Page 4 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Yeah.” Sterling leans back against the island. “Sorry about all that. A lot more things get done if I can get other people to make phone calls for me. Most times, it seems like there aren’t enough hours in the day.”

“I know that feeling.” You cross your arms, because you aren’t quite sure what else to do with them. Your stomach grumbles audibly, protesting the fact that it’s mid-afternoon, and you haven’t eaten since breakfast. Oh, god. The fucking humiliation willnot end.

Sterling cracks a grin and goes to make a comment, but just then, there is a chime overhead that must be what the other side of the intercom sounds like. He crosses the room to a receiver mounted by the dishwasher.

“What’s up, Cal?”

“Lunch is here, Mister Grayson.”

“God, Ilovewhen plans fall into place!” Sterling enthuses. “That pretty much never happens.” And then, into the intercom: “I’ll come get it. Gimme a sec.”

Sterling gestures to you. “Sit! I’ll be right back.”

There are four high-top stools beneath the bar on the opposite side from the oven. You perch on one, worried that you are going to break it. It’s sturdierthan it looks, though.

Sterling sweeps back into the kitchen with a takeout sack. He sets it down before you and makes quick work gathering napkins and plates. He pauses at a cabinet full of glassware.

“Want some wine?” he asks. “I don’t do alcohol or caffeine the week before a show, but please don’t let that stop you. I’ve got soda, too. Water? Pretty much anything you want.”

“I’ll have whatever you’re having,” you demur politely.

Whatever you’re havingturns out to be green tea, unsweetened and slightly bitter with an aftertaste of grass clippings. Your Southern tongue recoils at this insult to the good name of iced tea, but you sip it politely. Sterling breaks the disposable chopsticks and rubs them together deftly.

“I made sure to get California rolls,” he says gravely.

Your heart does that uncanny pitter-pat again.

Somewhere around your sixth piece of sushi and Sterling’s third, you feel the weight of nerves lifting from your shoulders like taking off a heavy coat. He jokes about your appetite, and you make him snort-giggle when you open your mouth wide and inhale a seventh and eighth piece in one bite. His undignified laughter is contagious, and you nearly choke on your enormous mouthful ofavocado, seaweed, and imitation crab, the salty-pungent waft of soy and wasabi shooting up through your sinuses and making your eyes water. Rice sprays the surface of the island.

He whacks you on your broad back, bubbling over with mirth even as his tone is concerned.

“Do I need to get Cal in here? I don’t know if my arms are long enough to do the Heimlich on you!”

“No Heimlich,” you gasp out, cleaning up your mess. “Oh God. That guy would crack my ribs and Coach would come to the hospital and finish me off for an off-field injury before preseason even started.”

“Remind me to never challenge you to an eating contest,” he says seriously.

“You must have to eat a lot to keep up with those three-hour concerts two or three nights a week,” you venture. “What’s that look like?”

“A lot less yummy than this,” he says. “I told my nutritionist and dietician I was taking a cheat day today. But they travel with me and pretty much control what I eat, 24/7. It’s a lot, but it’s all healthy, and the macros are really specific to make sure I can keep up with my cardio and strength training on the road. Lots of veggies, protein shakes, and lean meats.”

You nod in surprise. “That sounds a lot like my life.Well, what the team’s trainers want me to eat like, anyway. The reality usually involves more pizza. But, like. You’re kind of an athlete too, aren’t you?”

He shrugs modestly, pushing a sliver of ginger around his plate.

“My backup dancers all have to do the same things,” he says. “People run marathons all the time. It’s not that impressive.”

“Yeah, but do they, like, sing fifty songs in a row?” You gesture emphatically with a chopstick. “That would be a workout all by itself.”

“It’s only thirty-five songs. Some of them are in medleys, so it’s not even the whole thing.” Sterling taps his fingers on the speckled marble. “Hey! Are you almost done? We have cookies.”

“Cookies!” Delighted, you push your plate aside. You’ve demolished two entire rolls. “You’re speaking my language.”

Over dessert, and more of the lame excuse for tea, you guys sketch the outlines of one another. Most of what Sterling tells you could probably be found in his Wikipedia entry—not that you read it, because youdefinitelydid not—like the fact that he has an older sister, or that his mom is his best friend, or that he didn’t attend his senior prom because the Billboard Music Awards were the same night, and he got nominated. It’s been a whilesince you’ve checked out your own Wiki, but you guess you could say the same: you are one of four brothers, all of whom played college ball. You went to Alabama and didn’t declare for the draft until you’d finished your degree. Your parents live in Macon, and you bought a house there with your rookie signing bonus, but you almost never make it home these days. You bank your salary and live off your endorsements, since football has a short shelf life as a career. You aren’t the only openly gay player in the Association, but definitely the most prominent. You try to keep a low profile and not freak out the red state fan base.

“What would the Budweiser-and-barbecue crowd have to say about you seeing someone? Seriously?” When Sterling looks up at you, his tone has lost its earlier playfulness. “I’m not exactly a stranger to very quiet hookups, but that’s not what I’m looking for. I want to make sure we’re on the same page. If we’re not, I’m still super glad that we got to meet. But…”

His directness is both terrifying and impressive. It inspires you to be forthright as well. “I think that’s a bridge I would cross if I met someone I wanted to date seriously. Since we’re on the same page, was this lunch about us hanging out? Or an audition for the role of Sterling Grayson’s Boyfriend?”

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