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A Special MiamiCyclones.com Report

Jamie Covelli extensively documented her pregnancy journey on her Instagram and TikTok accounts, where the fitness influencer snapped OOTDs flaunting her maternity fashion and recommended workouts for expectant moms trying to stay strong and healthy.

She shared her preparation for a home birth, clapping back at critics who suggested that her plans were selfish.

“Women labored at home for thousands of years before hospitals,” she said in an August post. “It’s only fear that holds us back.”

We grabbed a few fans buying merch at Hard Rock Stadium’s pro shop and asked them how they felt about the Covellis’ baby news.

“That’s going to be one attractive kid,” said Eli Calafiore of Homestead, who quickly corrected himself. “Genetically-gifted, I mean. Not to sound like a creep! Just that, two good-looking people probably made a pretty baby. Happy for them.”

“Congrats to the Covellis!” enthused Kayla Higgins, a local. “Don’t hurt your throwing shoulder again picking up that giant baby, Jamie.”

Another fan, who was browsing a rack of clearance t-shirts, asked to remain anonymous. “I don’t really like kids. Ha. Honestly, though, it’s just good to hear about someone other than the Train,” he opined. “Just kidding. Get well soon, bro. Enjoy the ball and chain, Covelli.”

Personally, we can’t wait for Sandro and Jamie to share more baby pictures! When they do, you can bet that we’ll be posting updates!

***

It’s weird to be at a Cyclones game with Kai beside you.

First of all, it’s an away game, which you generally don’t attend.

The good thing about that is that nobody’s really paying attention to Kai when he enters Lincoln Financial Field through a back entrance.

The photographers aren’t expecting him. He’s just another traveling fan, albeit a really big one, dressed down in a Cyclones t-shirt and jeans.

The lack of facial hair makes him hard to clock, too.

Beside him, you’re trying to manifest invisible vibes.

Honestly, wearing a bag over your head doesn’t sound too bad, these days.

You manage to convince Cal and the other guys to hang back a little bit so it isn’t overtly obvious that you and Kai have your own mini-army trailing you.

Nobody screams your name on the way up to the suite, so that’s something, at least.

The VIP box is being hosted by Sheldon Cabot, who holds the title of arguably the biggest Philadelphia Raptors superfan in Hollywood.

You’ve seen him in passing at red carpets over the last ten years, but he’s maybe even more handsome in person than on the big screen: a full head of dark-brown hair, sparkling hazel eyes, and a face that’s undoubtedly seen a bit of work—you’re pretty sure he’s about 50—but radiates rugged handsomeness.

He greets you congenially, but his eyes really light up when he slaps Kai on the back.

“The Train!” he cries. “Damn, man, it’s good to see you moving around. How are you feeling? How’s that head doing? No offense, but I’m glad you’re hanging out with me instead of beating my guys up on the field.”

Kai, who is always a tiny bit awkward around famous people, gives Sheldon a half-smile. “Not too bad.”

That’s an enormous falsehood. It took maxing out the doses of two different OTC pain relievers and lying down in the bedroom of your jet with the lights off and an ice pack on his neck to get him to this game, and you’re not sure how long he’s realistically going to last. Sheldon is staring at Kai like the teenager in a princess dress who put in an appearance at a six-year-old girl’s birthday party.

“ So glad to have you!” he enthuses. It’s aimed at both of you, but mostly at Kai. “We’ve got food, drinks, the whole nine. Who’s ready to smoke Miami?”

The question elicits a loud cheer from the other 12–15 people in the box, all of whom are celebrities of varying prominence.

Despite the fact that this should, in theory, be your comfort zone, you feel distinctly put out.

You came here to support Kai watching his team, not to rub elbows with your peers.

You don’t actually know how you ended up there—the invite had come through Kai’s team, and you accepted because he wanted to go to the game.

In retrospect, you should have shelled out five figures and procured your own box.

It would have been a small price to pay not to have to hug, smile at, and talk with what feels like every single person in the room before you two find your seats, right up against the glass.

“You want something to eat?” you ask him. “We haven’t had lunch.”

His eyes are already glued to the field, despite the fact that only the pre-game stuff is happening. They haven’t even sung the anthem.

“You go have something,” he says, distracted. “I’m not hungry.”

You’ve never seen Kai so hyper-focused on anything. Then again, you’ve never actually watched football with Kai.

The suite is set up a little differently from the ones in Miami.

Behind the double rows of seats at the window, there are high tables facing the glass.

In the middle of the room, comfy chairs are arranged in pairs aimed at the big plasma TVs on the walls.

Along the back wall, there’s a wet bar and a long counter covered in a buffet of finger foods, along with a full-sized fridge.

Peeking inside, you see that it’s stocked with sparkling water, hard seltzers, and bottled beer.

You’re trying to run the calculus on how many seltzers it would take to make you less unhappy about being here as opposed to how many you can get away with downing and still be a good boyfriend, given the fact that Kai isn’t supposed to be drinking alcohol in his current state.

Maybe the contemplation gets you well and truly distracted, because you don’t hear Sophie Aziz until she’s right behind you.

“Ster!” she purrs. “It’s been, like, forever .”

Knowing in an instant that you will need to be fortified for this conversation, you grab a can from the fridge and close it as you turn around. “Hey, Soph,” you say, leaning in so she can kiss the air over both your cheeks. “What are you doing here?”

She rolls her eyes. There have been songs written about them; so very many that you’ve lost track. It’s true that they are striking, the color of a winter sky. Is that how the guy from One Direction put it? Or was it John Mayer? You can’t remember.

“I’m here with Sheldon,” she says. “I’ve gotta be honest with you; I know nothing about football.”

“You’re here with Sheldon?” you repeat blankly. “Like, here? Together?”

Her lips curve. “Babe, don’t you follow the gossip? I figured that you’d be more current on this stuff. We’ve been officially dating since the Met Gala. Three months before that, too, just on the DL.”

Your mind whirs. It’s September; the Met Gala is always the first Monday in May. That’s almost half a year. Sheldon is around 50, and you attended Sophie’s 25th birthday party… just a few years ago?

It’s like she can read your mind. “Don’t tell me that you of all people are going to get prudish on me,” she sighs. “Age really is just a number, especially when you live the kind of lifestyle we do.”

You pull the tab on your can and put it to your lips. “Sorry. I absolutely wasn’t implying anything negative. I’m very happy for you both.”

“Thanks,” she says, absently twirling the diamond-studded S on her necklace. “Speaking of the gossip… what the absolute fuck is going on with you ?”

“Excuse me?” you manage, as the fizziness of the drink hits what feels like a roadblock in your throat. Sophie waits politely until you’ve stopped coughing.

“Oh, you know.” She wiggles her fingers for dramatic effect. “You’ve always been so pure, know what I mean? So worried about your reputation. It’s your first big scandal. Everyone hates your guts. How’s that treating you?”

There is not enough alcohol in the world for this conversation, especially not in the strawberry-guava bitch beer that doesn’t even burn going down. Her blasé tone and pronounced vocal fry go right through you like a knife to the skull.

“Can’t say that I’m loving it,” you say. You are aiming for “breezy,” but your tone settles on “ill-disposed.” Your fingers are denting the can where you are holding it too hard.

Sophie clicks her tongue. “Don’t sweat it so much.

Do you know how many times my sister and I have been cancelled?

People eventually forget it and move on.

It’s not like you killed somebody. I mean, Mark Wahlberg beat the shit out of two Asian guys and got nominated for an Oscar. Your fans will get over it.”

“Soph,” you say between gritted teeth, “you and Izzy literally wore blackface in a magazine shoot, and you’ve crashed your car in a pedestrian plaza while you were fucked up on cocaine and vodka. I didn’t do anything.”

She frowns. “That’s kind of mean of you to bring up, honestly. I’m just trying to make you feel better, since you are obviously all kinds of pressed about it. God, Ster. Maybe consider getting over yourself?”

She flits away before you can respond. You know Sophie well enough to realize she won’t stay mad (and thank god, because how many more people can you piss off?), but the interaction still galls you.

You down the rest of the can and grab another before making your way back to Kai.

While you were occupied, the two teams were introduced and ran out of their respective tunnels.

You’re surprised that he glances at you when you sit down.

“I thought you were getting food?” he asks.

“Didn’t see anything I wanted,” you demur.

The team captains meet in the center of the field for the coin toss. Kai should be there with them, but, instead, he’s watching carefully, his nose all but pressed to the window. Miami wins the toss and defers. The defense takes the field. You lace your fingers with his.