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The thing about you is, you mind your own business.

You’ve never been the type to pry into people’s lives.

Not your friends’, not your family’s, not your teammates’.

As far as you’re concerned, it’s one of your better qualities.

The Association is a magnet for big personalities, but you aren’t trying to be one of them.

You prefer to keep your head down, let your productivity speak for itself, and try to avoid the glowing golden bubble of Fame that some of your peers can’t seem to stop chasing.

Being associated with Sterling makes that harder. A lot harder.

You have enough seniority on the Cyclones that you could probably be a captain if you would play the game a bit more.

There are two types of guys who get the “C” patch—the guys who are the hype dudes, and the ones who set an example both on and off the field.

You fall closer to the second camp, although your efforts with philanthropy tend to be regional rather than national, and all behind- the-scenes.

You’ve served as a mentor to a few of the younger guys on defense.

You have a policy of always being open to listen and give advice, if advice is asked for.

The fact that you are gay is probably an issue.

You accepted a long time ago that there would always be guys who were uncomfortable with your proximity in the locker room.

It doesn’t bother you. You didn’t grind in college to get drafted and come to the NFA to make friends.

You have some, for which you are grateful, but it’s a job. Not a social club.

You would describe your relationship with most guys on the team as “cordial.” No rivalries or bad blood, thank god.

Your closest relationship is with Sandy, but you are never sure if that counts, because Sandy is friends with everyone .

You’ve known him for a long time—longer than anyone else on the team.

You came up together at Alabama and both got selected for the AP All American team: him twice, and you once.

The Cyclones drafted you in two consecutive classes: Sandy declared as soon as he became eligible at the end of junior year (and got picked fifth), you stuck around an extra year to get your diploma and improve your stock.

There are a lot of eyes on you in the locker room on the first day of preseason.

It’s your fifth season in the Association, the extension year of your original rookie contract.

You aren’t used to scrutiny, and you don’t particularly like it.

You focus on your locker. Your gleaming helmet.

Your brand-new jersey stitched with the number 99.

Your pads and cleats. You stare at the components of your uniform as if they are fascinating, as the guys mill in, and you feel their stares boring into your back.

It’s like high school all over again. You hate it.

It doesn’t come to a head in the locker room, or in the conference room before practice, or on the field beneath the blazing Miami sun.

It’s later, once you have stripped and showered and are half-asleep in the sauna, your head to the wooden planks and the heat leaching every last ounce of energy from your pores.

You have your AirPods in, and you are fully zoned out.

Your obligations for the day are done. You’re imagining going back to your condo and ordering delivery. Maybe Greek.

The door swings open, admitting GoGo Heller and Jameson Page.

First-string wide receiver and tight end respectively, they are two of the biggest names on the Cyclones, right behind Sandy.

They are what you privately call “flash” guys.

The dudes who sell tons of jerseys, snag national endorsements like candy, and use their millions on impressing girls and snorting nose candy.

They are loud, imposing, and always seem to move in a pack: a pack of other high-profile players, a pack of reporters, a pack of women.

Today there are just the two of them, though, and that fact alone automatically makes you groan internally.

As if choreographed, GoGo throws himself down on one side of you, and Jameson on the other.

GoGo’s ass hits the seat with such force that the little white towel covering his dick flies up on his sleek, pale legs.

The sauna is spacious and scaled for football players, but the center bench is on the small size for all three of you side-by-side.

“Kaius!” GoGo crows. “My man!”

“What’s good?” Jameson echoes.

You can hear them clearly over the music, since they are loud motherfuckers, but you reluctantly pull your earbuds out anyway.

“‘Sup, guys,” you say cautiously.

“You’re lookin’ good out there,” GoGo says. He spreads his knees and leans back. “You go on a cut?”

“Just twelve pounds. I did a lot of cardio this spring.”

“I like it.” GoGo tips his head back, his ridiculous neon-blue boxer braids falling back behind his head like a Technicolor Viking. “I like it,” he repeats.

“Whaddya think about the rookies?” Jameson asks .

“I haven’t really met them before today,” you reply. “There’s that new safety out of FSU—Jeffreys? He looks agile. Palys seemed to like him.”

“Palys is such a douchebag,” GoGo mutters. “Don’t know how you handle his shit all the time.”

It’s not that you disagree that Coach Palys is a hard-ass, but there’s a reason he got the defensive coordinator job when it opened up. The man gets results. You think about saying so, but that would require a lot more interaction with GoGo and Jameson than you want to tolerate.

You nod noncommittally and close your eyes. Maybe if you don’t give much of a response, they will go bother someone else. It’s definitely too much to ask that they just enjoy the steam in silence. You’ve never known either of those guys to keep their mouths shut for too long.

There are about ninety blissful seconds of quiet before the shoe drops.

“Yo, Kai.” GoGo nudges you, the sweat on his arm rubbing off on your skin. “How’s it going? With, you know? Sterling?”

You crack your eyelids for just a second. “C’mon, bro. You don’t want to talk about all that.”

“That’s pretty dope,” Jameson adds. You get the sense that he’s playing a role in this conversation, a lieutenant to GoGo’s general. “Sterling seems cool.”

You say nothing.

“Don’t be like that!” GoGo wheedles. “Is it going good? We know you went backstage at that concert.”

“I don’t kiss and tell.” You don’t even open your eyes. “My mama raised me right. Sorry.”

“Naw!” GoGo smacks your arm. Hard. “We don’t wanna know about any kissing.”

“Not that there’s anything wrong with that!” Jameson insists.

“‘Course not. We just, you know. Bruh. Sterling’s gotta have a lot of females around. Right?”

Your eyes are already closed, but you wish you could close them tighter. Or that your ears had shutters, too. That you could just nope out of this conversation.

“It’s the twenty-first century, G. We don’t call women females .”

“What do we call them, then?” Jameson sounds genuinely mystified.

But GoGo has set himself on a path, and he will not be diverted. “Yo. I’m just sayin’, there’s a lot of ladies that appreciate Sterling’s music. The Grayheads? Gotta be a bunch of them following him around.”

You shake your head. “Saw lots of teenagers at the concert. Didn’t think you were into that.”

Even without looking at him, GoGo’s voice tells you that he’s affronted. “I ain’t tryna hit with no little girls, man. Come the fuck on. I’m just imagining, you know. Sterling’s walking around, you know. Doing superstar shit. And there have to be women. Just hanging around.”

“Acting like Pepe LePew?” you ask sarcastically.

“Who?”

“Never mind.” You roll your shoulders. You’re carrying a lot of tension at the base of your neck. Could be getting your ass beat at practice, could be this conversation. You need to book a massage.

“I think that, what G’s tryna say,” Jameson ventures, “is that, maybe, since you aren’t interested in pretty ladies, you could send a few our way.”

“One in particular,” GoGo asserts.

Sucking in a deep breath, you give up and open your eyes. Ignoring them isn’t fixing the problem.

“Who are you after, bro?”

“My future wifey,” GoGo smirks. “Gabrielle Rose.”

“Gabrielle? The opener?” Your face has to be as blank as your brain is. “I’ve never even met her.”

“ The opener!” GoGo repeats, mortified, clutching his chest like there’s an arrow through his heart. “I know you’re gay, dude, but you ain’t blind.”

“She’s pretty?” you venture, racking your brain to recall what you remember of the opening set. You mostly remember the bunny ears and thinking about Sterling. You didn’t get much of an impression of Gabrielle. Blonde. Short. Good dancer.

“Pretty!” Jameson spits.

“Man,” GoGo sighs. “God himself created that girl’s fat ass. Shawty’s perfect. Literally flawless.” To illustrate, he shapes an exaggerated hourglass figure in the air with his hands. Licks his lips. “Dawg. I can’t even. You gotta get me a meet n’ greet.”

You raise an eyebrow. “G, you’ve been on the cover of Madden . Call your agent and have him get her number. I don’t know her any better than you do.”

“But you know Sterling ,” GoGo insists. “I know they’re close. I’ve seen them in pictures online.”

“Yeah,” Jameson interjects. “He had his arm around her and shit.”

“They’re label-mates,” you say, trying to fight back the irritation seeping into your voice. “They’re both single, so sometimes they go together to events. It’s not that deep.”

Jameson holds up a finger. “But! After his second night in Glendale, they got snapped getting their nails done together at a salon. And then they went and got those drinks with the bubbles in them…”

“Boba,” GoGo finishes sagely.

“That’s not label-mate shit, bro, that’s friend shit.”