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@191901310719: I’M GONNA FUCKING KILL STERLING GRAYSON AND HIS CROWD OF FANGIRLS. BETTER WATCH YOUR BACK, MIAMI.

Three bomb emojis for every message. Frowning, you flick over to Instagram, Bluesky, X, and YouTube.

The same message blankets every notification wall.

A few things happen, seemingly all at the same time. Down on the field, the officials call a timeout for seemingly no reason. Murmurs circulate throughout the box—did someone get hurt? Was there an issue with the spot of the previous play? What the hell is going on?

There’s a knock at the door. Juarez, your security guy, is closest to the door and opens it. Two policemen are standing at the entrance to the VIP box.

“Attention, folks,” one says. “We’re gonna need you to clear out, please. My partner here will lead you somewhere safe.”

“Excuse me?” Jamie stands up. “What’s going on?”

He shakes his head. He’s got a thick gray mustache, and it shakes right along with the movement. “Can’t say at the moment, ma’am. But we need everyone to clear the box, please.”

Your heart drops into your stomach as you join the crowd spilling out into the hall.

You are only attended by three security guys today, and they fall behind you and Jamie when you link arms and exit side-by-side.

The hallway is absolutely jammed with people, all of whom look confused and upset.

From what you can tell, it looks like every VIP box has been emptied.

Your box was towards the back of the hall.

Way at the front, a shrill whistle draws your attention.

“Okay, folks, we are going to follow me through the concourse,” an official-sounding voice says. “I need you all to stay calm. Kindly follow me.”

The crowd moves, all buzzing with alarm.

Your escort, a young-ish member of Miami PD, walks all of you—there must be 200 people total—onto the north concourse, where two things become evident.

First of all, all the TVs show an empty field.

Both teams have been cleared from the field.

There are no players, coaches, or referees on the sidelines.

Secondly, there’s a dull, persistent sound overhead.

You can’t quite place it, until Jamie tugs your arm.

“Helicopters,” she murmurs. “Ster, what’s going on?”

Absently, you grip her hand. Juarez has a low conversation with the other two guys, then breaks away to try and track down a free police officer.

You are acutely aware of how wide-open the concourse is, how exposed you are.

Without doing it conscientiously, you have dragged Jamie as close to the wall as possible, into an alcove formed by a concrete pillar.

Just then, there is a loud crackle from the overhead PA system. A recorded, disembodied voice blasts loudly through every speaker in the building.

Ladies and gentlemen, for your safety, we are temporarily suspending the game. Please follow instructions from stadium staff and proceed to the nearest exit in a calm and orderly fashion.

The message repeats, this time in Spanish.

Jamie’s eyes go wide, and her face looks pale. “Oh my god,” she mutters. “Something really bad is happening.”

That’s the last thing you hear before the floodgates open and the rush of the crowd becomes deafening.

They are pouring through every exit, teeming like salmon swimming upstream.

Thousands of fans are exiting, and they are not calm or orderly.

Shouts echo off the high ceilings. Quickly, the wide expanse of the concourse becomes a dangerous sea of people trying to escape.

Eric, your security guard, puts his arms out to either side and makes himself a human wall, pinning you and Jamie behind him as the crowds pack every available space.

Your pulse beats thready, and your heart pounds in your chest. Somehow—somehow, over the noise and the panic and the claustrophobia, you know .

This was meant for you. The messages. It has to be related.

You pull Jamie down low, squatting to the ground. Between the pillar and Eric’s immense bulk, you are totally shielded from the clusterfuck of humanity. All you can see are legs and rushing feet: people trying to escape the stadium en masse, a group exodus.

Kai texts you: we are sheltering in the locker room, please tell me you are safe. idk what the fuck is going on

Jamie yells something in the direction of your ear, but you can’t hear her and shake your head. She purses her lip and holds up her phone screen. There’s a tweet loaded on it.

@WSVN7: We’re told that the Hard Rock Stadium is being evacuated due to a bomb threat.

The Joint Operations Center has initiated protocol “Bravo.” Miami PD is sweeping high-traffic areas and securing the premises.

The NFA game in progress has been suspended, and players have been removed to safety.

Homeland Security and the FBI have been notified.

Stadium ushers and officers have opened all gates to facilitate guest exits.

Traffic around the stadium is completely gridlocked, and authorities are urging patience. This is a developing story…

“Oh, god,” you groan, the words immediately swallowed up by the chaos.

In reality, the concourse probably clears in ten minutes, but it feels like that many hours.

When the coast is clear, Eric guides you and Jamie swiftly to a back exit and confers with the team.

A golf cart takes you to the very outside of the stadium, which seems to be the best compromise between not exposing you to the traffic trying to leave and not getting blown the fuck up by any explosives that may actually be on-site.

Ultimately, as you somehow knew in your gut, there is no bomb.

A maintenance bag near a vendor cart triggers a robotic bomb unit inspection, but ends up containing only cleaning supplies and an AM radio.

Police and FBI investigators triangulate the origin of the bomb threat call, and determine that it came from a burner phone used near Opa-locka.

Grainy footage from a convenience store camera shows a hooded figure paying cash. The trail is completely dead.

By four in the afternoon, Hard Rock officials and the Miami-Dade Police Chief hold a press conference outside the stadium:

We evacuated out of an abundance of caution. The threat has been deemed not credible, but we are treating the source as a criminal act. The safety of fans, players, and staff remains our highest priority.

The NFA postpones the remainder of the game until Monday evening, when the second half will be played with the score resumed from the ending of the original match.

Fans are offered partial refunds or free access to the rescheduled game, but frustration, fear, and confusion run rampant.

Every newspaper in the country picks up the story.

Never in the history of the Association has a game been suspended for anything but a weather delay or severe injury.

Rumors circulate: Was it a diversion? Was someone testing stadium security?

Only your people and the authorities know the truth.

You are formally requested to come to a security meeting held by the police and the highest-ranking stadium officials, where you are kindly informed by the FBI that the unknown perp mentioned you when calling in the bomb threat.

Yes, they know about the social media messages; your team has been in touch.

No; they don’t believe there is any further threat.

They are so glad that everything worked out, they tell you.

Your attendance at games has been so good for the NFA’s image.

You are a valued member of the Cyclones family.

Of course you will be allowed to continue attending Kaius’s games.

(Beside you, Kai says nothing, but keeps a hand tightly on your knee under the table.)

The gears work rapidly behind the scenes.

Within minutes of the bomb threat being made public, Desiree has scrubbed all your social media.

Years of posts and photos go dark. Fans, somehow, don’t make the connection.

They speculate that you are leading to the announcement of #SG10, or that something else huge is in the works.

Your haters say that it’s all for attention.

Poor little Sterling Grayson, playing the martyr again.

Ultimately, the unnamed disruptors get what they want. The story is massive and drowns out the Grammy excitement for several news cycles.