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“His eyes are open!” Jamie announces. You have no idea how she knows that (maybe they showed it on TV?), but you are choosing to trust her. Vainly, you wish for someone to move aside so that you can lay eyes on Kai. You only get glimpses between officials’ legs. Nothing that reassures you.

Someone rolls a wheeled stretcher onto the field.

When you finally—finally!—see him, your head reels.

His head and shoulders are immobilized against a backboard, his neck in a brace.

There is oxygen tubing in his nose. It takes three guys to get him onto the stretcher without danger, all tying down straps and fastening new ones.

His broad chest seems to heave as if he’s pulling deep breaths. His buzzed scalp is bare.

Kai’s upper arms are strapped down, but he raises his elbow fractionally and gives the crowd a weak thumbs-up as he is being wheeled off.

His hand rises ineffectively towards his face, like he’s trying to shield his eyes from the sunlight.

Through the window, you can hear the muted roar of the fans cheering for him.

Every one of them seems to be on their feet, the Cyclones and Terriers fans alike.

Two minutes later, as if nothing happened, the players and the coaches and the refs start resetting to continue the game.

The Terriers have a 15-yard penalty, and there’s an announcement that Tamatoa is being warned—another unsportsmanlike conduct penalty, and he’ll be ejected.

“That should have been an ejection by itself!” Jamie protests.

Your own legs are unsteady as you make your way to the back of the box and grab the closest security guy you see. “I need to get down to the athletic trainer’s room,” you tell him. “Please.”

The guy—his name is Brett; he’s a newer recruit to your team—frowns. “Cal told us that you’re not to leave the suite until the game is over, Mister Grayson,” he says.

“I don’t care.”

Brett frowns, and covers his ear to murmur into his earpiece. Beside him, Juarez shakes his head.

“It’s a no-go, sir,” he says. “Safety issues. We’re under orders…”

“Cal says he’ll be right up, sir,” Brett breaks in. “He was downstairs, but he’s heading back right now.”

If Cal comes up here, you are never leaving this box. You make a split-second decision.

“Tell Cal I went down to the field level,” you announce, swinging the door open.

Brett and Juarez simultaneously step towards you. “Sir!” Juarez says. “Cal says…”

“Cal doesn’t sign your paychecks,” you say tightly. “I do. You can either come with me or not, but I’m leaving.”

Somehow—they are big guys, and you are walking very fast—they fall into formation around you, front, back, and sides, as you hustle for the elevator that will take you downstairs.

You’ve spent quite a bit of time at the stadium since you started dating Kai, and, in calm moments, you probably know where you are going, but it takes a few wrong turns before you get your bearings and successfully cross from the public section of the Hard Rock and arrive at the out-of-the-way locked door that leads to the player areas.

For a few, terrifying moments, you were out on the concourse, with normal fans milling around you.

“Is that Sterling Grayson?” you hear a voice shriek. “Oh my god! Sterling…”

All the people are, thankfully, removed from you by an AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY sign and a hallway. They could have, technically, followed you, but nobody did.

You bang on the door aggressively with your fist. Bang, bang, bang. There’s no answer. You have the sudden, irrational wish that you had a weapon, like in the movies. Like you could just blow the lock off the door. (Your bodyguards normally carry guns, but they aren’t allowed in the stadium.)

Again, you rap on the door, hard enough that it hurts. “Excuse me?” you yell, not caring who hears. “Excuse me? I need help, please!”

An older man in a security guard’s uniform opens the door, looking visibly irritated.

“You’re not allowed…” he begins. Notices your detail, all of whom are over six feet tall and 250 pounds apiece. “Umm. What are you doing here, young man?”

“Kaius Reinhart is my partner,” you say, trying to tamp down the rising hysteria in your voice. “He got injured. I believe they are taking him to the athletic trainer’s room? I need to get in there, please.”

He sucks on his teeth. “Partner?” he repeats. “You his family?”

Subconsciously, your fingers clench and crack your knuckles. “My name is Sterling Grayson,” you say tensely. “I’m his boyfriend. Please show me where he is.”

The man shakes his head. “No can do, son. Nobody’s allowed back there, except family if it’s an emergency.”

“It is an emergency!” you say, unable to keep your voice from rising. “He nearly got his head knocked off on the field just now!”

The old man nods thoughtfully. Adjusts the bill of his black baseball cap. “I’m going to get you someone who can help you,” he announces finally. “This one’s above my pay grade. You stay here.”

“Please don’t…” you start, but he ignores you and shuts the door.

Frustration is making your vision spotty around the edges.

You wish you didn’t have five guys breathing down your fucking neck.

You wish you had just pushed past the old guy and opened doors until you found Kai.

He’s back there! Biting your lip, you force your eyes closed.

Suck a ragged breath in through your nose, trying to hold it, and then blow it out of your mouth. Repeat this three times.

“Yes, sir,” Juarez says from behind you.

Without looking, you can tell he’s speaking into his earpiece.

“I know, sir. We’re down outside the entrance to the player area, on field level.

Fastest way down would be to track him; it’s a bit confusing.

Yes, sir, I know . I kn… I’m aware of the concerns. He didn’t give us a choice, sir.”

It’s irrationally gratifying to you that Cal must be chewing Juarez’s ass.

You can imagine your head of security up in the suite, looming like an immense, black-suited shadow, growling at all the blonde ladies up in the box with their effortless curls and their Louboutin heels and their collective cloud of Jo Malone and Portrait of a Lady.

Their manicured hands with their six-carat diamonds flapping uselessly at his demands.

It’s perverse, but misery obviously loves company.

“Cal is coming,” Juarez announces redundantly, because obviously Cal is coming. Well. He’ll have to pick you up and carry you kicking and screaming through the crowds if he wants you elsewhere. You aren’t moving.

Anxiety and hatred for the human race are seething through your veins when the door opens and a tall woman with a hard face stares you down.

She has a walkie on a belt at her waist, and she’s wearing a polo shirt with Miami Cyclones Athletic Training embroidered on the breast. Her eyes are rimmed in unfashionable black eyeliner, and there’s a wad of gum stuck in her cheek.

“Mister Grayson,” she says. “My name is Michelle Venzino. I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“I want to see Kai,” you say, summoning all the authority you can muster.

She nods. “Yeah. I’ve gathered that. Unfortunately, Mister Grayson, I can’t let you back there. The NFA is very strict about protocol in these situations, and you aren’t listed in Reinhart’s file as a next-of-kin or emergency contact.”

“I’m his partner!” you interject furiously. “Nobody else is here for him!”

“I know who you are,” she says dryly. “Unfortunately, it’s out of my hands. I’m not the one making the call here. I’m not trying to single you out. We’re in touch with his family, of course. It’s just a black-and-white situation.”

“This isn’t a normal fucking situation!” The outburst happens before you can hold it back.

She raises an eyebrow, but says nothing. The silence speaks volumes. Anger and a sense of mounting futility and vying for space in your overcrowded skull, beating against your temples. You can feel yourself gritting your teeth.

“I’m sorry, Ms. Venzino,” you grit out tersely. “But is there someone else I can talk to?”

She blinks at you, and her lashes, which are glued together by dry, thick caked-on mascara, flutter like spider legs. “Who would you like to talk to, exactly?”

It’s as if a team of Clydesdale horses are tap-dancing across your skull. “I want to talk to Coach Beausoleil.”

She barks out a laugh. “Mister Grayson, please don’t take this the wrong way…”

You are fully prepared to take it the wrong way.

“...But this isn’t some mucky-muck Hollywood restaurant where you can speak to the manager and stomp your foot and kick up a fuss.

Coach Beausoleil is on the field . Coaching a professional football game .

Even if he wanted to disrupt the game that two million people are watching at home, he couldn’t change the rules, either.

I’m afraid there’s nothing you can do here, Mister Grayson.

I’m going to have to ask you to clear the corridor. ”

If you didn’t know better, you’d swear that she was enjoying this.

Fifteen years of media training, combined with your innate Yankee emotional control, are about to fly out the fucking window.

You aren’t sure whether you are going to pass out or throw yourself on the sticky concrete floor like a toddler.

Just when your throbbing headache is about to make the decision for you, Brett—Brett!

That absolute angel!—reaches over your shoulder and grabs the door that Michelle is about to slam in your face.

“Are you taking Reinhart to the hospital, ma’am?” he asks.

“Yes,” she says. “The ambulance is on its way.”

“What hospital?” Brett asks.

“I’m not at liberty to…”

“They can’t stop you from following the ambulance,” Brett says, turning to you. “Thank you, ma’am. You’ve been so helpful.”

You are about to thank Brett from the bottom of your heart when the unmistakable sound of Cal’s size-17 Toscana Italian leather dress shoes approaching catches your attention. You lower your shoulders and prepare to defend yourself against the onslaught of your head bodyguard’s wrath.

“Cal,” you start. “I’ll explain later. We’ve got to…”

“You’ve got problems,” he announces flatly. Which wasn’t what you were expecting at all. You must be looking at him blankly, dumb with anxiety and stress, when he hitches a thumb over his shoulder and turns sideways so you can look down the hallway behind his massive body.

Your eyes track the length of the hall slowly, and stop in horror when you see what he was indicating.

A knot of people are gathered at the other end, some standing on tiptoes to gawk over one another.

Maybe a dozen of them, all in the dark glasses and schlubby clothes that scream paparazzi .

They have cameras with extended lenses and there are even two boom mics.

Strangely, they are silent, as if they don’t want to disturb the show that you have just put on for them.

Where did they come from?

Did they buy tickets to the fucking game?

DID THEY JUST SEE EVERYTHING?

…this is gonna be bad.

“Oh, fuck,” you mumble. Distantly, you hear the sound of the approaching ambulance coming for Kai—the ambulance that you are definitely going to miss.