Page 5

Halfway through Gabrielle’s performance, you grab your phone nervously, like it’s something you forgot, and text Sterling. Hesitantly, because you’re not sure if he will answer this close to going on stage.

You: good luck. I would say break a leg but I think there would be a riot

Sterling: :)

The emoji is a vague enough reply that you spend entirely too long wondering what it means, or even if it was Sterling himself who answered—his PA team does almost everything else for him—and soon Gabrielle is being shuttled off-stage on the up-stretched arms of her backup dancers, who are musclebound guys in bunny ears and sequined banana hammocks.

The wailing starts some time right around then. Ear-piercing shrieks cut through the air. There’s over seventy thousand asses in seats, and it shouldn’t be possible to hear any individual shouts or screams, but they somehow rise above the buzzing, frenetic hive-noise .

Sterli-i-i-i-ng!

I love you!

STERLIN-N-N-G!

OH MY GOD!

Feet bang the floor, and the flashes of ten thousand phone cameras are sparks winking through the 200s and 300s like lightning bugs.

It would feel vaguely ominous—such a crowd, with such energy could conceivably turn into a deadly mob in no time flat—but there is a drunken, permeating haze of lovey, sororal happiness floating over the crowd.

They are hugging strangers, singing in packs, and exchanging friendship bracelets strung with pastel pony beads and emblazoned with acronyms that only make sense to fellow Graylings.

You have a limited view of the crowd from the tent, as your view is supposed to be ideal for the stage, not people-watching.

But there is a coterie of teenagers hanging over a rail in the 140s, and you can’t help but observe them as the lights go down and Sterling’s entrance music starts playing.

There’s five or six girls and one guy, all of whom are decked out in bespoke costumes.

Wigs, lashes, boots, the whole nine. Each one has a heart drawn on their cheek.

On stage, an immense screen is playing a rapid-fire montage of clips from Sterling’s career.

He’s not even up there yet. The kids are all sobbing .

Tears track their eye makeup down quivering cheeks, fucking up their mascara and flooding away the glitter on their skin.

Their shoulders quake and their knees buckle as they lean on one another for support, keening like they are having a full-on religious experience.

And then Sterling rises up from a platform beneath the floor, and the place erupts.

You are close enough that you can see him on the stage, the lights picking up the flyaways of his otherwise perfect hair, but he’s reflected at twenty times his size on the screen behind him. Bashful smile, white teeth. He’s wearing an iridescent purple two-piece getup.

“Hi, guys,” he says. It sounds almost like the voice you hear on the phone, but different. You realize that this must be his public-facing tone. “Thanks for coming out tonight.”

The crowd answers with a wall of sound. A sonic roar.

You are slightly worried about the kids by the railing in the 140s.

It’s dark and the lights from the stage are throwing shadows all over the crowd.

At least two of the teens—the boy and one of the girls—look like they are about to either faint or throw up in the greenish glow.

One of their companions is waving and screaming soundlessly in the direction of the stage like Sterling could hear her impassioned shouts, which he cannot.

You have to tear your attention away, since you don’t want to be caught staring.

What happens next can only be described as a spectacle of the highest magnitude.

Sterling holds the crowd captive for three hours, marching like a spangled five-star general through a set list encompassing fifteen years of music, hits and deep cuts alike.

The Graylings don’t differentiate between the two; they know every word, every note, and every hitch in Sterling’s breath.

He plays the piano and the guitar; he talks with the crowd like he’s addressing several thousand of his best friends.

There are no fewer than ten costume changes.

There’s even a segment that sees Sterling flung high above the stadium on an aerial rig as he sings, fifty feet high and cool as a cucumber.

Pyrotechnics sizzle through the night. Sweat gleams on his brow, but he doesn’t seem to notice. He doesn’t so much as miss a beat.

You are so mesmerized that you lose track of the time.

Somewhere in your vicinity, Sandy is trying hard to be attentive and Jamie is crying her eyes out—you think that she’s going to have a hell of a headache in the morning—and the noise of the crowd is like the ocean, breaking over the top of the tent.

Their whistles, whoops, and screams fade into the background.

There is, you had previously realized, something very sexy about seeing someone do something very well.

The guys on the Food Network chopping vegetables into perfect matchsticks and handling flaming pans fearlessly.

Guys like Sandy—not that you think that way about Sandy, despite him being a full-fledged Italian Stallion—throwing a football sixty yards downfield in a geometric spiral.

That’s what you are thinking about Sterling: he’s amazing at what he does.

He sings. He dances. He holds the crowd in the palm of his hand.

You may or may not be slightly hot and bothered when someone appears from behind you and taps you on the shoulder.

“Mister Reinhart!” they say, yelling over the crowd, “Are you ready to come back with me?”

You try hard to avoid her eyes, but Jamie is staring at you pointedly as you are whisked out of the tent.

***

They bring Sterling to you fresh off the stage.

He arrives in a crowd of people, laughing, in one of a convoy of golf carts that zip through the tunnels of the massive stadium.

He’s stripped to the waist and his hair’s all fucked up.

It takes a split second before he sees you.

If it’s possible, his smile gets even huger. He jumps out of his cart.

“Oh my God! Kai!” he exclaims, sounding delighted. Out of breath.

There’s a split second where you aren’t exactly sure how this is going to play out—how cool do you need to be?

Are you hugging? Do you kiss him? Where do you guys stand?

—before Sterling answers it all for you, throwing himself into your arms and going up on tiptoe to crush a solid kiss onto your lips.

A heat like molten chocolate settles in your gut, and you are hugging him too tight.

But Sterling doesn’t mind. He’s got a dopey, happy look on his face as he pulls back, and he trips a bit stepping down.

If anyone in his entourage is surprised or scandalized by the display, they make no show of it.

“How did you like it?” Sterling asks.

“It was phenomenal,” you say honestly. “I’ve never seen anything like that shit. You are just… wow.”

“ Wow is what I aim for,” he replies, seemingly satisfied. And then, without raising his voice or turning his head, “Does anyone have my water? Did I leave it backstage?”

Immediately, an arm reaches out from the side of your vision and hands Sterling a black, insulated bottle.

He chugs it enthusiastically. You watch the long line of his throat working as he swallows, and hope fervently that your shirt is long enough to cover the half-chub that you’re sure you’re sporting.

“What are your plans for the evening?” Sterling asks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“This was my plan.” You spread your hands. “Seeing you.”

He smiles sideways. “I’m so, so glad that you came out. I need to quickly attend my post-show briefing with my tour manager and get changed. After that, I’m heading back to my hotel to eat a late dinner and relax. I’m told that it’s got a beautiful view of the beach. You want to come eat?”

Is that even a question?

“Sounds great,” you say.

He affectionately pats your bicep. His hand is small against your arm where your shirt sleeve rode up, and pale.

“See you in a bit,” he says, being swept off by his team again.

While you wait, a couple of people from Sterling’s team stick behind with you and try to ply you with anything you might possibly want. Alcohol. Food. A place to relax.

But you want to keep sharp, and Sterling mentioned food at the hotel.

So you turn it all down. You fold your big frame into a too-small chair and occupy yourself with your phone.

You are honestly barely looking at the images on social media, but you scroll anyway.

GoGo, one of the star receivers on the Cyclones, has dropped a pin at one of the hottest strip clubs in Park West. Jamie has twenty carefully-curated pictures of Sterling on her Insta, along with a lowercase quote from one of his songs.

It already has a few thousand likes. Back in Georgia, your cousin Beau is showing off the new flooring in his kitchen that he just spent all day laying by hand.

There is a warm spot on your arm where Sterling touched you, like his hand was burning, and you had a non-painful, invisible brand where his fingers were.

It takes maybe thirty minutes for Sterling to return, casual in a hoodie and jeans.

He takes your hand as you two follow Cal and another bodyguard out a back entrance of the stadium.

There’s yet another dark SUV pulled up outside.

The night air is warm. Despite the fact that the concert has been over for an hour, there are, inexplicably, a clutch of fans and photographers hanging over a concrete wall above the parking lot.

They see Sterling first, and start yelling.

And then— oh shit , you think—they see you. Holding hands.

Who is that?

Oh my god! He plays for the Cyclones.

Kai! Kaius Reinhart! The Train!

Sterling! How do you know Kai ?

How long have you guys been seeing each other?

Over here!

That last one gets you and, without thinking, you turn your head toward the command. You are assaulted by a dozen flash photos in your direction. You can’t help cursing out loud.

Sterling doesn’t lose his cool. He waves to everyone, but keeps moving.

He pulls you by your entwined fingers. Ahead of you both, Cal has opened the back door of the SUV.

You are dazed. Dazed by the flashes, dazed by the attention, dazed by the feeling of Sterling’s palm against yours.

You don’t really come back to yourself until the door closes behind you, and the car is moving, cutting through the muggy Miami night.

“What was that?” you ask dizzily.

Sterling bites his lip. The passing streetlights illuminate the shadows under his eyes from where he didn’t get all the makeup quite off. One of his hands is thrown over his lap. The other is still tight in yours. Like a lifeline.

“To quote my PR agent, I think that was some kind of launch,” he says. “Probably not a hard launch. Not quite a soft one, either. Can you have a medium launch?”

You aren’t sure what he’s even talking about.

In the front seat, the driver is wearing a brimmed hat and keeps his eyes forward.

It’s almost midnight, but traffic is busy (it always is).

Around you, the cars zoom by, driving like assholes (they always do), unaware that one of the most famous people in the world is right beside them.

In your pocket, your phone buzzes. You check it quickly, wondering who’s texting you this late.

Sandy: J wants me to tell u that ur a bad liar