“One last thing,” Cal says. “I’m going to recommend that you avoid leaving the house for a while, Mister Grayson. Just for a couple of weeks, until this current situation rolls out of the news cycle. Let someone else walk the dogs. Maybe just hang around the new place. Nobody knows yet that you have a crib in Miami. Just enjoy the view and lie low.”
“I have to get to Kai’s game next week,” you hiccup miserably. “Please, Cal. I can’t. I swear that I’ll be careful. You can send nine guys with me if you want. I won’t leave the suite. But I can’t miss it.”
Maybe it’s the late hour, your mild inebriation, or your burgeoning state of hysteria, but, just like that, Kai’s game—which is a preseason game, not even a real one—seems like it’sof the utmost importance. You are adisaster.Your fingers are sticky with wine and snot. You’re sobbing, you realize, great chest-heaving gusts of dry sobbing. No tears, strangely, just mucus and a hot face and the feeling like your head will crack open if you so much as blink the wrong way.
“We’ll get you to the game,” Cal says. Conciliatory. Gentle, like he’s placating a little stray kitten instead of his hot-shit boss. “Just don’t go anywhere until then, sir. Maybe a little while after. We’ll talk about this more in the morning, okay?”
“I’m not even drunk!” you cry, because that seems vital for him to know. “I’mfine,Cal! I just need…”
“With all due respect, Mister Grayson, youneedsome sleep,” he says. “I’m gonna go. I’ll wrap up the mess in New York. You try to relax, okay?”
Your fingers are shaking when you hang up. Part of you desperately wants to scroll your socials and see the brouhaha for yourself, but some wisp of self-preservation floating around in your head stops you from doing it. Clutching your phone like a totem, you leave the room and go to the bathroom, where you do the best job possible cleaning up in the sink. You brush your teeth, and try not to meet your own bloodshot gaze in the mirror.
Ultimately, you sleep in the guest room. The maid will be by in the morning. You’ll give her an enormous cash tip for the mess in the primary suite.
Chapter Nine
@footballLIVE25:SPOTTED -- One pop prince being accompanied into the Hard Rock’s tunnel by enough Men In Black to take over a small country. ¡Bienvenidos a Miami, SG!
@waldork__:no1 curr
@allensguuurl:Why does he need that much security? Afraid that the 13 YO’s are gunna attack? Get over yourself bruh.
@meriluz222:in all fairness to Sterling Grayson, didn’t his house just get set on fire?
@kk.dewdrop:Not set on fire. A few windows got broken. NBD.
@stlou__angl:jezusss, so much drama. Ain’t the Train sick of all this bullshit?
@gingrsnapzzzz4765:Lowk ashamed of Jamie Covelli for pal’ing around with that fame-whore. After he ran GoGo off the team. The Cyclones suck. Hoping they flame out early this year. And that all the Graylings jump off a bridge.
@kk.dewdrop:Amennnnnn sing it sister
***
When it happens, you are ashamed to admit even to yourself, you weren’t really paying attention.
Preseason football, you have learned this year, is not your favorite thing. A real NFA game is a rush, even if the teams are lousy, and a lot of fun for spectators. The exhibition games, on the other hand, feel more like an extension of practice. It’s a chance for the coaches to get a look at what the rookies are working with, and to gauge chemistry in certain positions. The vets don’t get to play much. Kai told you that the last preseason game would be a bit better, because guys like him would play more. You’re told that the fans are absolutely living it up in the parking lot, tailgating and talking shit like their lives depend on it. You, on the other hand, were walked to the suite flanked by gigantic men in front of you, behind you, and on either side.
It’s pretty embarrassing, having half your security team holding up the back wall and framing the door like so many black-suited pillars. You have a good thing going with the WAG bunch, and you don’t want to scare anyone off with your oversized safety detail. The thought of even a few furtive eye-rolls makes your stomach turn over painfully. You are feeling as raw and exposed as a fish-belly that’s about to be fileted. Your hair has been set into a cascade of soft curls, your jeans are custom, and you’re wearing a tight, soft green-and-gold striped sweater that your team sourced from an Etsy housewife and made viral. When you’ve worried the 99 charm around your neck to the point that you are worried about breaking the clasp on your necklace, you tell Jamie that you are getting hungry.
“Ooh, do you want to share?” she says excitedly. “Can we do the pretzel fries? And maybe the guac? And popcorn! I don’t know why popcorn sounds so good.”
Despite your mood, which hangs over your head like a black cartoon cloud, you have to crack a smile. You were definitely more in the mood for actual food than a bunch of snacks, butyou figure that, at nine months pregnant, Jamie deserves some indulgence.
On the field, the Tampa Terriers have the ball. They’re at about midfield and dragging the possession out in what feels like inch-by-inch increments. They’re probably going to at least kick a field goal, but it hardly matters. The score doesn’t count—you actually don’t even know who’s up at present.
“The Train’s going in,” another woman calls amiably over her shoulder as you excuse yourself gingerly past the seated row and head towards the back of the room, where the bartender will place your concession order.
“Shit,” you mutter. “Okay. Give me a yell if anything good happens.”
The room is thick with TV screens, but you aren’t really watching as you lean on the bar. It only takes a moment to tell the guy what you want and place a rolled-up fifty in his tip jar for the trouble, but you are mildly hypnotized by the shining glass bottles of booze. Christ. If things don’t start getting much better, maybe you’ll turn into an alcoholic, and your career willreallybe in the shitter. It’s a morose, morbid intrusive thought, and you have to physically shake your head to dispel it. You have maybe three units of alcohol a month. Maybe a bit more during awards season. You’re such a lightweight that you get drunk at the drop of a hat. Everything is fine. (You still avoid ordering the shooter of Patrón that you were eyeing).
You’re facing the window but too far up to see anything, half-distracted by trying to slide your wallet back into your tight jeans, when a collective gasp of horror goes up from the women in the two rows of seating. Instinctively, you glance at the nearest TV. A player is down on the field, flattened likea pancake. He’s not moving.Oh, shit.You blink. His jersey is Cyclones green. It takes a long, stupid moment before the 99 on the jersey registers in your brain and the synapses and neurons fire up the connection.
It’s Kai. Kai’s hurt.
“What happened?” you exclaim. It comes out like a shriek.
