Page 141 of Colliding with Ten

I needed to move. Hide or run. But where? My knee wasn’t at a hundred percent after the photoshoot flare-up. I couldn’t sprint down stairs or jump out a window. I was a dancer, not an action hero. We all think we’d know what to do in a situation like this. We rehearse it in our heads and imagine being brave and resourceful. Then it happens, and you’re sitting on a bed with your heart in your teeth.

Another sound, closer this time.

I scanned the room. What did Lennox keep here? A lamp, too awkward to swing. A small candle that smelled like sandalwood, but unless I planned to scent my attackers into submission, it was useless. I thought of the SpongeBob figurine and the Heisman trophy, but those were sacred. I wasn’t touching them unless I was about to die.

Then I saw his old Stallions football helmet on the shelf. It wasn’t a weapon, but it was hard enough to break a nose and easy to replace.

I slipped out of bed, my bare feet meeting the plush rug. Every dancer’s instinct kicked in as I walked on the balls of my feet. I grabbed the helmet and gripped it with white knuckles. In my head, I heard Lennox’s voice: Really, Ayla? You gonna tackle him? My other defensive plan was hoping that whoever was downstairs didn’t come upstairs.

Backing toward the far corner of the room’s closet, I passed a tall mirror. My reflection was wide-eyed and pale. Maybe I was overreacting. Maybe this was all one big⁠—

My phone vibrated in my hand, and I flinched, almost screaming. I pressed my lips together and swallowed the sound. Lennox’s name flashed on the screen, and I pressed the phone to my ear with shaking hands.

“Lennox?” I whispered.

“Ayla?” His voice was clipped. He sounded annoyed and concerned at the same time. “You okay? I saw your missed calls. I’m in the middle of a game.”

I was relieved to hear him. “There’s someone in the house. Is someone supposed to be here?”

Silence. Dread crept up my spine.

His voice dropped low. “Where are you?”

“In your room.”

“Ayla, listen to me.” His voice was rough now. “No one is supposed to be there but you. My bedroom door is a security door. Lock it and don’t move.”

“Are you sure⁠—”

“Now, Ayla!” he shouted.

I ran, slammed the bedroom door shut, and threw the deadbolt. The lock clicking into place was the most beautiful sound I’d ever heard. Then I winced, realizing my error. I shouldn’t have slammed the door. Now, whoever was here would know someone was home. Maybe they would leave. I hoped.

On the other end, Lennox moved, his breathing picking up pace between the distant, muffled roar of the stadium.

“Lennox,” I whispered, pressing my back against the door, the helmet still in my hand. “I’m scared.”

“I know you are. But I need you to stay where you are. Don’t open that door for anyone. I’m getting help.”

From the other side of the door, footsteps were on the stairs. They weren’t leaving, and I’d drawn them to me. I could kick myself. They would be at my door in seconds.

34

THE BLINDSIDE

LENNOX

It was halftime, and the scoreboard was ugly, down by ten. This team had one of the league’s best defenders, a guy about to break the sack record. It was impressive how fast he moved. Twice, this six-four, two-hundred-seventy-pound wall of muscle slammed me to the ground. I gritted my teeth while my offense failed to string together two clean drives.

Coaches barked orders and new plays in the loud locker room. Some players hydrated, legs shaking with adrenaline. The humid air reeked of sweat. On the bench, I studied the defense on the tablet bouncing against my knee. Every time I thought I knew what they were doing, they gave me a different look. I was eager to get back out and fix whatever wasn’t working.

Coach’s voice boomed. “We tighten up protection, spread them out. Monroe, they’re begging for the inside throw.”

I nodded and glanced down at the tablet again. The phone light flashed from my duffel. No one usually called on game days. Grunting, I ignored it and tried to focus. The screen kept lighting up. I leaned in, ready to turn it off, then saw Ayla’s name. I hadn’t warned her not to call, but she knew this wasn’t the appropriate time.

Thirteen missed calls? Something was wrong. I hesitated—I’d be back on the field in eight minutes—but my gut said this was important. Before I could second-guess myself, I dialed her back.

She whispered my name on the other end.