Page 11 of Colliding with Ten

Under the stadium lights, he was magnetic. Tall and square-jawed, he was built for the position, with broad shoulders that filled out the jersey just right and a sizable neck. His clean-shaven face made him look more like a teenager than a man in his mid-twenties. It was obvious why they called him “the face of the league”. Okay, fine, under those lights, he was unreasonably attractive, but he was also a conference rival of the Hawks.

I tore my gaze away, trying to remember why I was even looking. There were plenty of attractive men in the league. I had no interest in any of them, and AJ had already given me no less than twenty lectures about football players and their game stats, on and off the field. Yet my heart gave one hard, traitorous thud as I looked again.

God damn it, Ayla, stop looking. I had to get my mind back on the game, on cheering for the team I believed in the most, and my brother, who led them.

We lined up at the tunnel exit. Pom-poms snapped and shimmered as the brass section hit its cue. Our players ran out to cheers and applause.

The announcer shouted. “Starting at quarterback . . . number twelve, AJ Callahan!”

The stadium erupted. I’m sure I screamed louder than anyone, but it wasn’t a competition. My brother broke through the tunnel, eyes blazing, every ounce of him ready. Pride burned in my chest. When his eyes flicked my way, I lifted my pom in the smallest salute.

You got this.

The teams met at midfield for the coin toss. AJ and Monroe, both quarterbacks and captains, stood face to face. The crowd roared for AJ, hissed at Monroe, and the cameras ate it up. The Hawks won the toss but deferred, giving the Stallions first possession. It was a bold move.

The whistle blew, and it was war. Every drive was a slugfest, with each team answering every possession, putting points on the board. AJ was holding his own. When he was on the field, he was relentless. I exchanged looks with him a few times, and he gave a tight smile in response.

At the start of the second half, both teams looked rougher, grass-stained, and sweat-soaked. Everyone except Monroe, who still looked clean because his footwork and pocket presence kept him almost untouched by the defense.

In the late third quarter, the Hawks turned their stalled drive into a field goal and took a three-point lead. The stadium erupted again, and our squad cheered. I looked over to the other sideline and saw Monroe already standing, his helmet in his hand. Payback was coming.

I kept forgetting to perform, too busy watching AJ. He was amazing. Three months ago, no one thought he’d take a snap. Damon King’s name was still on the marquee. Now the Hawks led by three against a rival with a Heisman Trophy-winning quarterback. AJ looked like he belonged, not like someone given the opportunity late.

We maintained our enthusiasm between plays, dancing and cheering. Theresa then leaned in and grinned.

She shouted over the music, “Your brother’s killin’ it tonight,” and I felt a great sense of pride.

The cheering grew louder, a roar pushing our defense. They were one of the best in the league. Their performance tonight was helping to keep the score close. Suddenly the people nearby lurched, voices pitching from excitement to horror in a heartbeat. Theresa’s smile froze, and her eyes widened as she looked past me.

I never got the chance to turn.

A freight train of muscle and momentum slammed into my left side. The pain detonated through every nerve. I screamed as my leg contorted. The world spun. Everything went dull as my head hit the turf, the crowd’s noise garbled in my head. All I saw were lights, too bright, too close, searing.

Then, through the lights, a face. Blue eyes, ice-blue and frantic, stared down at me.

And just like that, the world went dark.

4

COLLATERAL DAMAGE

LENNOX

The girl was passed out. The crowd kept taunting, Lights Out! Lights Out! Like it was part of the show. Tonight, I’d made the nickname literal. Not by choice, of course. Gotta say, I wasn’t a fan.

Our teams had been trading blows all night. Their rookie QB was holding his own; I’ll give him that. By the third quarter, the Hawks were up by three. Then came third down with eight yards to go, the ball at their twenty. The play came through my helmet, and I relayed it to my guys. They lined up, and the defense changed their formation in a way I didn’t expect. Something was off.

Then I saw it. The setup was wrong. If you play long enough, you start feeling that itch in your spine, the one you develop after years of people trying to take your head off.

I tapped my helmet, called an audible, and changed the play at the line. Players moved, and the play clock expired as my center snapped the ball. The pocket collapsed anyway. With receivers covered and pressure bearing down, I spun left, ducked a defender, and pivoted right to an open field. So, I ran. I’d run track in high school. I was fast then, so good luck catching me now.

Turf tore under my cleats as I sprinted past the line. Two yards. Five. Seven. I was almost there. A shadow lunged at my periphery. The hit was coming, and I was supposed to slide to protect myself. But it was third down, and I had to get those eight yards, or we could lose the ball with nothing to show for it.

The impact exploded into me with bone-rattling violence. The world snapped sideways, the field became sky, and the sky became a blur of colorful lights. As I flew over the boundary line, people scattered, gear clattering to the ground. I crashed into someone. There was a scream.

“Shit.”

I stumbled to my feet. She was a crumpled heap, her leg twisted at an odd angle. Damn. It didn’t look good. I knelt beside her. Her eyes were open but dazed, her breath ragged. A tear slid from her eye before her lids fluttered shut.