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***

The Buffalo game is away, and you aren’t in attendance.

Not only are you all too happy to avoid football stadiums for the moment, but Orchard Park is cold and rainy all day Monday leading up to the night game, making you glad that you went to visit your family for a few days.

Darien, Connecticut isn’t much warmer, but at least it’s been sunny.

Your mom goes all out for the game, spending the day in the kitchen and preparing a ridiculous spread of chicken wings sauced in multiple flavors, potato skins, charcuterie, pigs in blankets, Hawaiian roll sliders, and three different kinds of dips.

Wearily, you remind her that this isn’t the Mega Bowl, and, besides, you don’t normally eat that kind of food.

She just sasses you back, reminding you that they’ve never been able to watch Kai on the field with you at home, and sticks a plate in front of you that was clearly premeditated with your bitching in mind: six naked wings that were baked instead of fried, along with a haystack of julienne-cut raw veggies and a scoop of homemade hummus.

She tells you to stop whining, and goes back to stirring her crock pots.

Sadly, Noemi isn’t even home to have your back.

Once a month or so, she actually leaves her nest and goes to play board games with her three closest friends, and this is the unlucky night.

“Don’t worry,” another commentator laughs. “They’ve got the heat of divisional hatred to keep them warm.”

The first quarter is a defensive shootout, which is your least-favorite kind of football.

Your dad, a lifelong NFA fan, is on the edge of his seat, shouting at the screen.

For several plays, neither team makes it to midfield, getting stalled after one or two drives.

Miami can’t seem to get a pass game going, and only gains yardage in short, painful increments by running the ball.

To be fair, Buffalo is in the same boat.

Both defenses are strong and aggressive.

Sandy looks frustrated by the first huddle of the second quarter, but you are proud of Kai and his line.

He’s playing well, getting right up on the line and putting pressure on Buffalo’s quarterback.

Books plays a few snaps, and he’s textbook (no pun intended), as usual.

On Miami’s first possession of Q2, Jameson is able to miraculously break away on a good route, and gets open way down the field.

Sandy spots him and rips the ball, only for a Buffalo player to knock it out of the air and almost intercept it.

The defensive guy probably celebrates a little too obnoxiously, but Jameson gets in his face and has to be shoved back by one of his teammates.

“Ooh, we’re getting a little chippy,” the commentator notices with interest. “These two squads really don’t like each other. Did anyone guess we’d still be scoreless with 10 minutes left in the two? You know they’re getting edgy.”

Miami gets far enough down the field for Dettweiler to attempt a long field goal, which sails in.

“Three points are three points,” your mom offers with a shrug.

You’re keenly interested in the next possession by Buffalo. If Miami can contain them again, you know from your bit of experience, they might pick up the momentum they gained with the FG and really get something moving when they next get the ball.

Kai lines up opposite Tamatoa. Despite the press having hyped their rivalry all week, Tamatoa has been uncharacteristically quiet.

You wonder if he feels badly about having hurt Kai so severely last time.

Either that, or Buffalo warned him that they don’t want to put up with bush league bullshit from their players.

Either way, you’re glad that he isn’t jawing at Kai.

Kai’s been tense about this game, and he doesn’t need the annoyance.

The ball is snapped. Buffalo’s quarterback holds on, and weighs his options.

The O-line is doing a good job staving off Miami’s defense, giving him time to scan the field.

He’s jumpy in the pocket, clearly itching to lob the ball.

He spies someone down field and gets his arm back, just as Kai breaks free of Tamatoa.

The quarterback throws the ball, and Kai absolutely plows him two seconds later.

It’s a late hit, but he didn’t intend it.

Personally, you think he slipped a little bit in the mud on the field.

Still, the ref throws a flag. Downfield, the receiver misses the ball, killing the play.

Clearly regretting what happened, Kai extends a hand to the fallen quarterback, offering to help him up. The QB stays down an extra moment, hand to his gut.

“C’mon!” your dad hollers. “Stop milking it!”

Suddenly, what seems like the entire Blues offensive line rushes at Kai.

It’s a football culture thing, you know.

The players protect their quarterback; he’s the linchpin.

Any perceived slight is met with force. Quickly, Miami’s defense jumps in as well.

There’s some shoving and yelling, and Kai is in the center.

Unlike most scrums you’ve seen, it doesn’t dissipate as fast as it started.

The referees blow whistles, and flags rain on the field, followed by black hats.

Some guys at the outside of the pile-up—you recognize Sandy, Nyko Waters, and even Books—are trying to pull Cyclones away.

More level-headed members of the Blues are doing the same, peeling the scrappier players off the angry knot.

In the middle, there’s just Kai and Julian Tamatoa.

Helmet-to-helmet, they scream soundless profanity in each other’s faces.

Tamatoa is gesturing aggressively with his hands, and Kai’s fists are balled in his gloves.

There are four zebras on them, all comically smaller than the two titans squaring off on the 31-yard line.

They pull ineffectively at both Kai and Tamatoa, but they are quickly shaken off. You wish you knew what was being said.

Tamatoa stabs Kai in the chest with his pointer figure, then whacks the flat side of his helmet with his palm. Even 350+ miles away and through a TV screen, the insult is obvious: Your head still fucked up, Choo-choo?

“That’s just disrespectful,” your mother murmurs.

Kai clearly agrees. In an instant, he’s reached over and jerked Tamatoa’s helmet off his head. Tamatoa’s locs spill from their confinement, and he blinks in surprise in the frigid night. Only for a split second, though, before Kai swings the helmet and starts beating Tamatoa with it.

Your dad jumps up. “Oh, shit!” he curses.

A referee tries to jerk the helmet from Kai’s grip, but he can’t manage it.

In the breadth of a heartbeat, Kai’s slammed Tamatoa twice in the back and shoulders, making the tackle drop and try to cover his skull with his big arms. One particularly intrepid referee grabs Kai by the arm, pulling with his full weight.

Like Samson breaking his chains, Kai tosses the ref aside, and he lands on his black-clad ass.

Half the Cyclones coaching staff, including Beausoleil himself, run onto the field.

It takes the head coach getting in Kai’s face and laying hands on him to restrain Kaius.

Finally—finally—he backs up, and lets a handful of officials scrape Tamatoa off the ground.

The man appears to be both cursing and bawling.

For a few moments, the game is in utter chaos.

The referees confer. It takes another couple of long minutes. On the sidelines, Coach Beausoleil is red as a beet, screaming at Kaius, whose own helmet is in his hands.

The head referee makes the announcement.

“Number 99, defense,” he says. “Roughing the passer. Fifteen yard penalty, automatic first down. After the play was over, personal foul, unnecessary roughness, number 99 of the Cyclones. Personal foul, unsportsmanlike conduct, number 99 of the Cyclones. Number 99 is disqualified from the game.”

Kai throws his helmet on the ground, and even the most elementary lip-reader could discern the four-letter word that he yells. The crowd roars, half booing and half cheering.

“What does that mean, disqualified ?” your mother asks obliviously.

“It means that he’s ejected,” your dad says grimly. “Probably fined out the ass as well. Maybe even suspended from future games.”

On TV, the camera loses Kai as he stalks off the field. It takes a little bit longer for the teams to reorganize where the last play left off. Thanks to the penalty against Kai, the Blues are now at midfield. Books is in at Kai’s position.

You feel numb. On your end of your parents’ couch, you sit, frozen like a statue. You only ate two of your mother’s (delicious) wings and picked at the veggies, but the little bit you consumed is currently roiling in your gut.

What the fuck did he just do? You feel like that was a stranger you just saw on the field. The Kai that you know is always gentle, always level-headed, always a stickler for rules. The person you just saw on TV was a feral beast, something predatory and terrifying.

Right on schedule, your phone buzzes beside you.

Maeve: Okay, that was CRAZY. Desi will be messaging you in case we need a statement. This is officially NOT GOOD. You don’t need to do anything right now. Just be prepared to jump into damage control mode.

The next message has already buzzed before you’ve finished reading the first.

Desiree: Hi, Sterling. Sorry to bother you in the evening, but we need to talk. Can you call ASAP?

When you stand up, your legs feel unsteady. Out of the corner of your eye, you see a Blue skip into the end zone for a touchdown. Why the fuck not?

“Ster?” your mom says gently. “Is everything okay?”

“Kai won’t be able to talk, son,” your Dad pipes up. “He’ll be stuck in the locker room until the end of the game.”

You clear your throat, trying to force out the lump. “Good to know. But it’s actually my publicist. Gotta feed the vultures. You know how it is.”