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Marissa is blushing. She gestures with the duster. “I usually change the sheets, clean the bathroom, and wash the floors,” she says. “That’s every week, but I was going to dust the baseboards.”

“Okay,” you say. “His mom just changed the sheets, but I will clear out so you can do the rest.” You see her eyes track over to Kai on the bed.

“Don’t worry about him. He hurt his head and could sleep through a train running through the middle of the house right now.

I’ll be downstairs if you need anything. ”

She looks relieved at you leaving, which you fully understand.

Down in the kitchen, you check in with some phone calls and purposely avoid your news alerts. It’s maybe 45 minutes later that Marissa comes downstairs.

“It’s all done,” she says. “You were right. He didn’t wake up. Actually, that’s kind of strange. Will he be okay?”

“Eventually,” you tell her, touched by her concern. “Have you worked for Kai for very long?”

“A few years, now,” she says. “He’s great.”

“Yup. He definitely is.”

Marissa lingers a moment at the bottom of the stairs. “I, umm. This is really awkward. Please feel free to tell me off…”

“I won’t tell you off,” you promise, having an idea what is coming.

“I would normally never say anything, but my little sister’s birthday is coming up, and she’s a huge, huge Grayling,” Marissa says shyly. “Do you think I could have an autograph? I don’t want to over-step…”

You cut her off with a smile. “What’s her name?”

“My sister?” Marissa asks. “Lily. Lily Crocker.”

There’s a spiral-bound notebook on the table that you’ve been using to scribble notes between phone calls, and you push it in her direction.

“Give me Lily’s contact information,” you say.

“Address and phone number. I’ll have my merch team send her a special birthday package and sign a card for her myself.

Make sure you put down what size she prefers in shirts and hoodies. ”

Marissa’s eyes light up. “Oh my god… are you serious? She’ll absolutely lose her mind.”

“Yeah, definitely,” you say.

When Marissa leaves, you have already sent the email ordering Lily several hundred dollars in gifts from your online store. You’ve set a memo in your phone to remind you to get your hands on a birthday card.

That evening, following the doctors’ orders, you and Kai take a walk.

It requires waiting until the sun goes down, not only because Florida in September really is a hellhole, but also because of the sunlight that not even Kai’s sunglasses can block out, and three members of security following you guys at a discreet distance, but you are just happy to be breathing fresh air.

You are wearing an enormous hat and sunglasses. Kai is a little harder to disguise, given that his tall, muscle-bound build definitely does not blend into a crowd, but he’s dressed down in cargo shorts and a backwards baseball cap.

The two of you stick to the side streets, avoiding the traffic and crowds on Biscayne Boulevard.

It’s a couple of blocks from the ocean, but the scent of salt hangs heavy in the air, which is sweltering and humid even at eight at night.

Brett, Juarez, and Jordan hang back. Walking hand-in-hand with Kai, it’s almost enough to be able to sink into the fantasy that this is all normal.

That you are the kind of person who can just stroll with your lover in public without inciting a riot.

“Anything new on your house in New York?” Kai asks, out of nowhere.

At first, you don’t hear him. You are absently counting things, which is something you do subconsciously when you zone out: swaying palm trees on the shaded sidewalk, luxury cars in a sandy lot, stories on a soaring condo tower.

“Ster?” Kai presses.

“I didn’t… what do you mean?” you ask suspiciously, snapping back to reality.

“The mob and the rock-throwing. Did they charge the assholes?”

You blink rapidly. “How did you hear about that?”

He gazes down at you and furrows his brow. “They didn’t take away my access to the internet when I was out of town at that second preseason game. Don’t know why I read about it on Google News and didn’t hear it from you, though.”

“It’s fine. It’s not worth talking about.”

Most people who interact with you would respect that for the warning that it is, but Kai doesn’t seem to care. “You sure about that?” he asks.

“Cal has it under control. It’s fine ,” you repeat, sharper than you really should.

“You ever think about the future?” he asks, apropos of nothing.

It’s a merciful change of topic, however random. “All the time,” you answer honestly.

“What does that look like for you?”

“In what sense?”

Kai shrugs. “I want to be in Canton one day. It’s not as easy for defense as it is for QBs and running backs. When I was in high school, I wanted to play college ball. When I got to college, I wanted the Association. Now, I want the Hall of Fame.”

Ah. Goals. This is actually something you could talk about for hours.

You have whole spreadsheets of goals broken down into short-term, medium-term, and long-term, and you’ve mentally assessed the probability of each one happening.

You could tell Kai about your hopes that Golden gets back to number one, or how you’d like to direct a movie one day.

But, instead, you choose a big one. One that’s in line with what he just shared.

“I want an EGOT,” you tell him.

He looks confused. “The guy from Ghostbusters? ”

“No, that’s Egon. An EGOT. It’s an Emmy, a Grammy, an Oscar, and a Tony Award. Someone who’s won all of them.”

“I see.” Kai tilts his face towards the moon, which is rising overhead. “You’ve got some of those already, right?”

“I have 12 Grammys,” you say. “And I won an Emmy for my performance in a Johnny Cash retrospective a few years ago. I’ve been nominated for an Oscar twice for soundtracks, but that one keeps getting away. A Tony, though? That’s going to be tough.”

“Sounds like it,” he agrees. “Tonys are for Broadway, right?”

“Yes. Some people get them for producing a show, but I would like to write one someday.”

“Don’t you already have a lot going on?” He laughs loud enough that you’re pretty sure your detail can hear. “Don’t know when you’ll fit in writing a play.”

You swing his hand in yours. “Well. Most people don’t get an EGOT until they are older. I have a lot of time.”

“That’s something,” Kai says. “Are there a lot of people who do that?”

“Get EGOT status?” you say. “No. Not too many at all.”

He nods sagely. “Going down in history,” he says. “I like it. Something that the great-grandkids can brag about.”

You look at him sidelong. “You want kids one day?”

A smile splits his face. “Oh, yeah. At least two. Maybe three? Four? I dunno. I like kids a lot.”

“I like them too,” you admit. “Maybe not four , though. I think I’d have one and then wait a few years to see how things were going.”

Kai shrugs. “Kids need brothers and sisters,” he opines. “Keeps ‘em from getting spoiled. At least, brothers do that. I wouldn’t know about sisters.”

“No, sisters do it too.” Your mouth quirks up at the mention of Noemi, to whom you’ll never be famous.

Or anything greater than her pain-in-the-ass little brother, honestly.

And then, thinking about Noemi: “My sister has already told me that she’d be a surrogate for me. If I wanted children one day.”

“Yeah?” Kai looks at you with fresh interest. “That’s good to know.”

He doesn’t say more on the topic, but it’s enough.

Your mind bolts out of the proverbial gates like a racehorse at Churchill Downs, chasing the idea of little boys and girls that look like a mixture of you and Kai.

Curly hair, tan skin. They’d be tall, you decide.

Tall and strong. Sweet like Kai, and stubborn like you.

Little giggles rising into the hot air on a summer night as bare feet slide on the grass and run through sprinklers.

(It feels realistic . Realer than just a daydream)

It’s past nine when you guys return to Kai’s condo, and you promise the guys that you will stay in for the night.

Kai collapses onto the couch, but you are strangely wired.

You have to coax him into a quick shower to wash off the sweat, even though all you guys did was walk a couple of miles.

Indian summer in Florida truly does not play around.

After, he’s a starfish on his white sheets, the fan turned on full blast and the thermostat at a brisk 68 degrees.

You consider him as you pull on a pair of light pajamas.

“How’s your head?” you ask him.

“Been worse. Also been better, but I can’t complain too much,” he rumbles.

That’s the kind of answer you were looking for.

There’s an idea that’s been bubbling in your mind since earlier today, an idea that’s half-inspired by the fact that you guys haven’t had sex since before his injury, and half-inspired by your newfound passion for taking care of him.

You grab your phone off its dock on the dresser and toss it down beside you when you cuddle up close to his body.

“I want to make you feel good,” you murmur, running a hand over his broad chest.

His eyelids flutter. “Being with you feels good,” he replies drowsily. “I like all these sleepovers. Gonna spoil me.”

“I like it, too,” you say. “But, I mean…” You slide your palm down his taut abs and over the bulge in his boxer briefs, which is soft. “I want to make you feel good. ”

There’s a flash of his white teeth in the darkness, which is illuminated only by a lamp on the nightstand that’s had a 40-watt bulb switched out for the brighter one that used to be there. “I hope you don’t have any big ideas,” he says. “I don’t know if I’m up for it.”