Page 11 of High Notes & Hail Marys

MIAMI LOVE CONNECTION! STERLING GRAYSON SPOTTED HAND-IN-HAND WITH NFA STAR

This just in! America’s most eligible bachelor might be off the market. Sterling Grayson, the 29-year-old record-breaking pop superstar, was photographed leaving the Hard Rock Stadium in Miami lookingawfully cozy with Kaius “The Train” Reinhart, the 26-year-old starting defensive end for the Miami Cyclones.

A source close to the pair said, “It’s early days for Kai and Ster. They are just getting to know each other, but there’s a real spark. Sterling says that Kai is a perfect gentleman and is sweeping him off his feet. It’s been a long time since he’s met a guy like Kai. He can’t wait to spend more time with him.”

Grayson is, of course, currently embarked on his “Goalposts” tour, celebrating the fifteenth year of his music career. The Goalposts Tour is expected to last for 152 shows across five continents. Grayson started his career as a teenager in Nashville and quickly catapulted to fame, earning twelve Grammy Awards over eight studio albums.

Reinhart is about to start his fifth season with the Cyclones, who drafted him in the first round of the 2019 NFA Draft. He’s a key component of the Cyclones’ top-ranked defense, which led the Association in defensive scoring and were third in sacks last year. Reinhart’s numbers speak to a future spot in the Hall of Fame for many experts. Last season, he had twelve sacks and four fumble recoveries, and even scored a defensive touchdown. He was third in line for DPOY two years in a row, and is expected to be in the running again this season.

One thing’s for sure: all eyes will be on the new couple.

Chapter Four

The thing about you is, you mind your own business.

You’ve never been the type to pry into people’s lives. Not your friends’, not your family’s, not your teammates’. As far as you’re concerned, it’s one of your better qualities. The Association is a magnet for big personalities, but you aren’t trying to be one of them. You prefer to keep your head down, let your productivity speak for itself, and try to avoid the glowing golden bubble of Fame that some of your peers can’t seem to stop chasing.

Being associated with Sterling makes that harder. Alotharder.

You have enough seniority on the Cyclones that you could probably be a captain if you would play the game a bit more. There are two types of guys who get the “C” patch—the guys who are the hype dudes, and the ones who set an example both on and off the field. You fall closer to the second camp, although your efforts with philanthropy tend to be regional rather than national, and all behind-the-scenes. You’ve served as a mentor to a few of the younger guys on defense. You have a policy of always being open to listen and give advice, if advice is asked for.

The fact that you are gay is probably an issue. You accepted a long time ago that there would always be guys who were uncomfortable with your proximity in the locker room. It doesn’t bother you. You didn’t grind in college to get drafted and come to the NFA tomake friends.You have some, for which you are grateful, but it’s a job. Not a social club.

You would describe your relationship with most guys on the team as “cordial.” No rivalries or bad blood, thank god. Your closest relationship is with Sandy, but you are never sure if that counts, because Sandy is friends witheveryone. You’ve known him for a long time—longer than anyone else on the team. You came up together at Alabama and both got selected for the AP All American team: him twice, and you once. The Cyclones drafted you in two consecutive classes: Sandy declared as soon as he became eligible at the end of junior year (and got picked fifth), you stuck around an extra year to get your diploma and improve your stock.

There are a lot of eyes on you in the locker room on the first day of preseason. It’s your fifth season in the Association, the extension year ofyour original rookie contract. You aren’t used to scrutiny, and you don’t particularly like it. You focus on your locker. Your gleaming helmet. Your brand-new jersey stitched with the number99.Your pads and cleats. You stare at the components of your uniform as if they are fascinating, as the guys mill in, and you feel their stares boring into your back. It’s like high school all over again. You hate it.

It doesn’t come to a head in the locker room, or in the conference room before practice, or on the field beneath the blazing Miami sun. It’s later, once you have stripped and showered and are half-asleep in the sauna, your head to the wooden planks and the heat leaching every last ounce of energy from your pores. You have your AirPods in, and you are fully zoned out. Your obligations for the day are done. You’re imagining going back to your condo and ordering delivery. Maybe Greek.

The door swings open, admitting GoGo Heller and Jameson Page. First-string wide receiver and tight end respectively, they are two of the biggest names on the Cyclones, right behind Sandy. They are what you privately call “flash” guys. The dudes who sell tons of jerseys, snag national endorsements like candy, and use their millions on impressing girls and snorting nose candy. They are loud, imposing, and always seem to move in a pack: a pack of other high-profile players, a pack of reporters, a pack of women. Today there arejust the two of them, though, and that fact alone automatically makes you groan internally.

As if choreographed, GoGo throws himself down on one side of you, and Jameson on the other. GoGo’s ass hits the seat with such force that the little white towel covering his dick flies up on his sleek, pale legs. The sauna is spacious and scaled for football players, but the center bench is on the small size for all three of you side-by-side.

“Kaius!” GoGo crows. “My man!”

“What’s good?” Jameson echoes.

You can hear them clearly over the music, since they areloudmotherfuckers, but you reluctantly pull your earbuds out anyway.

“‘Sup, guys,” you say cautiously.

“You’re lookin’ good out there,” GoGo says. He spreads his knees and leans back. “You go on a cut?”

“Just twelve pounds. I did a lot of cardio this spring.”

“I like it.” GoGo tips his head back, his ridiculous neon-blue boxer braids falling back behind his head like a Technicolor Viking. “I like it,” he repeats.

“Whaddya think about the rookies?” Jameson asks.

“I haven’t really met them before today,” you reply. “There’s that new safety out of FSU—Jeffreys? He looks agile. Palys seemed to like him.”

“Palys is such a douchebag,” GoGo mutters. “Don’t know how you handle his shit all the time.”

It’s not that you disagree that Coach Palys is a hard-ass, but there’s a reason he got the defensive coordinator job when it opened up. The man gets results. You think about saying so, but that would require a lot more interaction with GoGo and Jameson than you want to tolerate.

You nod noncommittally and close your eyes. Maybe if you don’t give much of a response, they will go bother someone else. It’s definitely too much to ask that they just enjoy the steam in silence. You’ve never known either of those guys to keep their mouths shut for too long.

There are about ninety blissful seconds of quiet before the shoe drops.

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