Page 9

You are both impressed and concerned by the fact that GoGo and Jameson seem to be tracking Sterling’s whereabouts in the press. You don’t even do that. You didn’t do it before you met him, and you definitely don’t do it now.

“It’s just not like what you guys are thinking,” you say helplessly.

“Sterling and I don’t…” It dawns upon you suddenly that, not only are you under an NDA that you don’t fully understand, but you also were serious about not spilling your personal business.

GoGo and Jameson are leaned in expectantly.

“I’ve never met Gabrielle, man. I can’t help you. ”

Jameson sighs extravagantly and shakes his head, making his immaculately-groomed crop of short dreadlocks wiggle. “You’re gonna break the man’s heart, Kai.”

GoGo crosses his hands over his sternum and exhales, the very picture of devastation .

Is this what it’s going to be like? you think to yourself with concern. GoGo barely gave you the time of day before. And, to be fair, you were all right with that. GoGo’s not your kind of dude. Too loud. Too crass. Too obnoxious.

But, on the other hand, he’s your teammate. Football is a brotherhood. You have three biological brothers at home—you know well that, even when you don’t particularly like them at the moment, family is family. You shift on the bench, your sweat-sticky thighs clinging to the wood.

“I don’t know her,” you repeat. “But I’ll tell you what, man. If I ever meet her, I’ll drop your name. See if she’s interested. That sound good?”

GoGo pumps his fist in the air. “My man! I knew you’d hook me up, Kai. The Train! Always comin’ through.”

“Choo choo!” Jameson yelps happily.

GoGo stands and adjusts his towel. He’s shorter than you, and much leaner, too. His position calls for speed and agility, and he’s built for it, five feet and ten inches of polished alabaster perfection like a statue in a museum. He’s a good-looking dude, even if he’s a world-class asshole.

“Let’s bounce, Jimbo,” GoGo says to Jameson. “Hot as balls in here. My sac’s all sticking to my leg and shit. ”

Jameson makes a face. “You nasty, bro.”

“See ya tomorrow, Kai,” GoGo calls over his shoulder.

They are laughing and discussing plans for dinner as they leave the sauna, letting the door close carelessly behind them.

You can’t help but groan as you sink deeper into the bench. You are bathed in sweat and ready to black-out from the heat. You’ve been in too long. But you linger a few lightheaded minutes longer, just to make sure that there’s no other loudmouths waiting for you back in the locker room.

***

The rest of the summer goes by fast.

Preseason is always a blur. Getting back in the swing of travel and showing up to the practice facility every day takes a lot of slogging, and there are late nights reviewing routes and plays.

You work out like a fiend to ensure that you are in ideal shape for the season and to make sure that you are flexible and limber.

Tom Brady may be a creepy robot with serial-killer shark eyes, but the man had a point about pliability .

You try not to pay too much attention to your own buzz, because commentary is worse than pointless, but your agent has texted you several times to share hype-y articles and tweets.

Fantasy team owners are grabbing the Cyclones defense a lot earlier than other teams’.

You guys are considered early favorites for a deep playoff run again this year.

And you in particular are getting attention.

Your numbers. Your highlights. Yahoo Sports runs a story on you—a puff piece, you think, unimpressed—and it goes viral, amassing over a million shares.

“People are just realizing what a talent the Train is.” Your agent, Peter, is a decent guy. He’s more enthusiastic than you are. “You should be happy.”

“Eh.” You are perched on a chair out on the balcony of your condo, savoring the flamboyant red display of the setting Florida sun. Beneath you, kids splash in the pool, enjoying the last few nights before school starts again. “It’s probably my personal life. I hate that shit.”

Across the line—Peter’s in LA, it’s still late afternoon there—he makes a noncommittal noise.

“I mean, it increases your exposure. There’s no way to get around that, Kai.

You had to know what you were doing when you started dating someone like Sterling.

But I don’t think that’s all of it. Your CV is strong enough to stand on its own.

Your production has been insane these last few years.

Real NFA fans don’t care who you are seeing romantically.

They just care about the game. And you’re an asset to the game. No blowing smoke. Just stating facts.”

You hum in a way that indicates neither agreement nor the lack thereof.

Truthfully, you think it’s presumptuous to say that you are “dating” Sterling.

You haven’t seen him since his concert. You talk to him nightly, and it’s both hot and sweet, but you refuse to make assumptions.

This is Sterling Grayson . Who are you to presume that you know anything about what he wants?

You guys stay up late on FaceTime. Sometimes you fall asleep to the sound of his even breath on the line, or the sight of his messy brown curls on the pillow.

It feels like you are there with him. You want to be there with him.

But Sterling’s an enigma. He’s obviously wary of getting too close, too fast, and you don’t blame him.

So you play by his rules, and run the race at his speed.

Peter says your name in a way that indicates it’s not the first time he’s tried to get your attention.

“Sorry,” you say automatically.

“You know, not to beat a dead horse, but your contract is up at the end of this season. The Cyclones exercised their fifth-year option. Doubled your rookie contract. All well and good, but it’s time for your big-boy deal.”

“I haven’t forgotten that fact since the last three times we discussed it, Pete. Haven’t changed my mind. ”

He clears his throat, which is something he does when he’s about to put on his “official suit” voice.

“It’s my job as your agent to at least present you with the best deal possible.

I know Miami’s been good to you. But there are plenty of eyes watching.

You’re young. Healthy. Your next contract should be life-changing.

Tons of guaranteed money. I’ve gotten some discreet inquiries.

Nothing official, obviously. Just chatter over drinks, that kind of thing.

There’s plenty of interest. If you played your cards right, you could really cash in next year. ”

In the dying light, you examine your fingertips. Your skin is breaking around your nails. Your hands always take a beating. You think about Sterling’s soft skin, and wonder if you should get a manicure.

“I’m committed to the Cyclones,” you say. Not for the first time, or even the tenth. Every time this subject comes up, matter of fact. “I like it here. I like the culture.”

“What culture is there to like?” Peter asks, sounding amused.

“The clubs? The models? I know your life, Kai. You’re a homebody.

Some guys like the sun and the fun, but you aren’t one of them.

You’re just comfortable. Nothing wrong with that.

But sometimes you need to shake things up.

You’re a millionaire. We can get you comfortable somewhere else.

Los Angeles is a lot like Miami, weather-wise.

Arizona’s got that sun, too. I hear Dallas has a lot of culture. ”

You mentally catalog those cities in your head, figuring that they must be some of the teams showing interest. Good to know.

“There’s no state income tax in Florida,” you mention.

“I know you handle your money well, but I doubt you are really thinking about your taxes. You have a routine. You are close to your family. I get it. I’m just saying… there’s a big picture you aren’t looking at.”

“I don’t see myself changing my mind.”

“You know what your problem is, Kai? You’re a romantic.

Good quality in a boyfriend, bad quality in a football player whose agent is trying to score him a big payday.

” Peter laughs. “I’ll let you go. I need to hurry up and get out of my office to go sit in traffic on the freeway for an hour.

Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you.

And do not let anyone on the team know that you want to stay.

Your official word is that you are keeping your options open. ”

You promise that you won’t.