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***

Kai’s nervous.

It’s been a long time since you slept in a hotel that wasn’t boutique, five stars, and luxe as hell, but Kai’s assigned room is clean and comfortable, with light wood paneling and a soft king-sized bed, and you aren’t a snob.

Besides, you are happy to be with Kai. An old movie is playing on the TV, out of respect for Coach Beausoleil’s request that the players not stay up late obsessively watching game coverage, and the single bedside light is the only one on.

You’re curled up on your side, idly flipping through a book that you aren’t really reading, and Kai is flat on his back in his boxer briefs and an undershirt, his hands clasped on his belly.

To an outsider, he probably would appear at peace. But you know better.

“If you jiggle your leg any harder, you’re going to shake me off the bed,” you say lightly.

“Sorry,” he mutters. He cracks his knuckles. Crosses his ankles, and immediately uncrosses them again. “‘I’m just keyed-up.”

“I know you are,” you tell him. “What would help? Do you want to call someone? Your mom? Sandy?”

“Hell, no,” he grumbles. “Mama would make things even worse, and you know I’m right.

I told her that I’ll see her after the game tomorrow, and not one second earlier.

Sandy might have already gone to sleep, for all I know.

He’s got a newborn. Getting an overnight at a hotel is probably like a vacation for him. ”

“Hmm.” You rack your brain. “Do you want to take a bath?”

Kai stares at you wryly. “You seen that tub in there? It’s not exactly built like yours or mine. I sit down in that little-ass coffin, I’m getting stuck.”

“Okay, true,” you concede. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to sneak down to the gym and run five or six miles on the treadmill while I blast some music,” he complains. “That way I’ll be exhausted and maybe wind down. But Coach would pitch me out a window if I got caught.”

“Not a good idea,” you agree. “You wanna get worn out? We can have sex. I wouldn’t suggest we be too loud, because these walls are kind of thin, and you’ve got teammates on either side and below us, but I’m sure we could work something out.

” Raising an eyebrow, you bite your lip and shrug in what you hope is an enticing manner.

He looks aghast. “I can’t have sex , are you kidding me? They say it’s bad mojo. Can’t take any chances.”

Skeptically, you run a hand over his bare thigh. His skin is hot, and the little hairs rise under your touch. “How would you know? Did you have sex the night before you guys lost your last Mega Bowl?”

Pinning you with a withering glare, he reaches down and physically transplants your palm to the mattress. “I can’t drain my vitality,” he insists.

“O-o-o-kay,” you say. “Your body is a temple of strength and chastity right now. Got it.”

“When you say it that way, you make me sound superstitious,” he groans.

God. Not only is he nervous, you realize, he’s probably tired.

Like a toddler refusing to go to sleep. For the last week, he’s been eating, sleeping, and breathing Cyclones football: practicing, drilling game film, running drills, and texting members of the defense group chat.

And, when he’s not doing that, he’s been wrapped up in the pre-game media frenzy, doing interviews both solo and as part of the team.

The Cyclones’ plane touched down in SanFran on Tuesday, and you flew over Friday night, but you’ve barely seen or heard from him since you guys spent the night together after the awards show.

For all that you’ve heard Coach repeatedly tell his guys to approach the Mega Bowl like it’s just another game, it’s most definitely not.

“Nothing wrong with a little superstition,” you tell him consolingly. “From what I understand, a lot of athletes are superstitious. Lots of musicians, too. Nobody’s a bigger weirdo about rituals than me when I’m touring. I get it. Lie back and close your eyes.”

“What?”

“Just do it, Kai. I’ll be right back.”

On the counter of the hotel bathroom, which is pretty small by your standards, your evening skincare and other beauty accoutrements are crammed together like it’s a teenage girl’s dorm room.

With only a brief glance at the bottles of Korean creams and potions calling your name, you brush and floss your teeth, comb out your hair, and quickly wash and moisturize your face.

It normally takes you at least 45 minutes to get ready for bed, but, for Kai’s comfort, you’ll sacrifice your routine tonight.

You weren’t kidding him about being a creature of rituals, but you’ll have plenty of time to yourself to make up for lost self- care before the game tomorrow while Kai’s sequestered with his team.

“Go get ready for bed,” you tell him when you come back into the room.

“What? No way I’m falling asleep,” he protests. “I’ll just be up counting sheep all damn night.”

“No, you won’t,” you promise patiently. “Go. I’ll be waiting.”

“We’re not banging it out!” he calls over his shoulder as he stalks towards the bathroom and shuts the door.

You don’t dignify that with a reply.

It takes him even less time to wind down than you. When he comes back, shirtless and smelling like Crest, you pat the mattress in front of you. “Come on.”

“Why am I the little spoon?” he grouses hesitantly. “You’re, like, half my size.”

“You can be the big spoon every other night,” you say. “Shut up, Kai.”

Amazingly, he does, and lets you reach over him to turn off the last light before lying down behind him. You snuggle your hips against his ass, but leave enough room up top that you can reach his back with your hand and rub firm, slow circles on it.

Seizing the quiet moment, you begin to sing to him, soft and low.

Someday he'll come along

The man I love

And he'll be big and strong

The man I love

And when he comes my way

I'll do my best to make him stay

You’ve never asked Kai’s opinion on Billie Holiday or songs from the 1920s, but he seems to like it, judging simply from the fact that he doesn’t make any more silly comments. You spread your fingers, covering as much of his skin as you can, and swirl your touch in counterpoint to the melody.

Maybe I shall meet him Sunday

Maybe Monday, maybe not

Still I'm sure to meet him one day

Maybe Tuesday will be my good news day

He'll build a little home

That's meant for two

From which I'll never roam

Who would—would you?

And so all else above

I'm dreaming of the man I love

You didn’t think much beyond that one song—get Kai into bed, rub his back, and sing to him—so you have to scramble for a moment when, at the end of the old tune, he hums and nestles his head against the pillow.

“You and your oldies,” he murmurs. “I liked that. Can I have more?”

Like that’s even a question. As accused, you are a huge fan of songs from the beginning of the 20th century.

You love almost all music (it’s in your DNA, you’re pretty sure), but you think this sort of thing is just right for the moment.

So you riffle through your mental catalogue of romantic standards, doing your best Ella and Frank and Nat King Cole as you sing him “Stardust” and “Stormy Weather.” You follow that up with “A Sunday Kind of Love,” and notice that, under your palm, his breathing is slowing and growing even.

He may already be asleep, but you dare not stop to check.

So you choose one last song, singing it to the silence of the room.

Quietly, so as not to bother your neighbors.

Why do I do just as you say?

Why must I just give you your way?

Why do I sigh?

Why do I try to forget?

It must have been that something lovers call fate

Kept on saying I had to wait

I saw them all

Just couldn't fall till we met

It had to be you, it had to be you

I wandered around and finally found the somebody who

Could make me be true, could make me be blue

And even be glad just to be sad thinkin' of you

By the last verse, your questions have been answered, as Kai is softly snoring, which he does from time to time.

Tentatively, you stop rubbing his back and cuddle close to him, breathing in his essence and being warmed by his body.

Your throat is scratchy and dry, as, even as a professional singer, you aren’t accustomed to giving acapella concerts at a moment’s notice without any warm-up, but you are too cozy to reach over him again for the travel jug of cold water on the nightstand.

It feels like you two exist in the hazy, dreamy confines of a magic spell, an invisible cocoon sheltering you from the outside world.

From the somewhat-scratchy sheets and hum of the air conditioner, from the heavy anxiety hanging in the air on the Cyclones’ floor, from the crowds outside ready to party the night away.

Nobody’s listening, but, under your breath, you whisper the very end of the song.

For nobody else gave me a thrill

With all your faults, I love you still

It had to be you, wonderful you, it had to be you

***

In the end, the Mega Bowl isn’t like any other game. It’s actually, improbably, easier.