Page 138 of Colliding with Ten

I texted Lennox from the gate. Landed, but still being held hostage by the seatbelt sign.

His response: What’s taking so long?

I smiled. Even his texts were impatient today.

The taxi ride to his house moved at a snail’s pace. He met me at the door and hugged me, moaning in my hair. Then he pulled back, and it changed.

“Hey,” he said, already turning away and not giving me the kiss he promised.

I reared back. “Hi to you too.”

“Yeah, sorry.” He ran a hand through his hair. “I just . . . give me a minute. I’m running behind. I’m supposed to be at the stadium already.”

He moved through the house, restless. I’d never seen him like this. Lennox could stand in a collapsing pocket with three-hundred-pound men closing in and deliver a perfect pass. Now, he opened drawers and paced the living room, eyes searching for what, I didn’t know.

I watched him spiral. “Okay. Do you want to try that again?”

He stopped, turned, and exhaled. “I’m sorry. I’m being an ass.”

“You are,” I agreed. “But I’m assuming there’s a reason.”

He nodded and swallowed. “It’s pre-game. I get . . . I’m the worst to be around right now. It’s like everything in my head is the game, and I can’t turn it off, and I know I’m being short with you⁠—”

His hands fidgeted as he adjusted a pen and straightened an already neat stack of mail. This was Lennox’s version of AJ reorganizing the kitchen cabinets. They needed control on the field, calm in the pocket, but at home, they could fall apart. I almost laughed. I’d left one anxious man in New York for another across the country.

“How long have you been like this?”

“Since this morning.” He paused, thinking. “Since yesterday, maybe. I didn’t sleep well.”

“When’s the last time you ate?”

Guilty silence.

“Lennox, you’re about to run around on the field for two hours.”

“I had a protein shake at—” He checked his watch. “. . . eleven.”

It was after two.

“No wonder you’re cranky.” I dropped my bag. “No worries. I’m starving anyway. What’s in your fridge?” I asked as I opened it.

Lennox tried to stop me. “That’s . . . wait⁠—”

I paused, closed it halfway, then opened it again. Inside the refrigerator were two types of mayo and mustard. Bottles of water filled the top shelf. The produce drawer was empty, and on the middle shelf sat a pickle jar with one pickle floating at the bottom.

I stared at it. “So this is your last surviving pickle?”

He groaned. “I know.”

“There’s no food in your fridge, Lennox.”

“Dammit, I should’ve ordered something for you. I usually eat at my parents’, and they’re not home now. They’re at the stadium, tailgating.”

He looked upset, like this was the final proof that he’d failed today. “I was really looking forward to you being here. And I didn’t even think⁠—”

“Hey.” I turned to face him. “It’s okay.”

He shook his head. “It’s not. You flew out here, and I didn’t prepare. You’re hungry, and there is nothing to eat, and I’m being⁠—”