Page 7 of High Notes & Hail Marys

“Oh my God! Kai!” he exclaims, sounding delighted. Out of breath.

There’s a split second where you aren’t exactlysure how this is going to play out—how cool do you need to be? Are you hugging? Do you kiss him? Where do you guys stand?—before Sterling answers it all for you, throwing himself into your arms and going up on tiptoe to crush a solid kiss onto your lips. A heat like molten chocolate settles in your gut, and you are hugging him too tight. But Sterling doesn’t mind. He’s got a dopey, happy look on his face as he pulls back, and he trips a bit stepping down.

If anyone in his entourage is surprised or scandalized by the display, they make no show of it.

“How did you like it?” Sterling asks.

“It was phenomenal,” you say honestly. “I’ve never seen anything like that shit. You are just… wow.”

“Wowis what I aim for,” he replies, seemingly satisfied. And then, without raising his voice or turning his head, “Does anyone have my water? Did I leave it backstage?”

Immediately, an arm reaches out from the side of your vision and hands Sterling a black, insulated bottle. He chugs it enthusiastically. You watch the long line of his throat working as he swallows, and hope fervently that your shirt is long enough to cover the half-chub that you’re sure you’re sporting.

“What are your plans for the evening?” Sterlingasks, snapping you out of your thoughts.

“This was my plan.” You spread your hands. “Seeing you.”

He smiles sideways. “I’m so, so glad that you came out. I need to quickly attend my post-show briefing with my tour manager and get changed. After that, I’m heading back to my hotel to eat a late dinner and relax. I’m told that it’s got a beautiful view of the beach. You want to come eat?”

Is that even a question?

“Sounds great,” you say.

He affectionately pats your bicep. His hand is small against your arm where your shirt sleeve rode up, and pale.

“See you in a bit,” he says, being swept off by his team again.

While you wait, a couple of people from Sterling’s team stick behind with you and try to ply you with anything you might possibly want. Alcohol. Food. A place to relax.

But you want to keep sharp, and Sterling mentioned food at the hotel. So you turn it all down. You fold your big frame into a too-small chair and occupy yourself with your phone. You are honestly barely looking at the images on socialmedia, but you scroll anyway. GoGo, one of the star receivers on the Cyclones, has dropped a pin at one of the hottest strip clubs in Park West. Jamie has twenty carefully-curated pictures of Sterling on her Insta, along with a lowercase quote from one of his songs. It already has a few thousand likes. Back in Georgia, your cousin Beau is showing off the new flooring in his kitchen that he just spent all day laying by hand.

There is a warm spot on your arm where Sterling touched you, like his hand was burning, and you had a non-painful, invisible brand where his fingers were.

It takes maybe thirty minutes for Sterling to return, casual in a hoodie and jeans. He takes your hand as you two follow Cal and another bodyguard out a back entrance of the stadium. There’s yet another dark SUV pulled up outside. The night air is warm. Despite the fact that the concert has been over for an hour, there are, inexplicably, a clutch of fans and photographers hanging over a concrete wall above the parking lot. They see Sterling first, and start yelling. And then—oh shit, you think—they see you. Holding hands.

Who is that?

Oh my god! He plays for the Cyclones.

Kai! Kaius Reinhart! The Train!

Sterling! How do you know Kai?

How long have you guys been seeing each other?

Over here!

That last one gets you and, without thinking, you turn your head toward the command. You are assaulted by a dozen flash photos in your direction. You can’t help cursing out loud.

Sterling doesn’t lose his cool. He waves to everyone, but keeps moving. He pulls you by your entwined fingers. Ahead of you both, Cal has opened the back door of the SUV. You are dazed. Dazed by the flashes, dazed by the attention, dazed by the feeling of Sterling’s palm against yours. You don’t really come back to yourself until the door closes behind you, and the car is moving, cutting through the muggy Miami night.

“What was that?” you ask dizzily.

Sterling bites his lip. The passing streetlights illuminate the shadows under his eyes from where he didn’t get all the makeup quite off. One of his hands is thrown over his lap. The other is still tight in yours. Like a lifeline.

“To quote my PR agent, I think that was some kind of launch,” he says. “Probably not a hard launch. Not quite a soft one, either. Can you have a medium launch?”

You aren’t sure what he’s even talking about. In thefront seat, the driver is wearing a brimmed hat and keeps his eyes forward. It’s almost midnight, but traffic is busy (it always is). Around you, the cars zoom by, driving like assholes (they always do), unaware that one of the most famous people in the world is right beside them.

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