You smile warmly, and hold her hug a moment longer than you normally would. You enthuse about how much you liked her last movie, which you watched on the plane ride over exactly for this moment. The compliment makes her blush. It’s a relief when a PA comes and tells her that they are ready for her on set. She probably had more to say, but she obediently trots off after the assistant, her high heels clicking on the floor.
It seems like it takes forever for Chris to be ready for you. Finally, you get your cue, and you cross the stage to his desk. The studio audience goes nuts. It’s hard to see them with the glareof the lights, but they sound young and largely female, which tracks. Just like it always does, the roar of their adulation perks you up, and the smile you give Chris is genuine. You sink down into the chair beside his desk and cross your legs at the ankle.
“Sterling Grayson!” Chris crows. “Welcome to the show.”
“Thank you for having me.”
“So, you just concluded the Goalposts Tour. Triple-digit nights on stage, hundreds of thousands of fans. Unprecedented ticket sales. The Grayling hashtag on social media called it “the battle of the century” trying to get seats. And now, all of a sudden, it’s in your rearview. What does life look like these days?”
You laugh. “A lot more relaxing, obviously. There’s nothing that fulfills me like being on the road. I love interacting with my fans every night and performing the songs, obviously. But it’s nice to take a break, too.”
“What’s on your itinerary?” he presses. “What doesrelaxinglook like for you?”
“I have a lot more time to read, which I love. My TBR pile took a serious backseat for the last couple of years. I get to spend more time with my dogs. And my partner plays football, so I’m looking forward to not missing any home games this season.”
“Yourpartner?” Chris repeats, an eyebrow cocked. “You say that so casually, like you didn’t just melt the heart of every Trainspotter in the audience. If there’s any fan more passionate than a normal Grayling, it’s a shipper of you and Kai Reinhart. How is he doing? Getting ready for next season?”
The grin on your face is like Coca-Cola—the real thing. You roll your eyes fondly.
“We are both very active people,” you say. “He’s working out a lot. I’m in the gym most days of the week, but he’s next-level. I’m trying to stay limber for dancing to pop songs, and he’s trying to knock over guys shaped like refrigerators. We’re not the same.”
Chris leans over the desk. “What’s the best part of watching football for you? Is the food good in those VIP suites? Do you enjoy putting together your outfits? People are always buzzing about your game-day style. Or is it really just the thrill of watching jacked dudes in tight pants roll around on the ground?”
Your first reaction to that is that you prefer it when Kai’s wearing no pants at all, but that’s not something that you could ever say out loud to anyone on Earth. So you cock your head and start to tick things off on your fingers.
“That was a bunch of questions!” you say. “Um, the food is always amazing. The Hard Rock has a concessionaire that does lemon-pepper yucca fries to die for. I always make my friends try them when they come to home games. As for the outfits, yes, it’s a ton of fun. Kai got me a custom jersey for Christmas, and I predict that one will get a lot of play in the new season. And, really, when I’m watching the guys in the tight pants, all I’m thinking is that I have to up my squat PR. Again, the football workout is like nothing I’ve ever experienced. They’re so, so strong.”
If Chris is dismayed that you took a borderline-skeevy question and made it family-friendly, he gives no indication. The conversation shifts to how different it is visiting an NFA stadium versus performing in one (very), your favorite TV shows to watch on your limited free time (you and Kai sometimes catch one or two episodes ofSchitt’s Creekbetween commitments because they are short and mindless), and what your diet is like now thattour is over (a lot fewer calories, heavy on the protein/low on processed and inflammatory foods). It’s pretty painless. Before you know it, the director is yellingcutand the adjacent stage is being readied for your performance. There’s going to be about an hour-long break, and you are thinking that you need to run to the bathroom before hair and wardrobe get their hands on you. The audience’s chatter is a steady buzz. The doors to the soundstage are open, as they are free to come and go during the intermission in filming.
“Great interview,” Chris comments, rolling his neck. He stands up and stretches. “Probably going to pull the highest ratings of the year, if I had to guess.”
You shrug. “It’s always good talking to you.”
He flops back in his chair. Takes a long pull from a disposable bottle of alkaline water that was hidden somewhere in the recesses of the desk. “Can I ask you a question?”
“You just asked me a bunch of them.”
“Off-record.” He gestures with his chin at the fish-eyes of the cameras, which have nobody behind them at the moment.
It’s very tempting to sayno, I don’t think so, Chris.To get up and go find a restroom. But the vestiges of your pre-fame tendency towards people-pleasing flare at the oddest times, and that’s probably what compels you to nod.
“The whole thing with Heller,” Chris says, making a dismissive gesture. “It’s bullshit, right? I mean, you can’t answer that. Don’t bother. It’s just that… you know, I know your team said you wouldn’t address it. But, man, why not? Nobody’s gotten a soundbite of you denying it. Total radio silence. Wouldn’tit be good to, like, tackle the elephant in the room? Make a statement?”
You’re bristling. You’re bristling so hard that you swear you can actually feel the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, like a porcupine on the defense. Your lips curve into a smile.
“I trust my team,” you say. “We’ve been over it and over it, and we’re where we want to be in terms of controlling the narrative. If I have something to say, I’ll say it. In the meantime, no. I don’t have anything that I want out there.”
It’s a non-answer, just a huge mouthful of evasive word salad. You are almost impressed by how much bullshit you just extemporaneously vomited.
Chris chuckles, as if you said something funny. He chugs a little more water, and wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his expensive bespoke suit jacket.
“Just saying,” he counters. “My show is one of the biggest stages in America right now. You decide you want to get chatty instead of taking thestay quiet and look prettyapproach, just give my people a call.”
That’s the point at which you calmly and politely excuse yourself to get ready for the next segment.
Inside, you are seething.
It rankles you all throughout what’s left of the hour, as anonymous hands pull at your hair and slick it into an insouciant bouffant. As you are helped into a pleather bodysuit, your exposed skin dusted with multicolored glitter. Makeup brushes glance over your skin and setting spray makes a chemical cloud in front of your face like something in a cartoon.
