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NFA Star Kaius “The Train” Reinhart Injured -- SEE PHOTOS! (NSFW)

Overshadowing the news of Reinhart’s injury, which is a major blow to the Cyclones franchise, is the behavior of his partner, pop icon Sterling Grayson, which some critics have called “entitled” and “out of touch.” Grayson was filmed raising his voice at a female Cyclones team employee and even going so far as to demand to speak to head coach Larry Beausoleil as he repeatedly insisted that he be allowed to see Reinhart, who was being tended to by team staff.

When it was explained to Grayson that National Football Association rules prohibited him from being let into the player area, he shouted profanity at the employee and, according to a witness, “demanded special treatment.”

The bad publicity just keeps coming for Grayson, who is currently embroiled in a scandal involving Las Vegas Rogues player GoGo Heller.

Some of the negativity is being reflected on Reinhart, who has generally enjoyed a low-key and controversy-free tenure as a football player, both professionally and at the collegiate level before that.

Official Cyclones fan forums on the internet were filled with derisive comments concerning both Reinhart and Grayson.

This is a developing story. Stay tuned for more details…

***

Christopher Ellis: I have Miami’s D in fantasy and want to unalive myself. Can other owners relate?

Ford THE PIRATE KING: sucks to be you, man. your season’s over before it started. losing the train? so many points left on the table.

Mayella Vasco: I CAN RELATE TO STERLING GRAYSON I WANNA CRASH OUT RN

Bry’onne Bullen: Stock in J. Tamatoa is RISING, baby! My boy can hit! ::heart-eyes::

Audra Brickell: that’ss fugged up, @Bry’onne Bullen. Spoken like a TYPICAL terriers fan!

Jacob Stokes: You can’t even draft a LT in fantasy ::eye-roll::

Bry’onne Bullen: Not TALKING about fantasy! Just love that MAN!

Robert Garza: ---played 4D chess and managed to trade for Buffalo’s D as soon as Reinhart went down. I knew that hit was gonna take him out for weeks.

Cheryl Neighbors: @Robert Garza LUCKY

Austin Yola: I wanna draft Sterling Grayson’s bodyguard. Did you see him hit stick those bitches outside the stadium? Hahahahahahah

Petro Bennett: SERIOUSLY

[deleted]: Reinhart’s just getting what he deserves. F@ggots shouldn’t play football. They just get hurt.

Chaney Enlow: LOL who let Kurt Dettweiler on the fantasy forum?

Jacob Stokes: That’s fucked, [deleted].

Chrissy Chirolas: REPORTED

Jennifer Orozco: is he wrong, though?

[deleted]: REINHART IS A F@GGOT AND A STAR-FUCKER. HOPE HIS FUCKING brAIN LEAKS OUT OF HIS EARS.

Carolyn Poppham [MODERATOR]: Closing this discussion

***

Despite badly wanting to, you don’t linger at the hospital with Kai.

The press knows where he is, and, therefore, knows where you will be.

A veritable battalion of reporters and photographers are stationed on the campus sidewalks.

Your team braves the nightmare to get you in to see him at first, when he’s up in his room and resting, but Cal tells you in no uncertain terms that it’s the last time.

Also, again, you aren’t his family. His mom is there, crying and holding his hand, along with Aquila, one of his three older brothers.

You had the two of them flown in from Macon on your jet as soon as you got your shit together.

You’ve met her, but not Quill. They accept your place by his side, offering hugs and cups of coffee and inclusion in meetings with the medical staff, but you feel like an outsider all the same.

People keep staring at you. The nurses, the aides, the volunteers who deliver meals…

you are a freak show in this situation. You feel outsized and awkward.

And, so, when you kiss Kai’s forehead and go home, so late that night that it’s actually early the next morning, you know that you can’t go back.

Mrs. Reinhart (who you can’t manage to call Cherie, no matter how much she insists) has your personal number and has given her promises to call with any news, no matter how trivial.

Kai’s woozy and sleeping most of the time.

You convince yourself that he won’t miss you.

You, on the other hand, miss him like you’d miss your left hand.

Your nose. Your ankle. Something vital and attached to you.

Instead of having your driver take you to your gorgeous new home on the beach, you give him the address for Kai’s condo and let yourself in with your spare key.

You aren’t sure why he gave it to you, because you are almost never there.

In fact, you can count on one hand the amount of time you have spent any significant period of time at his place.

The key must have been one of those relationship markers that seemed important, because you have yet to even sleep over.

And, yet, turning the key in the lock, you are very, very grateful for Kai’s foresight or sentimentality, whichever one it was.

After walking you to the door, you dismiss your detail and stand alone in the foyer, contemplating what feels like every single small cog that makes the world turn.

Kai has a nice home. It’s not an American palace like some of the places you live, but you are not so removed from reality (no matter what haters might say) that you can’t appreciate a “normal” level of luxury.

Kai’s salary would more than pay for a more opulent place to lay his head, but you can appreciate the fact that he doesn’t want one.

He bought this place as a rookie, right after he bought the house a few streets over from his parents’ in Georgia.

It’s located in Midtown, situated between Edgewater and Wynwood.

A fashionable neighborhood, hot with mid-level influencers and finance bros.

Kai’s building glistens and soars 30 stories high, mirroring an identical residential tower separated by an immense, manicured courtyard.

His unit has two floors and overlooks the pool.

If you had to guess, it’s perhaps 1,600 square feet.

There are two bedrooms and two bathrooms upstairs.

One bedroom is his; the other is an office that you have only seen in the background of his FaceTime calls.

It’s not without luxuries: the appliances are all high-end, the floors are glossy tile and real hardwood, and the primary bathroom has both a soaking tub and a walk-in shower.

The building has a concierge, security, and a gated parking garage, the latter of which you were very grateful for when you came in. There are three balconies.

Feeling like a stranger, you wander around Kai’s space, breathing in the undercurrent of his cologne in the air.

You’ve never been here alone, and you feel a little bit like a creep.

Beyond the wall of individually-paned windows in the living room, you watch kids playing in the grass below.

Girls in Lululemon jog the grounds resolutely, ponytails swinging. It’s a sunny day. Kai should be here.

You have the most perverse urge to rustle through his bedroom.

If you were ever to admit it to him, he’d laugh at you and tell you to have at it, which is what makes it feel even more illicit.

Kai isn’t the type to keep secrets from you.

You aren’t expecting to find any bombshells among his possessions.

Secretly, sordidly, you indulge yourself.

You riffle through his walk-in closet, which is crammed full and wildly disorganized.

You open his drawers, discovering his hidden stash of sex toys.

You examine his toiletries, discovering with no small amount of pleasure that he’s taken to using the same moisturizer that you do.

You dig through his bedside drawer, where you find long-expired condoms, nail clippers, a cache of Disney World pressed pennies that you imagine came from his niblings, and a lanyard holding what you recognize as a VIP field pass from one of the many times he came and watched the Goalposts Tour.

Knowing Kai, you would imagine it’s the first one, from the night you played the Hard Rock when you guys were just getting to know each other.

A shiver runs down your spine, and you lay the lanyard carefully back in the drawer with a guilty conscience.

The Cartier bracelet you gave him last Christmas sits on a glazed black tray atop his dresser.

When you try it on your own wrist, it slides halfway down your forearm.