Page 14 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Sorry,” you say automatically.

“You know, not to beat a dead horse, but your contract is up at the end of this season. The Cyclones exercised their fifth-year option. Doubled your rookie contract. All well and good, but it’s time for your big-boy deal.”

“I haven’t forgotten that fact since the last three times we discussed it, Pete. Haven’t changed my mind.”

He clears his throat, which is something he does when he’s about to put on his “official suit” voice. “It’s my job as your agent to at least present you with the best deal possible. I know Miami’s been good to you. But there are plenty of eyes watching. You’re young. Healthy. Your next contract should be life-changing. Tons of guaranteed money. I’ve gotten some discreet inquiries. Nothing official, obviously. Just chatter over drinks, that kind of thing. There’s plenty of interest. If you played your cards right, you could really cash in next year.”

In the dying light, you examine your fingertips. Your skin is breaking around your nails. Your hands always take a beating. You think about Sterling’s soft skin, and wonder if you should get a manicure.

“I’m committed to the Cyclones,” you say. Not for the first time, or even the tenth. Every time this subject comes up, matter of fact. “I like it here. I like the culture.”

“What culture is there to like?” Peter asks, sounding amused. “The clubs? The models? I know your life, Kai. You’re a homebody. Some guys like the sun and the fun, but you aren’t one of them. You’re just comfortable. Nothing wrong with that. But sometimes you need to shake things up. You’re a millionaire. We can get you comfortable somewhere else. Los Angeles is a lot like Miami, weather-wise. Arizona’s got that sun, too. I hearDallas has a lot of culture.”

You mentally catalog those cities in your head, figuring that they must be some of the teams showing interest. Good to know.

“There’s no state income tax in Florida,” you mention.

“I know you handle your money well, but I doubt you are really thinking about your taxes. You have a routine. You are close to your family. I get it. I’m just saying… there’s a big picture you aren’t looking at.”

“I don’t see myself changing my mind.”

“You know what your problem is, Kai? You’re a romantic. Good quality in a boyfriend, bad quality in a football player whose agent is trying to score him a big payday.” Peter laughs. “I’ll let you go. I need to hurry up and get out of my office to go sit in traffic on the freeway for an hour. Let me know if there’s anything I can do for you. And donotlet anyone on the team know that you want to stay. Your official word is that you are keeping your options open.”

You promise that you won’t.

Chapter Five

You find out the night before the first game of the season that Sterling is going to be there. Well, he asks you if he can. It’s kind of funny, because you know by now that the plans have already been put in place for Sterling’s security team to clear the box, and for the tickets to be allocated for extra guests. But he still asks your permission, tentative in the way you both still are around each other. Tiptoeing. Reaching, shyly, for things on the other side of the table. He’s just gotten off-stage in New Jersey and is in the back of the car driving to his apartment in Manhattan. The shadows play over his features, and every so often the streetlights afford you a glimpse of his blue eyes.

Lots of the guys on the team have pre-game rituals. It’s a football thing, not just a Cyclones one. Lucky underwear, special meals. You heard about one dude from Jacksonville who liked a trainer to slap him across the face as hard as they could before he hit the field. Some guys refuse to have sex the night before a game; other guys insist that draining their balls is the key to a clear mind.

You don’t have a ritual, per se, but you are almost always alone the night before you play. There’s no sequence that you follow to get in the zone, but you go through some guided imagery as you eat and relax. Picture the heat of the sun, the cheers of the crowd. Smell the grass. You picture knocking guys over like they weigh nothing. Creating a clear path to the quarterback. Actual football is noisy, messy, and chaotic. In your mind, it’s Zen. Your feet don’t touch the ground. No listening acutely for the other team’s audibles. No pressure. You go to that place in your mind, and you stay there for the night. When you wake up in the morning, you are ready to go.

That isn’t happening tonight. You’re sprawled on your bed in your gym shorts and a tank, the fan spinning lazily overhead. No lights on, just the TV’s menu scrolling on mute. Sterling’s leaning his head against the dark glass of the backseat. You imagine how his cheek would feel cool against it.

“I’ve never been to an NFA game,” he offers sleepily.

“You got anything gold and green?” you ask.

He laughs. “I’ll figure something out.”

“You coming by yourself?”

“I don’t doanythingby myself.” There’s a note of wistfulness in his voice. “But no, not just my security detail. Noemi is going to be there. Maybe acouple of other people. They told me I could have four tickets, not including Cal and Eric.”

“Is that his name?”

“Who?”

“The absolute unit of a human whoisn’tCal. The slightly less-scary one.”

A smile splits Sterling’s face. “Yeah, that’s Eric. You think Cal is scary? I mean, that’s his job, I guess. He’s my head of security. But he’s a big sweetheart.”

“I’m not used to the sight of men who look like they could split me in half. I’m not exactly a small guy.”

His voice is gently mocking. “Understatement of the century. I don’t think Cal ever played ball when he was younger. Bad neighborhood, or something. You should ask him about it some time.”

“That might take mustering up some courage.”

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