“You go have something,” he says, distracted. “I’m not hungry.”
You’ve never seen Kai so hyper-focused on anything. Then again, you’ve never actually watched football with Kai.
The suite is set up a little differently from the ones in Miami. Behind the double rows of seats at the window, there are high tables facing the glass. In the middle of the room, comfy chairs are arranged in pairs aimed at the big plasma TVs on the walls. Along the back wall, there’s a wet bar and a long counter covered in a buffet of finger foods, along with a full-sized fridge. Peeking inside, you see that it’s stocked with sparkling water, hard seltzers, and bottled beer. You’re trying to run the calculus on how many seltzers it would take to make you less unhappy about being here as opposed to how many you can get away with downing and still be a good boyfriend, given the fact that Kai isn’t supposed to be drinking alcohol in his current state. Maybe the contemplation gets you well and truly distracted, because you don’t hear Sophie Aziz until she’s right behind you.
“Ster!” she purrs. “It’s been, like,forever.”
Knowing in an instant that you will need to be fortified for this conversation, you grab a can from the fridge and close it as you turn around. “Hey, Soph,” you say, leaning in so she can kiss the air over both your cheeks. “What are you doing here?”
She rolls her eyes. There have been songs written about them; so very many that you’ve lost track. It’s true that they are striking, the color of a winter sky. Is that how the guy from One Direction put it? Or was it John Mayer? You can’t remember.
“I’m here with Sheldon,” she says. “I’ve gotta be honest with you; I know nothing about football.”
“You’reherewith Sheldon?” you repeat blankly. “Like, here? Together?”
Her lips curve. “Babe, don’t you follow the gossip? I figured that you’d be more current on this stuff. We’ve been officially dating since the Met Gala. Three months before that, too, just on the DL.”
Your mind whirs. It’s September; the Met Gala is always the first Monday in May. That’s almost half a year. Sheldon is around 50, and you attended Sophie’s 25th birthday party… just a few years ago?
It’s like she can read your mind. “Don’t tell me thatyouof all people are going to get prudish on me,” she sighs. “Age really is just a number, especially when you live the kind of lifestyle we do.”
You pull the tab on your can and put it to your lips. “Sorry. I absolutely wasn’t implying anything negative. I’m very happy for you both.”
“Thanks,” she says, absently twirling the diamond-studdedSon her necklace. “Speaking of the gossip… what the absolute fuck is going on withyou?”
“Excuse me?” you manage, as the fizziness of the drink hits what feels like a roadblock in your throat. Sophie waits politely until you’ve stopped coughing.
“Oh, you know.” She wiggles her fingers for dramatic effect. “You’ve always been sopure,know what I mean? So worried about your reputation. It’s your first big scandal. Everyone hates your guts. How’s that treating you?”
There is not enough alcohol in the world for this conversation, especially not in the strawberry-guava bitch beer that doesn’t even burn going down. Her blasé tone and pronounced vocal fry go right through you like a knife to the skull.
“Can’t say that I’m loving it,” you say. You are aiming for “breezy,” but your tone settles on “ill-disposed.” Your fingers are denting the can where you are holding it too hard.
Sophie clicks her tongue. “Don’t sweat it so much. Do you know how many times my sister and I have been cancelled? People eventually forget it and move on. It’s not like youkilledsomebody. I mean, Mark Wahlberg beat the shit out of two Asian guys and got nominated for an Oscar. Your fans will get over it.”
“Soph,” you say between gritted teeth, “you and Izzy literally wore blackface in a magazine shoot, and you’ve crashed your car in a pedestrian plaza while you were fucked up on cocaine and vodka. I didn’tdoanything.”
She frowns. “That’s kind of mean of you to bring up, honestly. I’m just trying to make you feel better, since you are obviously allkinds of pressed about it. God, Ster. Maybe consider getting over yourself?”
She flits away before you can respond. You know Sophie well enough to realize she won’t stay mad (and thank god, because how many more people can you piss off?), but the interaction still galls you. You down the rest of the can and grab another before making your way back to Kai. While you were occupied, the two teams were introduced and ran out of their respective tunnels. You’re surprised that he glances at you when you sit down.
“I thought you were getting food?” he asks.
“Didn’t see anything I wanted,” you demur.
The team captains meet in the center of the field for the coin toss. Kai should be there with them, but, instead, he’s watching carefully, his nose all but pressed to the window. Miami wins the toss and defers. The defense takes the field. You lace your fingers with his.
“Who’s playing your position?” you ask Kai, realizing belatedly that you probably should know that.
“Hmm?” he asks. “Looks like they’re putting Books in. ‘S a good choice.”
The jersey of the player lined up in Kai’s spot on the outside of the offensive tackles doesn’t say “Books.” He notices your confusion.
“He graduated from Harvard,” he offers. “Not really a big football school. So, he’sBooks.SometimesIvy. Depends on the day.”
According to the commenters, who are serendipitously discussing this very topic, Books’ real name is James Wainwright III. He’s tall and lean: 6’5”, 220 pounds. In his official picture, he looksyoung.Even for a rookie. Pale, with sandy hair and a gap-toothed grin that makes him look about 15. Maybe you’re just getting old.
The first possession is unremarkable. Philly gets one first down straight out of the gate, but Miami stalls them after that.
