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Your new place in Miami—the one on the end, not the buffer unit—is ready for you to move in just in time for the start of the NFA preseason. The renovations next door are noisy and not exactly pleasant to be around, but it’s worth it to be close to Kaius for the first home preseason game.

It’s been so good having Kai around all spring and summer that you almost forgot how busy his life is at this time of year.

You have to get used to lots of rushed texts between drills and late-night dinners together after long practices, taking your quality time in bits and pieces.

Between bites of sushi eaten at your kitchen bar, Miami Beach dark outside your windows, he feeds you team gossip.

“That’s the third time you’ve mentioned Derrick,” you observe, grabbing a piece of sake nigiri with your chopsticks. The tuna glistens plump and red in the low light, reminding you for the umpteenth time how great it is that your boyfriend knows all the best spots to eat in the city.

“Is it?” Kai asks absently. He’s trying to nudge the world’s tiniest dollop of wasabi with his own chopsticks, since the man can not handle spice. “Sorry. He’s always talking to me lately. Guess some of it rubbed off.”

“It’s no big deal,” you say, because it’s not.

Here’s what you know about Derrick Honeybone: he’s a free agent, which means that he transferred from another team at the end of his contract.

In this case, it was the Dallas Pistols.

He’s the veteran wide receiver that will cover GoGo’s vacated position while Nyko is learning the ropes this season and gathering pro experience.

Derrick is actually a second-generation NFA player; his dad is in the Hall of Fame.

He played college ball in Miami, so this is something of a homecoming for him.

He came back for the weather, the party scene, and the winning culture.

All this, you gleaned from conversations with Kaius and from the late-night Google rabbit hole that you went down when you wanted a look at Derrick’s appearance.

The guy is, objectively, handsome: 6’1” and lean, with tousled dark brown hair and big green eyes.

Hearing about Derrick disconcerts you, although you have no rational idea why.

Nothing Kai has told you has been untoward.

You have every reason to suspect that Kai is the faithful sort.

Besides which, you are too jaded for insecurity.

It’s an unattractive, petty, pointless emotion.

You’ve never been jealous a day in your life; you aren’t going to start now.

“Never mind,” you say to Kai. And then, before he can comment on it, “How is your California roll? Can I have a piece?”

When the Cyclones take the field at the first preseason game, there’s a golden “C” on the breast of Kai’s jersey, and your heart swells with pride.

Despite it only being an exhibition game, the stands are full.

The starters aren’t even playing most of the game, but you crane your head for glimpses of Kai on the sidelines.

The cameras are always on you. You make heart-hands in their direction; you try not to imagine the reporters referring to you as “disgraced superstar Sterling Grayson.”

Thankfully, the Cyclones’ wives and girlfriends are as warm as ever, at least to your face.

Jamie is their queen, and she’s just the best: sitting right beside you, thighs touching as she cradles her bump and yells obscenities at the visiting team that are thankfully inaudible behind the thick pane of glass.

She’s round as a globe and seems almost unbearably fragile to you, but she smothers you in bone-crushing hugs and presses your palms to her belly so you can feel the baby kick.

The world doesn’t know, but you do: it’s a boy, and Sandy is over the moon.

She snaps selfies of you two, and you help her select one for her Insta: your cheek pressed against hers, your eyes closed and lips pursed as they pucker for a smooch.

You suggest the caption: let’s hear it for our boys.

Jameson’s new girl is up in the box. You haven’t been directly introduced, but you think her name is Gala.

Gaia? Something to that effect. You’re no longer the new WAG on the block, but you admire her cool self-assurance.

The way her long nails click the screen of her phone, the dimples in her cheeks when she presses against the glass and snaps cute pictures for social media.

She’s been sneaking glances at you, which is something you are very familiar with, but she hasn’t come to say hello, and you aren’t sure if you are allowed to fraternize with the significant other of someone that your partner can’t stand.

So you smile in her direction but keep it distant.

You sit in your cushioned seat and remember that leather pants are hell to relax in.

You scream and jump up when Kai makes a sack, even though it doesn’t count for anything at this point. You try to remember to breathe.

***

A week later, the tabloids light up with headlines claiming that “sources” have revealed that you are a nightmare to work with.

“He’s a total diva bitch behind the scenes,” you read out loud, your inflection flat.

“ I’d say that fame went to his head, but he’s been this way since he got started.

Treats his help like shit, insists that waiters avoid eye contact with him at restaurants.

You know the type. Some people just think that they are better than the peons that keep them famous . ”

Maeve’s on the other end of the couch, her pretty face screwed up in a frown. She’s holding the herbal tea that you brewed for both of you, her small hands somehow managing to grip the hot mug without complaint. “Sounds like a smear job,” she comments. “That has GoGo and Gabi all over it.”

You groan, flinging your phone onto the table in front of you.

“Whomever it was, they knew exactly what to say. I’ve always tried so hard to stay humble and treat people right.

But that’s what the public wants to hear.

They want to think that I’m a monster. They already believe that I stomp on the little guys, so why not also believe that I’m…

I’m…” Frustration catches your tongue. The tea is too hot.

You take a sip and scald the roof of your mouth.

Unable to help yourself, you pick your phone back up again.

“A total diva bitch ,” Maeve finishes gravely. “Ster, you and I both know it’s not true. Nobody knows it better than me. I’ve been working for you for years. I could have hopped to a new position so many times by now, but I don’t want to. You’re a joy to work for.”

“Graham tweeted a response,” you comment. “Zhay, too. Oh, god. Frish made a post.”

“You know it’s bullshit when the head of your record label feels the need to intervene,” Maeve says.

“He’s getting slammed,” you sigh. “They’re calling him a clueless Zionist, an out-of-touch Boomer, and a simp.”

Maeve looks affronted. “The man is a legend. The absolute disrespect.”

“They’re using racial slurs on Zhavia and homophobic ones on Graham,” you note, horrified. “Fuck. I have to text them.”

“Text them what?” Maeve asks. “I don’t know anything you can say that would make it better. These people are all grown adults. They made their decision to say something, knowing full well what might happen with all the crazies out there. Don’t undermine them.”

You shake your head. “I don’t need the help. Not at the cost of poisoning everyone around me. I need to tell everyone in my contacts to just stay quiet. I don’t want them defending me and getting all this hatred.”

Maeve sets her tea down firmly . You’re half-afraid that the mug is going to crack under the stress.

“You deserve some kindness too, Sterling,” she tells you. “People can’t just sling shit at you until they get bored. I don’t even have public social media, and I feel compelled to say something.”

“Please don’t,” you say. Compulsively, you put your phone down again. Scrub your eyes with your hands.

She takes a quick sip of her tea. It’s still very, very hot. The woman must be the Khaleesi of the nonexistent Manhattan grass sea, getting ready to incubate dragons or something. The thought isn’t enough to wipe the scowl off your face.

“You can’t tell me what to do,” she says patiently. “Just like you can’t tell Frish or Graham or Zhay what to do.”

“I can tell you what to do, because I’m your boss,” you snap irritably. Immediately, you regret the words. An apology dies on your lips when Maeve just looks at you over the lip of her mug, her eyes pitying.

“I’ll let you get away with that once ,” she tells you simply. “Why don’t you call your therapist? It’s been a couple of weeks, hasn’t it?”

It has been a couple of weeks since you’ve spoken with Blair, but that thought does nothing for you.

Telehealth really isn’t your jam—you find it hard to be present in a session on the opposite side of a laptop, which isn’t her fault, but you can’t fathom flying to New York every time you need an appointment.

That’s excessive even for you, regardless of what haters will say about your jet-setting tendencies.

Right now, you want to be in Miami. (You want to be near Kaius, but you would swear to anyone else that’s not the reason why.)

“She’s on sabbatical,” you lie smoothly. “I’m catching up with her in a few weeks.”

You hate being dishonest with Maeve, plus it usually doesn’t work out in your favor, because the woman has what the seminal 90s rock band Cake called a mind like a diamond. She won’t forget this conversation, but it allows you to kick that particular can down the road for a while.

“How’s your writing going?” she presses. “That’s always a great outlet for you.”