

He was first arrested in 2016 as a sophomore at Texas Tech for charges of racing on highway streets and criminal reckless driving, causing a single-car accident.

He was released on bond. Later that same year, Heller’s then-girlfriend, Lubbock native Lily Gomez, publicly accused him of sexual battery.

Gomez was on a date with Heller and consumed too much alcohol, after which point she claimed Heller coerced her into performing oral sex on him.

Those charges were dropped. Heller was drafted by the Dallas Pistols in the first round of the 2017 NFA Draft, but released from the team after allegations emerged regarding him leveling racist slurs at a teammate while under the influence of illegal drugs during an Association-sanctioned event.

He was later signed by Miami, and has continued to make news for his semi-legal antics.

You feel like you are moving underwater.

Your legs feel too heavy for your body, and somewhat numb, as if they’ve fallen asleep with you standing up.

Fuck, you’re still naked. You pull on your underwear and look blearily around the room for something to wear.

Your nude body feels inappropriate at the moment; something perverse.

The shorts and compression shirt that you were wearing yesterday before the party are on a chair in the corner.

Your hands shake as you are pulling them on.

It was your full intention to leave the room right away, but you find that you need to sit down for a moment. You sink onto the edge of the unmade bed. Lose a few minutes. Not too many, but more than a couple. It takes some convincing to pick yourself up again.

On the stairs, it’s quiet, and there’s no sign of Sterling. You go down to the first floor, and find him at the breakfast bar. His face looks haggard, like he’s aged twenty years in the last fifteen minutes. The phone sits face-down on the counter. He’s staring straight ahead.

“Is she okay?” you ask.

He doesn’t look at you. “You know what happened?”

“I know what the official story is. It’s splattered all over the news.”

Sterling shakes his head. “Of course it is. Of-fucking-course.”

Hearing him curse is jarring, but no more so than anything else you’ve processed so far this morning. You shuffle into the kitchen, and grab two mugs from the cabinet. You aren’t absolutely sure how to use the high-tech coffee machine by the stove, but you sure as shit are about to figure it out.

“How is Gabi?” you repeat. “Other than awful, obviously.”

He shakes his head again. Too long, like his head’s stuck on a swivel. Traces a vein in the granite surface with his finger. “She’s trying to take the blame.”

You laugh mirthlessly. “How’s she gonna take the blame for him beating her up?”