Page 9 of High Notes & Hail Marys

Sterling is the one who sounds like he’s choking this time as he laughs, shocked.

It’s a good sound.

You both eat. The food is tastier than you’d expect, and surprisingly hearty for being what you consider to be rabbit food. The conversation flows easily, despite the fact that it’s incredibly late and Sterling must be exhausted. He regales you with a laundry list of all the things that went “wrong” with the night’s performance. They are “errors” that not even the most eagle-eyed Grayling would notice: flubbed cues missed by half a beat, “wardrobe malfunctions” that consist of nothing more than a snagged sleeve, and notes that fell ever-so-slightly flat. Sterling, you discover, is a perfectionist of the highest order. He tells you how he tries not to nitpick his staff, because he doesn’t want to be a jerk, but how mistakes bother him.

You can’t relate. Your particular type of football is a gross motor exercise. Knocking guys down requires choreography, but not the delicate kind.

“I think the show was incredible,” you venture. “The crowd seemed to think so.”

“The crowd is always amazing,” Sterling says. “I have the best fans in the world.”

You frown at your miso soup. Not because you dislike the taste, which is umami-heavy and a little funky. But more because…

“You don’t have to do that thing,” you say slowly. “We’re cool. I’m not going to judge you.”

“What thing?”

“Sometimes, when we’re talking, it sounds like you’re giving an interview. Like, saying things that people want to hear you say.” You shake your head. “You can keep it real with me.”

A bit of a sad look comes across Sterling’s face. “Sorry. I hear that from people sometimes. That I’m ‘on’ even when I’m not trying to be. But youhave to understand, Kai. I don’t get the luxury of keeping it real with very many people. There are too many risks.”

You shrug. “Makes sense. Not trying to push you. We can discuss or not discuss anything you want.”

He reaches across the table. Grabs your fingers. “That’s really sweet. Thank you.”

You push your plate away after just one helping of food, because it’s the middle of the night, and you don’t want to be so full you can’t sleep. Which, by the way, you should probably think about doing. A discreet glance at your watch tells you that it’s almost two.

“Want to come to bed for a little while?” Sterling says.

You blink in surprise. “Uhh. I thought that we weren’t…”

“We’re not.” Sterling shakes his head decisively. “And you’re not sleeping over, because I’m not super comfortable with that, either.”

There should be more there, and you wait for it. But Sterling’s looking at you with that face again, like he’s expecting a challenge. You don’t give him one.

“Okay,” you say simply. You’ll sleep when you’re dead.

“...But,” he says finally, “I thought we could… you know. For just a little bit. I really like kissing you.”

There’s that warmth again. Discouragingly, you feel a fresh stirring in your pants. You will it to subside.

“I like kissing you, too,” you say cautiously.

“Well, then.” He extends his hand. “I think that we might be on the same page.”

The bedroom is stunning. The main focus is the bed, a massive vessel amidst the splendid trappings of luxury, all clad in gray linens. There are more windows in here, this side facing the high-rises of Miami Beach. A low lounge against the window has a robe thrown over it. There’s a display of blooming orchids on one bedside table, and more candles throwing a subtle glow over the space.

Sterling moves like a lion in his silky pajamas. Like he’s perfectly placed in the luxurious setting, a prince in a palace, when he crosses one leg beneath him atop the high mattress. He gestures at you.

“You can take your pants off if you want,” he offers. “I want you to be comfortable. Don’t think any of my clothes would fit you, though.”

It’s on the tip of your tongue to tell him that you’re good. Pants off feels too close to undressedfor your liking, for the amount of self-control that’s going to be required for whatever ends up happening on this bed. But you, too, want to be comfortable in this cozy, warm nest. So you undo your belt and unbutton your fly. Sterling doesn’t hide the fact that he is watching. It should make you uncomfortable, you think, but there’s heat in his gaze. Your pants hit the ground, and you step out of them. Shake them out and lay them down beside the robe on the lounge. Sterling blinks languidly, feline-esque.

“You have really nice legs,” he says quietly.

“Uh-huh. Sportsball,” you respond. It was meant to be a joke, but your voice comes out all husky and fucked-up.

You join him on the bed. The silky sheets ripple under your weight, and you scoot cautiously in Sterling’s direction. But Sterling seems to have no similar compunctions. He rolls toward you eagerly, meeting you in the middle.

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