Page 2 of High Notes & Hail Marys

You:okay

***

You nap on the flight.

Sterling’s private jet is nice as fuck. A stewardess gives you a tour as you are waiting for the pilots to finish their pre-takeoff checklists. The interior is all warm wood and buttery-soft tan leather. The seats are huge and as soft as clouds. There is a large floral arrangement and a fruit basket on the sideboard. In the back, a bedroom bigger than your college dorm, with a queen-sized bed made up in black linen. The fact that Sterling Grayson sleeps there is kind of crazy to you.

In your seat, you are offered water. Coffee. Snacks. A heated blanket. A pillow. A remote to control the TV, which is equipped with every streaming service known to man, and some that you haven’t even heard of. Magazines. Newspapers. Plush slippers, which are perfectly white and embroidered withSGon the toes.

You sip a grapefruit La Croix until the engine noise lulls you to sleep.

It’s sunnier in Nashville than it was in Miami, and slightly cooler. There’s a black Town Car waiting to sweep you away as soon as your sneakers hitthe tarmac. You climb into the back seat, where an older man in a suit smiles and shakes your hand. It’s instantly obvious that he’s a lawyer.

“Nice to meet you, Mister Reinhart,” he says. His voice is warm, but in that way that you know means business. It’s cold in the back of the car. The air is blasting. You shift in your seat.

“Likewise. Call me Kai.”

“My grandson’s a huge Cyclones fan. He plays Pop Warner football right now. Mitey-Mite.”

You scratch your head. “That’s really cool. You, uh, want me to sign something for him?”

“That would be amazing. A little later, if you don’t mind. I actually want you to sign something for me, but not an autograph.”

He produces an iPad with a lengthy PDF loaded and ready to go.

“What’s this?”

“It’s the boilerplate nondisclosure agreement that we present to new friends of Mister Grayson. Pretty standard, as far as these things go. It’s our introductory agreement, since you guys are just getting to know each other. If you were to, say, become romantic, there would be additional documents to sign. But there’s nothing scary here.”

Warily, you examine the tablet. “I’m actually notsupposed to sign anything without Legal looking at it.”

The suit nods knowingly. “Of course. We anticipated that. I’ve been in contact with a…” He flips through his phone. “A Rodrigo Muñoz with the Cyclones’ counsel. I have an email thread here confirming that he’s examined the contract and is fine with your signing it if it’s personally agreeable to you. Please take a look.”

He hands you his phone. Sure enough, there’s a chain. You dimly know Roddy from Legal; he’s worked with you on some endorsement deals. It’s kind of strange to think that he knows you have a date? A meeting? With Sterling Grayson. You gesture for the iPad.

“Can you give me the short version of what this all means?”

He clears his throat. Goes into a spiel about mutual trust, and how these documents protect that trust between two people. How personal information is kept protected and private. How selective disclosure works, and that, upon joint agreement, details about The Relationship might be revealed to media outlets. The concept of personal boundaries and how they are outlined within the NDA. Respect for privacy, and how trust and communication are fundamental components of that.

You nod, scrolling mindlessly through the pages and pages of legalese. “And I’m guessing that, if I accidentally say the wrong thing, I’m going to get my ass sued to Hell and back?”

The lawyer frowns. “Mister Reinhart, we always hope that it will never come to that.”

***

The car pulls into the gated parking garage of a soaring high-rise, the building clad in limestone, toned glass, and glinting steel. The lawyer, who never gave his name, remains in the car. Two men, who have to be bodyguards from their sheer size, join you in the elevator. It is always disconcerting when you aren’t the biggest man in the room, physically. But the guards dwarf you, and are even more muscular than you are in prime shape. They don’t say anything. You don’t, either. One of them swipes a badge at a scanner and hits the button for Penthouse 2. You aren't sure whether it’s the lift of the rising car or the butterflies in your gut that give you the swooping, dizzy feeling.

Outside the elevator, there is a small foyer with only one door. The guard who controlled the elevator presses the button on an intercom outside.

“Good afternoon, Mister Grayson,” he says. “We have Mister Reinhart here.”

The voice that comes through the speaker sounds curiously familiar for somebody that you have never met. Of course, like anyone in America with a pulse, you’ve heard Sterling on the radio. That must be what it is.

“Thank you, Cal. I’m expecting him. He can go ahead and come in. I’m in the kitchen.”

A moment, and then the muted click of a lock disengaging. The bodyguard—Cal—opens the door for you, and gestures a big arm inside.

“We’ll be right outside, Mister Reinhart,” he says gruffly, by way of goodbye. You are still pondering whether that was meant to be welcoming or threatening when the door closes and you are alone.

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