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SPOTTED!!! Sexy Cyclones Stud and Mystery Man DIRTY DANCING in South Beach!!! WHERE IS HIS BOYFRIEND????

Kaius “The Train” Reinhart was photographed last night at Euphoria, a notorious Miami hotspot, with some of his teammates.

Proving that euphoria is more than just a state of mind, Reinhart had an amazing time partying it up with members of the Miami Cyclones—and one teammate in particular.

This publication can exclusively confirm it was DERRICK HONEYBONE, a recently-signed free agent wide receiver, who was especially touchy with Reinhart on the dance floor.

The pair looked extremely close… don’t you agree?

MIA in MIAMI was Reinhart’s long-term partner, superstar Sterling Grayson.

Grayson missed Reinhart’s last home game, sparking rumors that there was tension between the lovebirds.

Fans of Grayson and Reinhart’s relationship, called Trainspotters, will be in SHAMBLES when they see Reinhart canoodling with his teammate.

Is this the END of the most-photographed couple in the world? ??

***

Noemi sends you the link to the pictures and, being a good big sister, has the tact to not comment or ask for a response.

Nobody else had the balls to tell you. You’re on the back terrace, trying to choke down your morning smoothie over the lump rising in your throat.

The shots are… not good. You are all too familiar with slimy paparazzi cherry-picking the most incriminating picture from a whole batch of innocuous snaps, but the carousel shows multiple angles of the same thing: Derrick grinding on Kai in the midst of a crowded dance floor, his face buried in Kai’s neck.

What the fuck was Kai doing at a club, anyway?

That’s not Kai’s scene. He’s surrounded by a squad of the more…

gregarious players on the Cyclones roster, Jameson Page chief among them, his hands up in the air.

Judging from the pictures, of which there are about two dozen, the players got bottle service, and the liquor was flowing.

Kai’s in the back of most of the group shots, making it impossible to tell if he was drinking.

It was a Wednesday night, for Christ’s sake.

You wonder if it was some sort of informal team event, because Coach Beausoleil generally doesn’t condone that sort of shit during the season.

Kai had to ask for permission to fly out for Arch’s party, and that was on his day off with the promise that he wouldn’t be at the facility any later than noon the next day.

Arch’s party.

Over a week after whatever happened in the botanical gardens, you and Kai are back to not speaking. If anything, you are more upset and more confused than you were before.

Only flaky-ass people take breaks. If you really love someone, you just need space sometimes.

Is that what you’re doing? Giving him space?

With Derrick’s arm looped backwards around his neck, Kai doesn’t look much like a guy who feels like he’s in a committed relationship.

Was he just placating you? Did he feel bad, since you’d just gotten off together?

Did he go home and change his mind? A stronger man might have picked up the phone and demanded answers, but that man is obviously not you.

You just flip through the pictures over and over like they are going to start to make more sense the longer you look at them, which doesn’t happen.

You want desperately to get the fuck out of California, but there is important business keeping you on the West Coast. Nobody knows the details, except your legal team.

It takes a lot of your attention, but not all of it.

You still have too much free time to think, to be alone, to track Kai endlessly on your phone.

It’s flirting with danger, but you need to get out of the house, so you throw caution to the wind and make some plans.

Force yourself to be sociable. You book studio time with Graham, even though nothing comes from it worth listening to.

You attend an acquaintance’s art gallery opening in Chinatown.

You visit the luthier at the Old Style Guitar Ship in Silver Lake to check out your favorite J-45, since the sound has been off (and not just because playing it gets you overly emotional these days).

You let yourself get papped on the infamous balcony at Sushi Park and even blow a kiss to the photographers as a way of telegraphing that you are alive and okay.

You hike the Hollyridge Trail with your yoga instructor, because she has the perverse desire to watch the sun rise from the Hollywood sign.

You hate every second—hiking has never been your favorite type of exercise, and the Hollywood sign is overrated and ugly—but you smile in her pictures and give her permission to post them once you are safely home.

That last adventure, the hike, leaves you so sore that you want to die.

It mortifies you… you were in the best shape of your life after Goalposts and are still working out regularly, so why are you so beat up?

Your trainer tells you that hiking is its own beast and plies you with gentle reassurances and orders to take a couple of days to rest. When you mention to Maeve that your knees feel ten years older than the rest of you, she books you a massage and won’t take no for an answer.

“They’ll come right to the house,” she insists. “I’m hanging up, Ster.”

The woman who shows up on your doorstep after dinner that evening is not what you expected.

You prefer a female masseur and always choose one when you have the option, but the ones you’ve dealt with in the past have always looked sturdy and strong.

This one is small and light enough that it seems like a swift breeze could blow her away.

She’s young, too, with long blonde hair and the palest green eyes you have ever seen.

Maeve would never hire someone whose credentials weren’t flawless, but you immediately question this woman’s experience.

She’s wearing a loose ivory shift dress and sandals.

“Hi, Mister Grayson,” she says, with a voice that makes you wonder if she sings. “I’m Leya. Ms. Mukherjee told you we had an appointment?”

“Yeah.” You open the door and gesture for her to come inside. “Thanks for coming.”

“It’s no problem,” she says with a smile.

“Why don’t you just show me where to set up?

I have a lot of things to bring inside. If you want, you can jump in the shower while I’m getting ready.

If you could, please tie your hair up on top of your head.

It’s really beautiful, and I don’t want to mess it up. ”

“Okay,” you say, bemused by her complete lack of visible give-a-shit regarding who you are.

She knows , because she addressed you by name.

Servicepeople tend to bend over backwards with politeness when they help you out, as if to make a really obvious deal of the fact that they are going to treat you respectfully.

It’s predictable at this point. Obsequious professionalism is what you are used to.

She’s definitely not unprofessional , but she’s…

friendly. Open. That’s unique. In the shower, you lather up and rinse off quickly.

Leya said that she needed time, but you don’t want to be responsible for holding her up.

In your bedroom, you tie a robe on and pad back into the living room, which has the most open space for her table and equipment.

It’s impressive what she’s managed to put together in such a short time.

The blinds and curtains are all drawn, and the room is dark except for the glowing pink light of some salt lamps she’s set up.

Incense perfumes the air, and crackly, smoky lo-fi jazz is playing on a Bluetooth speaker.

You’ve never experienced what people claim to be ASMR, but it makes your skin hum all the same.

A portable towel warmer sits on a low bookcase; a tray with oils and creams is arranged beside it.

The massage table is in the middle, with a green sheet covering it.

She must have found the thermostat, because the ambient temperature of the room is a few degrees warmer than it was before.

“Hey, are you cool with the sandalwood?” she asks, as if continuing a conversation that you’d been having.

“Your assistant said that you didn’t have any allergies, but I forgot to ask before I lit it.

I default to this music, but we can put on whatever you want.

I know sometimes musicians are picky about what they listen to. ”

“I’m good,” you say, meaning it. “I actually love this. Thank you.”

“Awesome,” she says. “I’m going to grab my last batch of stuff from my car. Can you get undressed and get under that sheet for me? Face-down first.”

You nod, and she leaves the room. It takes a moment for her to cross the house and shut the front door, and only then do you unbelt the robe, drape it over a settee, and position yourself under the sheet.

About three minutes later, Leya calls from the foyer and asks if you are okay with her coming back in.

You call that it’s fine, and she re-enters, barefoot, typing an apron with deep pockets around her waist. You can’t really watch, but you hear her putting things in the pockets: the oils, from the gentle clinking of the vials.

“Okay,” she says. “Are you in any pain currently?”

“I went on a long hike, and I’m feeling beat-up,” you tell her.

“Poor thing,” she says sympathetically. “What kind of pressure do you generally like?”

“Medium up top, and firmer on my bottom half.”

“Mmm. I can work with that,” she says, applying some oil to your back.