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Transaction Report

In the final week of NFA trade eligibility, there were a few surprises.

Green Bay traded WR Jefferson Judge to New Orleans for a third-round draft pick.

Another big-name WR, Amari Winston, was traded from Pittsburgh to Dallas in what appears to be a salary-dump.

Most shockingly, Tampa traded LT Julian Tamatoa to the Buffalo Blues just under the wire.

What caused Tampa to offload such a key part of their offense less than two years into his contract?

Inside sources say that the front office felt Tamatoa was a bad fit for the locker room.

***

She answers on the first ring. “God, you made me wait a long time.”

“Self-discipline is an art,” you say flippantly, trying to quell the butterflies in your belly.

“There’s self-discipline, and then there’s garden-variety masochism,” she retorts.

You can’t see her, but you imagine her rolling her eyes.

“Do I get to tell you now? Or do I need to jump through some more pointless and ridiculous hoops before you are in the right headspace to receive your good news?”

“It’s good news?” You hate how much you sound like an eager kid.

“Come on , Ster. It’s not like it’s a surprise.”

“Hit me.” You sit down on a chaise in the corner, playing a stupid little game with yourself. If I get into position before I hear her voice, I’ll get everything I want.

“Album of the Year and Best Pop Vocal Album for Golden ,” she recites, “Song of the Year, Best Pop Solo Performance, Best Music Video, and Record of the Year for ‘pretty please.’ Six major nominations total, tied for third place.”

“Who got the most?” you ask.

“Lady Gaga and Kendrick Lamar.”

“Solid,” you nod. “I figured, because Gaga also gets the Dance categories and Kendrick gets Rap as well.”

“You got six Grammy nominations, Sterling,” Maeve reiterates gleefully. “With everything going on? That’s a huge show of support from the Academy. Never mind what it says about Golden. You’ve worked so hard, and you totally deserve this.”

“Thank you,” you say.

Normally, this is the part where you and Maeve jump up and down screaming into each other's ears. Every year, you refuse to let anybody but her deliver your Grammy news, good or bad. Other people might get you first with the VMAs or Billboard Awards or any other nominations, but Maeve gets the Grammys. It’s tradition.

Her level of excitement is there, but yours is…

strangely flat. You don’t know why. You got every nom you wanted, and a couple that you didn’t expect.

Nine albums in, this should be huge. Validating. Momentous.

“Is there anything specific you want me to have Desi say in your statement?” she asks, sensing that you aren’t in a celebratory mood. “Other than the normal stuff, like thanking the Recording Academy and your fans and your producers and such?

“Don’t forget my family and Kai,” you say. “And tell Desiree not to turn it into a comeback story, please. No references to what a hard year it’s been.”

You hear the hesitation in her voice. “You sure? Maybe acknowledging…”

“Every time I acknowledge it, it blows up in my face,” you say decisively. “Just positive vibes. All the thank yous , all the happy-happy.”

“Desiree will also want to know how to RSVP to the show,” Maeve continues. “You do plan on going, right? With Kai?”

Just the thought makes your scalp prickle. “Um, let’s table that for a bit.”

“Ster, you have to show up.” Her voice reminds you of a parent’s, loving but firm. “You could potentially sweep. It’s not like this is some low-level D-list award show. What are you going to do, accept your third AOTY from your bedroom on Zoom? C’mon.”

“Don’t threaten me with a good time,” you mutter.

You can hear the disapproval on the other line.

“You know the team is going to insist you show up, even if you don’t hit any of the after-parties.

You just said that you want to focus on the positives.

What’s more positive than showing up in some fabulous designer creation and supporting your album? ”

“I didn’t say I wasn’t going. Let me talk to Kai.” Your wheels spin as you try to disengage from this line of conversation. “The ceremony is right around the Super Bowl. I don’t even know if he can get away.”

“Okay,” Maeve concedes. “But I’m going to tell Desi to bug you about it in less than a week.”

It’s easier to make vaguely affirmative noises at her than to protest further.

Right up until you say goodbye and hang up, you sense that Maeve is still waiting for you to express some giddiness about the news.

You don’t like disappointing her, but you also know yourself well enough to realize that you can’t fake big emotions well unless there’s a screaming crowd involved.

When you get off the phone, you realize you still have all those notifications to get through.

There are dozens of them, all notes of congratulations.

Ryan texted you, making you realize you didn’t know he had your personal number.

Huh. You really should get in touch with him, you think.

Your agent is freaking out. Your mom, your dad, your sister, your tour director, producers, makeup artist, dance captain, and wealth management guy.

The dancer group chat is going nuts. Everyone who knows you personally has sent their love and support.

You read the messages one-by-one, and it takes until lunchtime.

***

At the Week 9 game, a few things happen.

Kai buys a massive ad on the Jumbotrons that flashes every 45 seconds for the whole hour before kickoff.

It features a really terrible picture of you guys; a strip from the photo booth at your birthday party in London back in April.

You were drunk off your face, and Kai had just jerked you off in the bathroom between the presentation of the massive cake and the burlesque show.

You guys are kissing in one shot, your hand towards the lens, trying to cover the fact that your tongue is in his mouth.

In another, you’re sitting on his lap, your head resting against his.

Then, you’re whispering something in his ear, and his face is obviously, comedically shocked.

The last one is of you guys just looking at each other, dopey with love, your eyes half-lidded.

It’s overly intimate and way too personal. (It makes you smile like a moron.)

Congratulations on the Grammy noms, Sterling! it reads. Love, Kai

You’re pretty sure that the billboard-sized love letter violates every single clause of his NDA regarding public displays of affection, but you can’t bring yourself to care.

In the box, the wives and girlfriends all sigh and swoon.

Jamie, who’s only staying for the first half so that she can get back to the baby, throws her arms around your neck and kisses your cheek.

You’ve got a good one , she whispers.

The best one , you agree.

The second thing of note is that Kai plays better than he has since before his injury.

He’s still on a limited snap count, so Books goes in every third or fourth play.

The kid, you have to admit, has the makings of an absolute beast. But Kai holds his own, and sacks the quarterback twice in the first half.

The last thing of note, however, is what ends up defining the whole day.

Buoyed by your avalanche of nominations, a flash mob of five hundred Graylings show up outside the Hard Rock during halftime.

They’re being respectful, not blocking any entrance or egress from the packed stadium, and most of them are decked out in Cyclones green-and-gold, so stadium security allows them to stay.

From inside the box, you see them on your phone, covered heavily by local press and tagged in #grayling fan accounts.

WE LOVE YOU, STERLING! their signs say. GRAYLING NATION FOR GOLDEN!

They have their friendship bracelet stacks from the Goalposts Tour; they have rainbow-hued socks and bandannas and giant cardboard cut-outs of your face.

They are hugging and smiling and having sing-alongs of their favorite songs from your discography.

Most of them are young women, but not all of them.

There are kids in the crowd as well, happy little people dancing to the music blasting from cell phones and Bluetooth speakers.

Inspired by this show of devotion, which feels like a deep, cool stream of drinking water in the middle of an endless desert of hatred, you duck into the suite’s private bathroom and record a quick video for socials saying hi to your fans and telling them that you know they are there.

It’s not approved by your team or anything, but it’s not like you don’t have the passwords to your official accounts.

You don’t generally use them, but nobody said you can’t .

You are able to watch in real time as the fans freak out, a ripple of excitement undulating through the mob when your post goes live.

The reel amasses tens of thousands of views within minutes.

The singing and chanting hits a fever pitch.

You’re still looking at your phone, flipping through videos of the happy fans, when Desiree messages you.

Desiree : Sterling, we’ve locked your post on all platforms. Until I give you further notice, please don’t put anything unapproved on social media.

Well, that’s fucking rude, you think. Curious as to what caused such a dramatic reaction, you tab back to your TikTok account, which is the first one that comes up. Immediately, you see the problem.

The notifications show an unbroken wall of spam comments from a profile with no picture, whose username is just a string of numbers.

Over and over, the same message is posted in all-caps, drowning out any other comment.

Hundreds of times. They don’t actually appear under the video, probably because TikTok has automatically blocked them.