Page 115 of Colliding with Ten

She tapped her nose. “Baker’s nose. After twelve hours a day around ovens, you learn to catch things before they burn. I can tell when a croissant is a minute from done by the smell, or when someone’s switched the vanilla extract. So when my boyfriend’s sister doesn’t smell like herself, I know.”

“They should hire you at the FBI or something.”

She quirked her brows. Meadow would remember this. She had context AJ didn’t. We’d talked about Lennox before, and she’d seen me light up over his texts. I had to be careful. I didn’t want Meadow telling AJ, or worse, lying to protect me.

“Go shower.” She squeezed my arm. “You look exhausted.”

“I love you,” I said, meaning it in twelve ways, at least three being thank you for not saying any of this in front of AJ.

My heart hammered as I entered my room and closed the door. I peeled off the jeans and the bra I’d clasped with shaking hands in Lennox’s bathroom. Then I took off everything else, leaving the pile on the floor. Every piece carried traces of his scent.

I turned the shower on as hot as it would go. The water hit my shoulders and swirled down the drain. I pressed my fingers to the mark on my collarbone, relieved the water couldn’t take that.

After the shower, I wiped a streak through the fogged mirror. I reached for my phone on the counter and turned it on to see Lennox’s response. The screen lit up with AJ’s missed voicemails and texts, escalating from casual to concerned to all-caps. My brother was about to call the hospitals when I showed up.

And under Lennox’s name—nothing. Presumably he’d read my message, but with read receipts off, it sat there delivered and unacknowledged.

I almost stayed.

I stared at it, then put my phone down. Lennox was probably mad, and I didn’t blame him after the way I left. With no response, I couldn’t think of what to say to make it right. His non-response hurt more than I expected. But it didn’t change my mind about walking away. For the first time in my life, I was making decisions for myself. I couldn’t lose that, not even for Lennox. Maybe one day I’d be ready, but right now, I still felt like I was learning to stand on two feet. I couldn’t ask Lennox to wait while I figured it out.

I put on the shirt I’d stolen, wanting him around me. Then I pulled another shirt over it and put on shorts. I went back to the living room, where AJ’s game film was playing.

Sitting on the couch, I pulled my knees to my chest and stared at the TV as the Hawks’ defense lined up against the Stallions’ offense. Lennox was under center. He threw a perfect spiral into the far sideline.

AJ pointed to the television. “See? Watch our safety. Watch what they do to him on this play. He was hurt, too.”

I watched, but not the safety. I watched Lennox. And I hated myself for it.

27

GAME-DAY WALKTHROUGH

LENNOX

As I moved the hangers from left to right along the wardrobe rack, it squeaked. My stylist had selected a black tailored Balenciaga blazer, a black tee, and relaxed trousers for me. The colors matched my mood, but I wasn’t feeling the look. Three rows of outfits hung in the backstage green room, and I grew anxious that the outfit I needed wasn't there.

In thirty minutes, I had an interview with Zariah Brooks, a sports reporter doing a feature that would air before the Buffalo game. She would ask questions about leadership and preparation—answers I could recite in my sleep. Yet here I was, fifteen minutes in, treating a wardrobe choice like a third-and-goal call.

Yeah, I wanted to look good. I was going on national television. But I also wanted to look good for Ayla. I wanted her to stop and remember what it was like the last time we were together. Football hadn’t distracted me from missing her. She was constantly on my mind, and I reached for the phone repeatedly. We hadn’t known each other long, and it didn’t make sense that I spent so much time thinking about her.

Preparing for this sit-down, I learned something that changed my perspective. Maybe it explained why she left. Now, I wanted to reassure her through this interview that people’s opinions had never changed anything for me and never would.

I hoped she’d see this interview. And then what, call me? Here I was, a grown man, franchise quarterback, staring at clothes and hoping my outfit would do what my pride wouldn’t: make the first move. Not the strongest plan.

Behind me, Jace lounged on the couch by the catering table, one knee up, paper plate loaded with wings, fries, sliders, and bacon-wrapped something. He’d attacked the spread since we arrived.

“You wearin’ the funeral one?” he asked around a mouthful.

“It’s not a funeral suit.”

“That’s what my mama says about all-black. It looks like somebody died.”

I pulled a navy jacket off the rack and held it up against my chest, checking the mirror.

Jace squinted. “That one says you pay your taxes on time.”

“It’s Prada,” I huffed, and put it back.