Page 10 of Colliding with Ten

I looked at Tre. “You get one-on-one, you win.”

“Every time,” Tre said.

“When I move, you move with me.”

The offensive line nodded.

Then I looked at everyone again.

“We are the team that gets better under the lights.”

A murmur moved through the room.

“We take control early, and we don’t give it back.”

I leaned forward. “So execute. Do your job. Trust the man next to you. And when they look up in the third quarter, wondering how the game got away from them, don’t let up.”

Jace slammed his hands against the bench. “Hell yeah.”

The room erupted. Men hit their pads and lifted their helmets together.

Eli shouted: “Who’s ready to lay down sixty minutes of ass-whooping?”

The men shouted in agreement. Reeves held my gaze and nodded. When they wrote about this game in history, it would stand as the beginning of one of the most epic championship runs. That was my belief in what we could do.

We lined up for the tunnel. The stadium roar grew louder with every step. I rolled my shoulders, holding the helmet. Theo stood behind me, Eli in front. Jace was to my right, vibrating with energy. We walked towards the waiting light. Whatever New York had for us tonight, I was ready for it.

3

LIGHTS OUT

AYLA

The stadium had a heartbeat. Fifty thousand people double-stomped to Queen’s We Will Rock You for Sunday night football. Boots rocked the concrete above us until I couldn’t tell where the music ended and I began.

Standing in the wings, my squad lined up to be announced. With hard work, I’d made the Flight Crew. Although it was the first game of the season, our routines were tight, as if we’d danced together for years, not just weeks. Our captain, Savannah, walked the line with her perfect pageant posture, inspecting every detail, even the angles of our smiles.

“Don’t forget to breathe, Ayla,” she said, winking at me.

I nodded, pretending my nerves were about the routine, but they weren’t. My stomach was doing jumping jacks for AJ. This was his first full game as a starter, and his shot to prove he was meant for this.

The stadium dimmed. My heartbeat synced with the rumbling bass line. The announcer’s voice broke through the dark.

“Please welcome your New York Hawks Flight Crew.”

The crowd roared. I lifted my chin and squared my shoulders.

It was showtime.

We burst into the stadium in formation to cheers, our golden sequins scattering against the Hawks’ purple. The music kicked in: a live-band remix of a popular song. Drums pounded, brass and bass sliding with perfect tension. Our bodies snapped into motion, dancing as a single unit. Kicks flew high, arms sliced the air, every landing hitting one thunderous beat. The grand finale had twenty women dropping into splits and hitting the ground in perfect synchronization.

The crowd’s roar hit all at once. We held the pose for two breaths before fireworks ended the final note. The band played us off. Adrenaline surged as I saw women watching in awe, men smiling, and children waving as if we were superheroes. This was why I loved performing: the feedback loop of joy. You give it, and they give it back louder.

It was time for the game to start. The announcer’s voice boomed again. A mix of cheers and jeers greeted the visiting team as they poured out of the tunnel. New York loved a villain almost as much as it loved a hero.

Their villain tonight was Lennox “Lights Out” Monroe, number ten and quarterback for the Los Angeles Stallions. He read defenses so well that he often rewrote the story you thought you were coming to watch. By the time the opposing crowd caught on, their favorite quarterback was already outplayed under his own lights. But I hoped that wouldn’t be the story tonight.

When Monroe walked onto the field, the atmosphere changed. The crowd’s response said it all: a mixture of boos and grudging admiration. His team gathered around him, turning their heads towards him for cues. Even a lineman who must have weighed three hundred pounds stopped talking and adjusted his stance when Monroe looked at him. And while other players moved with frantic energy, Monroe moved as if in slow motion.