Page 57

QUIZ: What’s Your Grayling Style Era?

Over the years, we’ve seen Ster rock SO MANY amazing looks at the Grammys. Pick your favorite fashion component from each question, and discover your Signature Sterling Style!

A: Short and messy

B: Sleek and straightened

C: Fancy up-do

D: Long, glam curls

2.) Your ‘fit is giving…

A: Youthful and unserious: jeans and a designer tee

B: Classic formal — a tux or ballgown

C: Baroque extravagance with embroidery and jewel tones

D: Effortless sex appeal, showing just enough skin

3.) Your date for the big event is:

A: Your mom. Aww!

B: A yummy supermodel

C: Your personal assistant-slash-BFF

D: Who needs a date?

4.) Pick a shoe!

A: Trendy, fun sneakers

B: Perfectly-shined dress shoes

C: A Mary Jane strap and a spike heel

D: YSL boots

5.) Lastly, choose a word or phrase that sums up your ideal night.

A: Unexpected

B: Triumphant

C: Just here for the open bar

D: Life of the party

RESULTS: If you got mostly “A’s,” you are DEBUT Sterling! If you got mostly “B’s,” you are INNER RADIANCE Sterling! If you got mostly “C’s,” you are EVERY ME, EVERY YOU Sterling! If you got mostly “D’s,” you are STARGAZER Sterling!

Tune in this Sunday to chill with your fellow Graylings on the Grammy Watch Party Live Thread!

Bring your popcorn, your favorite drink, and your Goalposts Tour t-shirt…

we’ll bring the commentary, the memes, and the fun!

Our Grammy coverage starts now in the FASHION PREDICTIONS and DREAM ACCEPTANCE SPEECH threads!

***

Two weeks later, the Cyclones are headed to the Mega Bowl, and, against all odds, you have managed to extract Kai from his team’s seemingly nonstop practice and preparation to walk him down the red carpet as your date to the Grammys.

It’s another quick trip: you two fly into Los Angeles Sunday morning along with a style team, and Kai promised Coach Beausoleil that he will be asleep in his own bed on Monday night.

It’s also Pro Party Game weekend, which Kai was selected for in his position and conference, but, per NFA rules, players going to the Mega Bowl don’t participate due to scheduling and worries about injury in what’s essentially a silly exhibition event.

Kai made you watch the skills challenge on Thursday, which was pretty cool—quarterbacks tried to make fancy distance throws, and receivers run an obstacle course, for instance—but his face is in his phone watching the commentators discuss the main event, the flag football game between conferences, while a poor, hapless female stylist in the living room of your California house tries to interest him in choosing between two designer ensembles.

“Kai, the sooner you finalize what you are wearing, the sooner you can watch part of the game,” you reason with him from the bedroom, where a master stylist from one of LA’s most exclusive salons is setting your hair in rollers.

“Just stick me in a black monkey suit and call it a day,” Kai grumbles good-naturedly. “I’m just there as arm candy for when you win all those awards. Can’t be worried about upstaging you.”

The casual narcissism makes you laugh, which was probably Kai’s intent.

Less than an hour later, he wanders into the bedroom.

He’s shirtless, barefoot, and wearing just a pair of loose, belted dress pants.

The sexiness is almost completely offset by the fact that he is loudly stuffing his face with half a veggie sub while still holding his phone.

In all fairness, you are also on your phone texting Maeve.

“Have you eaten?” he asks. “I thought our car was coming at two.”

“It is,” you reply. “And I had a salad while they were setting my hair. Why didn’t you eat earlier?”

“Oh, I did,” he laughs. “This is Second Lunch. And your hair looks very pretty.”

“I agree,” you say, preening a little. Marcel, the stylist, did an amazing job. Your long hair is styled half up and half down, with the top part teased into a retro pompadour, and the length falling in shiny, loose waves.

“How did he do that to your curls?” Kai puzzles.

“What do you mean?”

“They’re…” Kai makes a twirling motion with his finger. “Not as, like, springy? I’m confused.”

You laugh, charmed by your boyfriend’s ignorance of hairstyles more complicated than his (admittedly very sharp) buzzcut. “He had to straighten it completely first, and then curl it this way.”

“Oh-h-h.” He looks like you just explained a great mystery of the universe. “Your outfit is very shiny.”

You stay up, and give him a little spin. “You like?”

Prada made your suit, which is a periwinkle silk organza that goes either gray or lilac depending on which way you shift.

The blouse underneath is see-through and closer to lavender.

You’ve got a true purple crepe de chine scarf looped around your neck, and fastened with a diamond-and-amethyst brooch worth a king’s ransom.

Your team accessorized you with coordinating precious stones in your earrings and a number of gold and platinum stacking rings.

“It’s colorful,” he says thoughtfully. “I like the scarf. I think I’d have fun swishing that around.”

“I can ask them to give you one,” you tease him, going up on tiptoes for a kiss. “Maybe you could use it to accessorize your uni in the big game next week.”

“Eh. The Association has a bug up its ass about uniform standards,” he murmurs against your lips.

“Gonna have to be a private-time kinda thing.” His lips taste like oregano and garlic.

It’s kind of gross, but you’re smiling anyway.

By his side, forgotten, the tinny sounds of low-stakes football blare through his phone’s speaker.

One of the stylists, a tall, serious redhead, comes storming into the room carrying black fabric over his arm, and just as quickly backs out when he sees you two smooching. “So sorry!”

“No, it’s okay,” you call, pushing away. “Nothing to see here. Come in.”

Looking flustered, he peeks back through the doorway. “We really need to get your jacket on and finish getting you ready, Mister Reinhart.” From the note of irritation lacing his voice, you get the impression that this isn’t the first time he’s uttered this statement.

Lightly, you smack Kai’s chest. “Stop giving everyone a hard time.”

“Not trying to give anyone a hard time,” he whines endearingly.

But he obligingly clicks his phone off and stuffs the entire stub of his sandwich into his mouth in a way that, if you didn’t have an intimate knowledge of just how much he could fit in there at one time, would be disgusting and astounding.

At least he has the decency to cover his mouth with one hand while he’s chewing.

He holds up his finger at the stylist: just a minute.

You roll your eyes.

Kai’s brief foray into acting like a stupid teenage boy ends when you finally lay eyes on him in his complete outfit.

He’s looking down, adjusting the fastener on a large golden watch.

Two members of the style staff circle his big frame like fairy godmothers, swiping invisible dust and straightening seams. He looks up when you come out of the bedroom.

“Wow,” you say.

Trust your team to take Kai’s gripe about plain monkey suits and flip the idea upside down.

His black suit is slouchy, which, on someone less statuesque, might look ill-tailored.

Instead, it somehow accentuates his broad shoulders and clings to his thick thighs and arms in the best places.

They didn’t give him a shirt to wear under the jacket, meaning that his wide, muscled chest is exposed in the deep vee above the buttons, just above his navel.

Did someone oil him up? You wouldn’t put it past this crew to be helpless to resist a reference to his viral Kefi commercial.

“Necklace or no necklace, Mister Grayson?” Lydie, the lead stylist, asks. “We keep going back and forth.”

“It’s up to Kai, obviously,” you answer, “but I think a necklace would distract. The skin is what’s beautiful. No need to pull focus.”

“Aww, c’mon,” Kai grumbles, rolling his eyes. “Objectify me s’more, why don’t you?”

It would be too cheesy, and he’s already feeling awkward, so you don’t tell him what you are really thinking, which is that they’ve made him look like the star that he is.

Wardrobe styling is a kind of magic, you’ve learned; clothes can send a message.

No matter what he says, Kai isn’t just arm candy. He’s a main attraction.

“Yoo-hoo, Train! Over here, Train!” You affect a reporter’s put-on, overly-familiar chirp. “Who are you wearing, Mister The Train?”

Smirking like the cat that ate the canary, Kai pivots and cocks his hip, affecting a starlet’s pose.

“This old thing?” he coos. “Custom Dolce and Gabbana. Don’t drool too much now, y’all; you’ll make my boyfriend jealous.”

It’s a joke, but you surge forward to kiss him again all the same. The stylists scatter like birds.

***

Eight hours later, accepting your sixth award of the night for “Golden,” a clean sweep, you’re on stage cradling your trophy for Album of the Year, the night’s biggest award, and you’re speechless.

The whole auditorium is on their feet. You don’t have to peer hard into the crowd; just the second row, where Zhavia, Graham, and your whole team are whistling and cheering.

You realize that, while you thought of a few acceptance speeches—you didn’t dare to be optimistic, but you aren’t foolish —you didn’t come up with the biggie.

The one momentous enough for the occasion.

Under the hot glare of the lights, you scratch absently at your hairline.

“Wow, you guys,” you start. “I’m kind of at a loss for words.”

Thirteen thousand people chuckle politely.

You blink, and instinct kicks it. No matter how many times it happens, winning Grammys never gets old or less humbling. You have, however, done it before, and you know the drill. Hoisting your statue, you clear your throat.

“I know I’ve said this already tonight, but this album wouldn’t be possible without my producers, Zhavia Devayne and Graham Middlebrooks.

All great art is a collaboration, and I couldn’t have done it without the best in the business.

My whole team at Indigo Records, my man Frish, I love you guys.

Thank you for giving me creative free rein and trusting me on this project.

My agent, my manager; I’m so grateful. Thank you to Liane Kelley, who co-wrote five of the tracks with me, and to Cari-Lynn Stanwyck, my piano coach, who constantly pushes me to expand my skills so that I can write better music.

I want to thank my parents and my sister for always being my rocks, and everyone with Grayson Enterprises who keeps me sane day after day.

Thank you to my fans, who always, always have my back.

You guys are the reason I do this, and I love you with my whole heart. ”

You swallow thickly. You didn’t rehearse or even kind of plan this next part, but, in this momentous instant, it’s about to happen.

You know exactly where Kai is sitting, but you train your gaze over the heads of the crowd, letting your vision go starry in the bright lights so that you feel safer with what you’re about to say.

“Last, but not least, I want to thank my partner. Not only did he inspire a lot of the tracks on this album, but I, um.” You take a deep breath.

“The last year and a half has been the most challenging, thrilling, amazing time I’ve ever known.

There would be no Golden without him in my life.

I feel honored and privileged that he could be here tonight to share this experience with me, and I hope that I’m writing songs about him for a long, long time. I love you, Kaius.”

You look up and smile for the money shot, the picture that you know is going to grace a hundred thousand Hollywood websites, blogs, social media pages, and Grayling fan portals in the morning.

It won’t be until around noon the next day that you see it on your phone, thumbing idly through your feed over a very late breakfast. You are drowsy and bleary from a long night of after-parties, interviews, photos, and congratulations, and not at all looking forward to the plane ride home.

While Kai makes your coffee and cooks you pancakes, you idly wonder if you can drag him into the bedroom on the jet for a few more hours of cuddling and sleep.

At the other end of the table, your sextet of gold-plated gramophones blare silent harmonies, all lined up in two rows.

The smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafts through the air, and the California sun is shining so brightly that it ought to be a crime.

You are very tired, and very, very happy.