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Levi Stadium contains 65,000 ticketholders, which includes your box stuffed to the rafters with most of the major members of the nuclear Reinhart clan, Maeve, your parents and Noemi, Kai’s friends Steve and “Powder,” (that can’t be his real name, right?) and Steve’s fiancée, Andi.

Noemi brought an equally-shy friend—anything to get her attending comfortably, you reasoned—and it seemed rude not to allow Maeve a plus-one when flying across the country, which turned out to be her cousin, Pearl.

At the last minute, with exactly one ticket left to your name, you called Gabi.

The suite is at capacity for fire code, so your bodyguards have to stay elsewhere.

They don’t love it, but you insist. The Covelli contingent is next door, along with a bunch of the other WAGs, and Jamie keeps annoying security by bopping over for hugs and selfies.

The food and drinks are flowing, the company is excellent, and it feels so much like a victory to you that, amazingly, the outcome of the game is almost, but not quite, an afterthought.

The Cyclones, however, turn out to not require your nerves or hyperfocus.

There’s no word for what the Commodores do besides “wilt.” From the first possession, Miami’s defense balls out, stalling any progress that Washington even thinks about making.

Each and every Cyclone is on fire. Nyko and Derrick play equal amounts of snaps, which seems to indicate to you that Derrick’s tenure as the Jedi master to Nyko’s Padawan is just about over.

The kid is a star, and no mistake about it.

After scoring Miami’s third unanswered touchdown in a row, Derrick looks directly up at your box, makes eye contact over levels of screaming fans, and blows you a kiss.

It’s a level of audacity that you can’t help but laugh at, even as Gabi and Pearl, mystified, ask you what that meant.

Jameson’s swagger is on full display, and his end zone dances are even louder and more energetic than normal.

You foresee fines in his future, but doubt he gives a shit.

Dettweiler misses a field goal and an extra point, which doesn’t affect Miami’s dominance of the game, so it’s almost too good.

And Kai… Kai gets three sacks on Washington’s QB, and runs a fumble in for a touchdown.

You scream your throat hoarse, and your hearing kind of whites out for a moment at the roar of the small knot of loved ones in the suite.

In the second half, Coach puts Books in for most of the action, and he goes feral on the hapless O-line.

It would be a bravura performance if Kai hadn’t just set a Mega Bowl record for successful pass-rushing, but neither Kai nor Books seem to care.

At one point, after Books comes off the field, Kai slaps him atop the helmet and screams joyfully in his face, which you figure is the NFA equivalent of a good job, kiddo.

At the end, it’s an absolute blowout. The final score is 43 - 17, and the only reason Washington even scrapes together that many points is because Coach Beausoleil pulled all the Cyclones’ starters in the 4th quarter.

The timer hits double zeroes, and green and gold confetti rains through the air.

Down on the field, Jameson and Cordy douse Coach in blue Gatorade.

Kai’s mom is sobbing . Security has given up on trying to maintain division between your box and the one next door.

Fighting through a sea of your loved ones, you get to Jamie, and literally jump up and down as you hug.

The kissing, crying, and overjoyed pandemonium goes on for a long time.

By the time you are escorted down to the field, they’re setting up the dais for speeches and the presentation of the championship trophy.

Kai’s wearing a Cyclones Mega Bowl Champions hat and t-shirt, his jersey thrown over his shoulder.

It falls to the confetti-scattered turf when he kisses you.

From the stands, which are still thick with singing, cheering Miami fans, screams and wolf whistles go up like flares.

Camera phones don’t have flashes, but you see them behind your eyelids anyway.

Kai’s sweaty and covered in grass stains, but you couldn’t care less.

There’s no such thing as a private moment for a star defensive end who just helped his team win a Mega Bowl, however, and your reunion is cut short by a reporter sticking a mic in Kai’s face.

“Kaius! The Train!” she starts, yelling to be heard. You can hear the exclamation marks on everything she says. “Mega Bowl champs! What do you have to say to the naysayers who said that you were washed, and doubted that you would snap back from your injury this season?!”

Kai laughs. “I say that actions speak louder than words,” he replies.

“How does it feel to be part of this squad that finally cinched the deal?! You guys have been waiting for this moment for so long! So many seasons coming so close! Is it a complete dream?!”

“That’s a lot of questions,” he says. “But, uh, yeah. It’s pretty goddamn sweet.”

She looks panicked, and mimes a cutting gesture at her cameraman.

“You can’t say that on TV,” she scolds him.

“Oops,” he says guilelessly.

Through no fault of his own, you guys are swept apart by the crowd.

Much to Kai’s undoubted dismay, there is an actual line of reporters queuing up to talk to him.

The field is swarming with people—players, coaching staffers, family members, press.

Cal doesn’t like it, you can tell. His head is on a swivel, watching everything that is going on.

Relenting, you allow him to pull you to the sidelines, where it’s a little less chaotic.

You can’t really see the trophy presentation over the heads of the people on the field, but you hear everything: Coach Beausoleil, tears in his eyes and his voice, accepting the trophy.

The Pruitt granddaughter giving a speech.

Brent talking. The NFA commissioner. To nobody’s surprise, Sandy gets MVP.

In his speech, he shouts out the defense, and says that he’s lucky a whole squad can’t get MVP, because he would have been cooked. He shouts Kai out specifically.

While you are watching, a rogue reporter sneaks up on you. You figured that you would be pretty safe from that sort of thing, not being a football player in any capacity, but there she is with her Chanel suit and her blinding veneers and her mic and her cameraman.

“Hi, Sterling!” she chirps. “Dana Phillips, The Hollywood Hive. What are you and the Train going to do to celebrate?”

“Umm.” You definitely were caught off-guard. “That’s a great question. I’m not sure we’ve even figured that out yet.”

“How does it feel to be dating one of the NFA’s biggest names? Do you enjoy sharing the spotlight?”

“It feels like dating someone special,” you say automatically. “It wouldn’t matter to me what he did for a living. Sharing the spotlight isn’t something that plays into it.”

“You’re so modest!” she trills. “Tell us honestly: now that Kaius finally has his ring, are you going to give him another one?”

This one, at least, you are prepared to answer. Nobody’s had the nerve to ask you it straight to your face, but you’re well-acquainted with the internet, and the fact that people have been speculating about it practically since two minutes after you came out publicly as a couple.

“Kai’s very special to me,” you recite smoothly. “We choose to keep that kind of thing private.”

“That’s not a no !” she squeals in the direction of the camera. “C’mon, Sterling! Give us something for all the Trainspotters. This is a big moment for you guys! Is a proposal around the corner?”

“I really doubt it,” you say, deadpan. “He’s kind of busy right now.”

You point to the dais, where Kai is cheesing from ear to ear in the midst of his teammates. When Dana’s attention is diverted, you simply walk away.

***

You and Kai don’t see each other for a couple of days.

On Monday, bright and early, the Cyclones go to Disneyland for the traditional post-Mega Bowl parade.

Kai sends you nonstop selfies of himself and Sandy airborne on Dumbo, wearing Mickey Mouse ears, and boarding Big Thunder Mountain.

All by himself, Kai is almost too big for one dinky little train car.

In his short videos, Jameson eats a Dole Whip, Books gets called up to embarrass himself at a family comedy floor show, and a bunch of grown men scream like girls in the Haunted Mansion.

Through his eyes, it’s almost as good as being there.

Not that you are, because it’s a team event, first and foremost. Some guys brought their families, but there isn’t enough private security in the world to make it safe for you to just show up at an amusement park.

The next night, before flying home, you and Kai take both your families out to dinner.

You buy out a small Italian restaurant for the night, which gives everyone room to relax in a low-pressure environment.

It’s an old-school little joint; candles melting wax down Chianti bottles, a brick fireplace, replicas of frescoes from Vesuvius and Pompeii, and waiters in tuxedos.

You like it tremendously. Both your parents have met each other at games, of course, but your siblings haven’t been introduced, and you can’t say that folks have hung out.

You order way too much food, clams and mussels in broth, antipasti, roasted peppers, and a tray of cold cuts…

and that’s just the appetizers. By the time the waiters have cleared away the plates of ravioli di zucca and penne giardino, the bowls of homemade pasta e fagioli and the baskets upon baskets of fresh-baked bread, everyone is groaning that they couldn’t possibly eat dessert.

You have it served anyway, poached pears in cream, tiramisu, a ricotta torte, and Italian cheeses.

There’s coffee and sparkling water and tons of sweet red wine.