Page 44 of High Notes & Hail Marys

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Thanksgiving sees you up bright and early for a 9 AM home game—another win, and what the hell? The Cyclones are looking likecontenders—and then, as soon as you’ve showered, debriefed, and said a few words at post-game pressers, you’re at the airport boarding Sterling’s jet to meet him in Connecticut for a holiday weekend with his family. Out of consideration for your schedule, the big holiday meal has been moved to the next day. It’s incredibly thoughtful of the Graysons. Your own mama is not best-pleased about you not putting in an appearance at the 2024 Reinhart Thanksgiving Spectacular, which will involve aunties, in-laws, neighbors, and no fewer than four turkeys being deep-fried in peanut oil on the patio, but she lets you go with a sigh and a promise tobring ‘round that famous white boy who’s got you all twisted up in knots.

There’s a whole flock of butterflies making your gut churn, though you aren’t sure why. It’s not conceit to say that you are the kind of guy that parents love. All your high school girlfriends’ families adored you, and not just because they picked up the subconscious vibe that you wouldn’t impregnate their baby girls. You have good manners. You’re considerate.

You’re two hours into the flight when it hits you: this is a big deal. With Sterling, you have learned to count milestones in unexpected places. Beinginvited to meet his parents and stay the weekend with him in his family home is amuchmore momentous event than you guys sleeping together for the first time or being photographed as an official item on the red carpet. This is Sterling revealing another piece of himself. His history, where he comes from. You have nothing but respect for the weight of the gesture, and you are hellbent onnotfucking up.

At the White Plains airport, you are greeted not by a driver, but by Cal in a white Toyota Highlander with local plates. The shock of it almost does you in. You glance around surreptitiously to ascertain that there’s nobody else there, but it really is just you two. He declines your offers to help to stow your luggage into the roomy back of the SUV. When you both are in the front seat, the captains’ chairs pushed all the way back, you are more than slightly terrified.

“Happy Thanksgiving, Cal,” you say, breaking the silence. “Sterling tied up at home?”

His face reminds you of an Easter Island moai behind his big sunglasses. Notably, it’s gray and cloudy outside. “Happy Thanksgiving to you, Mister Reinhart. Mister Grayson said to tell you that he’s occupied with his baking and to please not text him. He takes his baking very seriously.”

“Oh, I know he does,” you say. A beat, and then: “You know,” you venture, “you could just call meKai. Or Kaius, if you want. When people say ‘Mister Reinhart,’ I still think my old man’s behind my back.”

“Thank you, Mister Reinhart,” he says politely, keeping his eyes on the road.

So much for that.

“Ster tells me that you never played ball,” you say, gathering your courage. It’s not a long drive from the airport to the Grayson’s house as per the GPS, but you figure that it will last an eternity with no conversation. “Don’t take this any way but admiring, Cal, but you are built like a tank. How did nobody ever try and put you on a defensive line?”

He barks out a laugh. “You flatter me.”

“It ain’t flattery if it’s the truth,” you say. “Big guy like you could’ve probably walked on in college and maybe even made the Association just by existing. What do you squat, six-fifty? Guys would look at you and drop the ball.”

“College was never gonna happen for me,” he replies simply. “Didn’t even graduate high school.”

“Oh.” Struck dumb, you fumble to recover the conversation. “Sorry, man. I didn’t mean…”

“No need to feel embarrassed,” he says. “Not ashamed of it. There wasn’t any money forextracurriculars when I was growing up. Cleats and uniforms and all that. By the time I was a teenager, I was too busy gang-banging to get involved. The homies all preferred hoops, anyway.”

Rather than ameliorating your awkwardness, all his honesty does is make you feel like a privileged shit. You are worried that anything you say in response is going to make you sound like the Black equivalent of a white savior. After a prolonged moment, you ask, “What changed?”

“Money,” he says bluntly. “Combination of a few lucky breaks and some hard work. Mosta the guys I came up with didn’t make it. Dead or doing time.”

“Is being a bodyguard the job that makes you happy?” you ask. “Do you see yourself doing this long-term?” It’s not the right thing to say, and you sound like a tool when the words hit your own ears.

“Mister Grayson is the best employer I’ve ever had,” he says. “And believe me, I’ve had a few. I hope this is the last job I ever work. Anyway, here you are, Mister Reinhart.”

While you two were talking, Cal pulled up to a nondescript gated driveway and punched a code into the box. The Grayson house is up a long driveway, set back from the street. It looks… refreshingly normal. It’s a two-story ranch set on about an acre of land, enough to have some privacy, but nothing especially unusual in the affluent suburbs around it. There are wind chimes hanging from the front porch. A basketball hoop is set up outside the two-car garage.

The sky is threatening rain and is heavy with humidity when Cal parks. He waves off your attempt to grab your suitcase and carry-on, so you make your way to the front door. Noemi answers your knock. Her long, dark hair is twisted off her neck with a claw clip, and she’s wearing a luridly ruffled apron that says ‘Kiss the Cook.’

“Hi, Kai,” she says. You don’t want to scare her off with a hug, so you settle for a smile.

“Good to see you,” you say. “I like your apron.”

“Oh God,” she mumbles, turning red. She turns her head and calls over her shoulder, “Ster! He’s here!”

You follow her into a modest foyer, which gives way to a living room and open-plan kitchen. Sterling nearly collides with you, scurrying around the blind corner as you are rounding it. There is a smudge of something red and sticky on his cheek, and the front of his own apron—hot pink gingham with embroidered flamingos—is an absolute mess. Heedless of being smeared with chocolate, flour, and whatever else is on him, you let him pull you into a tight embrace and resounding kiss.

“I’m so glad you’re here!” he enthuses. “Noemi isready to quit the cookie marathon. I need another set of hands.”

“We didn't bring Kaius here towork,” a warm voice protests. You look up from Sterling’s arms and are met with a confusing sight—a woman who looks young enough to be Ster and Noemi’s contemporary, but, by process of elimination, can only be his mother. She is short, with a curly chestnut ponytail and a great smile. Only after a second look do you notice the faint lines in her face and hints of gray at her temples.

“You didn’t tell me you had another sister,” you admonish Sterling.

“Oh, come on!” the woman protests, coloring prettily.

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