Page 32 of High Notes & Hail Marys

Things turn around slightly as the third gives way to the fourth, and at the two-minute warning, it’s 24-19. You guys are still behind, but you have possession. On the sidelines, you mop sweat off your brow with a towel and cast an eye up to the box, where Gabi is raptly watching the game.

Sandy has a perfect opening, and, by some miracle, GoGo breaks free of coverage. Sandy whips off a gorgeous pass and GoGo has his gloved hands ready to catch it as he runs towards the end-zone. It looks like all the pieces are about to slot perfectly into place when a member of the Terriers’ defense comes out of literally nowhere—well, it was undoubtedlysomewhere, but you were looking at the box—and snatches the ball from the sky inches from GoGo’s fingers.

Interception.

There are still time-outs on the board, so the defense takes the field again. You are hot as fuckand annoyed as fuck. Losing fair and square is one kind of disappointment, but the nonstop errors this game have been galling. You can already hear the coaches’ yelling and see the catty headlines.

Tamatoa gives you a sympathetic smile on the line.

“Chin up, Choo-Choo,” he coos. “Everyone screws the pooch sometimes.”

When the snap happens, you grapple blindly in his direction and inadvertently yank his facemask. The ref spots it immediately and throws a flag.

Five yard penalty, automatic first down.

On the sideline, Palys slams his tablet on the ground in aggravation.

The Terriers kick a field goal, one lastfuck youjust as the last seconds on the clock wind down. Tamatoa laughs uproariously. He’s looking right at you, but all the coaches are watching, so you ignore him and crack your knuckles hard enough to hurt.

@BALLINsportsnews:The Cyclones got #EXPOSED today! I’ve been saying for weeks now that they were coasting on weak strength-of-schedule and would soon be revealed as FRAUDS. The defense was paper-thin and the O-Line was MASSIVELY underwhelming. Am I the only one who doesn’t get the hype about #SandroCovelli? Key players (lookin’ at you, @c.reinhart and @GOGOJUICEZZZ) shouldfocus more on football and less on their Hollywood sig others. Check out the LIVE CHAT with Pat Pronto tonight for more coverage of the biggest loss this season. #justsayin #straightfacts

Part Two: The Lover

Chapter Nine

You hate the West Coast and you hate publicity, but on your by-week, you get all dressed up and accompany Sterling to an awards show. As a compromise to you, he promises that you two can fly back to New York as soon as the event is over. He has a house in the Pacific Palisades, a modest bungalow tucked off the California 1 high on a cliff. It’s unassuming from the front, with a double garage and a tall wall enclosing a front courtyard and door, but the inside sprawls open to wrap around a backyard pool with a view of the ocean far below. His bedroom window overlooks the tall branches of a blue gum eucalyptus, making it feel like you are in a treehouse, but even that can’t tempt you to linger in Los Angeles.

A stylist is waiting when you arrive, an Asian woman dressed impeccably who’s fussing with a rolling cart of menswear. Her name, she says, is Ven. You brought a suit in a garment bag with you on Sterling’s plane, so you are surprised when she shakes her head.

“Oh, no,” she says. “I brought outfits for you as well, Mr. Reinhart.”

You shoot a look at Sterling, who shakes his head.

“Must have been Maeve,” he says.

Ven is scrolling through her phone, and doesn’t look up as she nods. “Yep. Ms. Mukherjee called me yesterday with your measurements. Sorry, this won’t take a minute. I just needed to double-check something on the paperwork.”

“Maeve thinks I can’t dress myself,” you say to Sterling, a bit put out. “And where the hell did she get my measurements?”

“Maeve knows everything. I don’t question it anymore.” He cracks a smile. “And, to be fair, you spend most of your time in gym shorts. I think I saw you in cargos once.”

“I’m a professional athlete!” you protest.

“Which is why I’m going to make you look amazing,” Ven says without missing a beat. She pulls some hangers off the rack. “Go ahead and put these on. Ster, Valentino is dressing you tonight if anyone asks. Alessandro picked these out personally.”

Sterling picks up his phone and dictates a voice memo. “Send a thank-you note to Alessandro,” he murmurs.

You’ve wandered into another room to change, not feeling comfortable doing so in front of Ven. The suit is not a color you would have chosen: a very pale gold, almost tan. The jacket fits you like it was made for you, broad at the shoulders and tapering in at the waist. It must have been tailored based on the numbers that Maeve came up with. Underneath is the softest white cashmere t-shirt you have ever felt, as thin and light as a cloud. The shoes are pristine white low-top Jordans without a speck of dust or dirt.

You wander into the living room, where Ven intercepts you and starts fussing. She has to stand on tiptoe to do it. First, she tucks a black silk pocket square into your breast pocket. Then, she produces some jewelry boxes: a thick gold chain, and a watch on a leather band. She puts them both on you.

“What are these?” you ask, slightly alarmed.

Ven cracks a smile. “Borrowed,” she says lightly. “This your first time?”

You nod, holding the watch up to the light. The brand on the watch is something with aPthat you’ve never heard of. It’s got a big face—which is good, because you’ve got thick wrists—and old-fashioned analog numbers. “I’m guessing this thing is worth more than my car?” you ask.

She shrugs. “Depends on what you drive. Thatmodel goes for about 50k.”

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