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“Who’s playing your position?” you ask Kai, realizing belatedly that you probably should know that.

“Hmm?” he asks. “Looks like they’re putting Books in. ‘S a good choice.”

The jersey of the player lined up in Kai’s spot on the outside of the offensive tackles doesn’t say “Books.” He notices your confusion.

“He graduated from Harvard,” he offers. “Not really a big football school. So, he’s Books. Sometimes Ivy . Depends on the day.”

According to the commenters, who are serendipitously discussing this very topic, Books’ real name is James Wainwright III.

He’s tall and lean: 6’5”, 220 pounds. In his official picture, he looks young.

Even for a rookie. Pale, with sandy hair and a gap-toothed grin that makes him look about 15. Maybe you’re just getting old.

The first possession is unremarkable. Philly gets one first down straight out of the gate, but Miami stalls them after that.

“The defense looks good, my man!” Sheldon hollers at Kai. “Y’all better knock it off!”

“I think he’s drunk,” you whisper to Kai, leaning in. “And the game just started.”

Kai doesn’t respond, but reaches over and grabs your hand.

All of a sudden, the crowd starts booing. Loudly. At first, you think that it’s because Miami is taking the field for the first time—the home crowd at the Linc is notoriously hostile to visitors—but, looking out at the stands below you, people are looking at you.

“Aw, fuck,” Kai mutters, speaking up for the first time since kickoff.

The image of you and Kai pressed against each other and glancing over the action is reflected on the Jumbotrons at each end zone, 27 feet tall by 160 feet wide.

Injured Miami Cyclones player Kaius “The Train” Reinhart and Grammy-Winning Superstar Sterling Grayson, the chyron reads.

You will your face to relax. Not to look around furiously for the cameras.

Kai calmly waves to the crowd. Immediately in front of you, a few folks wave back.

“They’re just pissed because you’re the competition,” Sheldon comments. “No big.”

“They’re pissed because it’s me ,” you say under your breath. You keep your eyes lowered, trying not to make it obvious that you are staring at the screen and counting the moments until something else is projected on it. Anything else. You take a sip of your drink. Sit very still.

“Gotta love that Philly energy!” Sheldon says. “Don’t take it personal, Sterling. These are the same guys who threw snowballs at Santa Claus one winter. There’s a reason it’s the only stadium in the NFA with a jail cell in the basement. It’s all meant with love.”

The jeers in your direction and the accompanying middle fingers don’t feel very fraternal from the so-called City of Brotherly Love, but you bite your tongue.

Luckily, the fans are soon distracted. On the field, Sandy and the offense are on the march.

At midfield, on a second down and three, he makes a gorgeous throw.

Derrick runs it down to about the 10. On the next drive, Philly’s defense wakes up and stops the Cyclones from progressing.

Dettweiler kicks a field goal. It’s only three points, but Miami’s on the board.

“Come the fuck on!” Sheldon moans. “You guys !”

Kai leans forward when the defense comes back on.

On the second play, Books sacks Philly’s QB, and the Raptors lose five yards.

Miami gets flagged for pass interference, and Philly gains 22 yards because it’s a spot-of-the-foul penalty.

You really want to get another drink, but Kai looks tense, and you feel irrationally bad about the thought of leaving him.

In his heart, you know, he’s down on that field with his teammates instead of sweating it out in an air-conditioned suite.

He cracks his knuckles; Philly gets a touchdown.

The amount of hooting and hollering from Sheldon is absolutely ludicrous.

Another guy in the suite, an actor on a hot Netflix title, groans out loud.

“Come the fuck on, Cabot. It’s seven points.”

Sheldon’s behind you, but you can hear the ire in his voice.

“Fuck off, man . You don’t like a little celebration? Get the hell outta my box.”

You bite your lip, almost hard enough to bleed. If there’s one blessing, it’s that Kai is either completely ignoring or completely oblivious to Sheldon’s noise. He’s as much in the zone as if he were on the sidelines, totally focused on the game.

By halftime, a few things are clear. First of all, you are never hanging out with Sheldon Cabot again.

Miami scored twice in the second quarter, and he got sulky, shutting up completely when the lead hit double-digits.

Even after you slipped away to get a third seltzer, you aren’t even close to tipsy enough to put up with his mood swings.

Secondly, Books, Ivy, or James Wainwright III, whatever you want to call him, is good.

One of the Cyclone’s TDs came from a strip sack that the kid forced, causing a fumble recovered for a defensive score.

He’s light on his feet and fast, with an uncanny ability to read the field. He seems to have Philly’s number.

Kai is looking worse for wear when the clock runs out on the first half. He’s still eyeing the field with great intent, but he keeps closing his eyes for long intervals, squinting them tightly shut as if he’s in pain. Every so often, he’ll twist his neck like he’s trying to pop it.

“Want to get out of here?” you ask him quietly as the guests in the suite stand up to stretch, gather at the buffet, and glance at the high school band doing the halftime show. “You look tired.”

He turns his head and blinks, like he’s only just now remembering that you are beside him. “I can stick it out,” he insists. “Want to see what happens. The kid’s kicking ass.”

The kid could just as easily refer to Nyko Waters, who is also having a great game in the few plays he was allowed to enter, but you know he’s talking about the new defensive end. He sounds proud. Without being told, you can guess that, before his injury, Kai was mentoring Books.

“He looks amazing,” you agree. “But you don’t. Why don’t we head home? I’ll make sure they have some food on the plane, and you can take another dose of your meds.”

He looks genuinely torn. “I don’t want to drag us out if you’re having a good time,” he protests.

It takes all you have not to snort. Bless Kai for being oblivious to the fact that you hate everything about this scene.

Eventually, you talk him out of his seat.

Sheldon looks crushed to see Kai leave, despite the fact that Philly is letting him down.

Sophie regards you coolly, but deigns to blow a kiss in your direction as she talks with another model in the corner.

There’s a whole second round of hugging and lingering goodbyes, mixed with promises to meet up with people that you have no intention of hanging out with.

Kai’s glued to the screen of his phone, all the way to the airport and for half of the flight home, watching the game.

Books ends the game with four total sacks.

Miami wins by 10 points. You can’t tell which fact makes your boyfriend happier.

Derrick, you notice, is also on fire, but Kai doesn’t remark on his performance.

You guys return to Miami, where you have both relocated to your villa.

Kai is in so much pain by that point that he can’t hide it any longer, his tender head throbbing.

Worried sick about him, you send him off to bed and tell him to take a nap and plan on a late dinner.

By the time you pour a glass of wine and close the door behind you on the balcony, you’ve already missed the sunset.

Maybe it's for the best. The kind of mood you’re in doesn’t lend itself to a radiant backdrop.