“Wow, you guys,” you start. “I’m kind of at a loss for words.”
Thirteen thousand people chuckle politely.
You blink, and instinct kicks it. No matter how many times it happens, winning Grammysnevergets old or less humbling. You have, however, done it before, and you know the drill. Hoisting your statue, you clear your throat.
“I know I’ve said this already tonight, but this album wouldn’t be possible without my producers, Zhavia Devayne and Graham Middlebrooks. All great art is a collaboration, and I couldn’thave done it without the best in the business. My whole team at Indigo Records, my man Frish, I love you guys. Thank you for giving me creative free rein and trusting me on this project. My agent, my manager; I’m so grateful. Thank you to Liane Kelley, who co-wrote five of the tracks with me, and to Cari-Lynn Stanwyck, my piano coach, who constantly pushes me to expand my skills so that I can write better music. I want to thank my parents and my sister for always being my rocks, and everyone with Grayson Enterprises who keeps me sane day after day. Thank you to my fans, who always,alwayshave my back. You guys are the reason I do this, and I love you with my whole heart.”
You swallow thickly. You didn’t rehearse or even kind of plan this next part, but, in this momentous instant, it’s about to happen. You know exactly where Kai is sitting, but you train your gaze over the heads of the crowd, letting your vision go starry in the bright lights so that you feel safer with what you’re about to say.
“Last, but not least, I want to thank my partner. Not only did he inspire a lot of the tracks on this album, but I, um.” You take a deep breath. “The last year and a half has been the most challenging, thrilling, amazing time I’ve ever known. There would be noGoldenwithout him in my life. I feel honored and privileged that he could be here tonight to share this experience with me, and I hope that I’m writing songs about him for a long, long time. I love you, Kaius.”
You look up and smile for the money shot, the picture that you know is going to grace a hundred thousand Hollywood websites, blogs, social media pages, and Grayling fan portals in the morning.
It won’t be until around noon the next day that you see it on your phone, thumbing idly through your feed over a very late breakfast. You are drowsy and bleary from a long night of after-parties, interviews, photos, and congratulations, and not at all looking forward to the plane ride home. While Kai makes your coffee and cooks you pancakes, you idly wonder if you can drag him into the bedroom on the jet for a few more hours of cuddling and sleep. At the other end of the table, your sextet of gold-plated gramophones blare silent harmonies, all lined up in two rows. The smell of cinnamon and vanilla wafts through the air, and the California sun is shining so brightly that it ought to be a crime. You are very tired, and very, very happy.
Chapter Twenty-Six
@ESPN:As the sun goes down in San Francisco, there are just over 24 hours between now and victory for either the Miami Cyclones or the Washington Commodores. It’s an East Coast smackdown in the Mega Bowl, and the whole country will be watching. Pre-game coverage will be running all day on the network and on our app. Now’s the time to place your prop bets: how long will country legend Shania Twain hold the high note on the National Anthem? Will Post Malone bring out any guests for his much-anticipated halftime show? How many times will the cameras pan to Sterling Grayson and his entourage? Click HERE for player interviews, words from the coaches, and expert predictions to keep you busy on the night before history gets written.
***
Kai’s nervous.
Kai’s nervous, and you’re trying your best not to let it get contagious. At the Hilton Santa Clara, all the Cyclones players are tucked up in their respective rooms over two floors, which have been cleared of all guests but those associated with the team. Curfew was 10 PM, shortly after the team dinner at a nearby restaurant’s banquet room. Coach gave one last pep talk, reminded the guys not to try anything stupid, and dismissed them to go rest. Outside the windows, the city is one big celebration. Thousands upon thousands of people are in townfor the Mega Bowl, including plenty of revelers who couldn’t get their hands on tickets, but just wanted to be present for the party of the year. The distant sound of fireworks and the splashy lights of the stadium just across the street are distracting, to say the least. A ton of fans are milling outside. They’re tailgating, selling unauthorized team merch, and flouting open container laws to throw back their body weight in beer. Pre-gaming the pre-game so hardcore that you are actually super impressed.
It’s been a long time since you slept in a hotel that wasn’t boutique, five stars, and luxe as hell, but Kai’s assigned room is clean and comfortable, with light wood paneling and a soft king-sized bed, and you aren’t a snob. Besides, you are happy to be with Kai. An old movie is playing on the TV, out of respect for Coach Beausoleil’s request that the players not stay up late obsessively watching game coverage, and the single bedside light is the only one on. You’re curled up on your side, idly flipping through a book that you aren’t really reading, and Kai is flat on his back in his boxer briefs and an undershirt, his hands clasped on his belly. To an outsider, he probably would appear at peace. But you know better.
“If you jiggle your leg any harder, you’re going to shake me off the bed,” you say lightly.
“Sorry,” he mutters. He cracks his knuckles. Crosses his ankles, and immediately uncrosses them again. “‘I’m just keyed-up.”
“I know you are,” you tell him. “What would help? Do you want to call someone? Your mom? Sandy?”
“Hell, no,” he grumbles. “Mama would make things even worse, and you know I’m right. I told her that I’ll see her after the game tomorrow, and not one second earlier. Sandy might have alreadygone to sleep, for all I know. He’s got a newborn. Getting an overnight at a hotel is probably like a vacation for him.”
“Hmm.” You rack your brain. “Do you want to take a bath?”
Kai stares at you wryly. “You seen that tub in there? It’s not exactly built like yours or mine. I sit down in that little-ass coffin, I’m getting stuck.”
“Okay, true,” you concede. “Whatdoyou want to do?”
“I want to sneak down to the gym and run five or six miles on the treadmill while I blast some music,” he complains. “That way I’ll be exhausted and maybe wind down. But Coach would pitch me out a window if I got caught.”
“Not a good idea,” you agree. “You wanna get worn out? We can have sex. I wouldn’t suggest we be too loud, because these walls are kind of thin, and you’ve got teammates on either side and below us, but I’m sure we could work something out.” Raising an eyebrow, you bite your lip and shrug in what you hope is an enticing manner.
He looks aghast. “I can’thave sex, are you kidding me? They say it’s bad mojo. Can’t take any chances.”
Skeptically, you run a hand over his bare thigh. His skin is hot, and the little hairs rise under your touch. “How would you know? Did you have sex the night before you guys lost your last Mega Bowl?”
Pinning you with a withering glare, he reaches down and physically transplants your palm to the mattress. “I can’t drain my vitality,” he insists.
“O-o-o-kay,” you say. “Your body is a temple of strength and chastity right now. Got it.”
“When you say it that way, you make me sound superstitious,” he groans. God. Not only is he nervous, you realize, he’s probably tired. Like a toddler refusing to go to sleep. For the last week, he’s been eating, sleeping, and breathing Cyclones football: practicing, drilling game film, running drills, and texting members of the defense group chat. And, when he’s not doing that, he’s been wrapped up in the pre-game media frenzy, doing interviews both solo and as part of the team. The Cyclones’ plane touched down in SanFran on Tuesday, and you flew over Friday night, but you’ve barely seen or heard from him since you guys spent the night together after the awards show. For all that you’ve heard Coach repeatedly tell his guys to approach the Mega Bowl like it’s just another game, it’s most definitelynot.
“Nothing wrong with a little superstition,” you tell him consolingly. “From what I understand, a lot of athletes are superstitious. Lots of musicians, too. Nobody’s a bigger weirdo about rituals than me when I’m touring. I get it. Lie back and close your eyes.”
“What?”
