Page 154 of Colliding with Ten

By morning, there was still nothing from her. I’d left three messages, each shorter than the last. I had to be careful because I could hear myself getting more tense, and if she was listening, I didn’t want to sound like a man coming apart, even though I was.

The worst part was not knowing. If she’d called and screamed at me, at least I’d have something to work with. I could handle anger or blame. What I couldn’t take was absence. My mind kept imagining what might be happening, and none of it was good.

The person I met before Buffalo would have me thinking she was running, just like she’d run from her father’s house and run from my bed. Ayla ran when she got hurt or scared. But we were past this now. What was paramount was her safety.

In the morning, I went to the facility and started my regimen. My body fell into a routine, doing what it had been trained to do while my mind was three thousand miles away. The front office sent someone to pull me out of the weight room for a meeting.

The conference room table was crowded. The general manager, head of PR, two assistant GMs, and a lawyer were there. Coach Reeves stood against the wall with his arms crossed, his expression unreadable.

Every major sports outlet had run its version of the story. The Hawks issued a statement calling for a league inquiry into “potential competitive intelligence violations.” They alleged that Ayla, through her fellowship access to their training facilities, gave the Stallions information they exploited during our last game. I would have laughed if it weren’t so serious.

The league office made an unofficial call that morning. The word “unofficial” did heavy lifting because the message was clear: sort this now, or we open a formal investigation into sports espionage. A formal investigation meant subpoenas, document requests, player interviews, and the sort of circus that no organization wanted within a hundred miles of a playoff push.

“We need to be clear about this,” the general manager said, looking at me across the table. “Did Ayla Callahan, at any time, provide you with information about the Hawks’ roster, their injury reports, or their game planning?”

“No. Never.”

“Not even in passing? A conversation about her work, a comment about a player’s condition?”

“She talked about the fellowship and what she was learning. She never named a player, described an injury, or gave me anything that could be used competitively.”

The lawyer made a note. The GM nodded.

“For the record,” Coach Reeves said from the wall, and every head turned, “the game plan for the Hawks was made by our defensive coordinator using film study. Micah Miller’s ankle was visible on broadcast tape from the previous week’s game. He was limping on the sideline. Our DC saw it. That’s what we pay him to do.”

The room was quiet as the GM looked at his notes. “The league will be satisfied. We have the film. We have the game plan notes. We can show the chain of preparation, and none of it touches Ayla Callahan.” He paused. “But that’s the easy part.”

It was, because the truth was a jogger and lies were a jet. The allegations were out, and by the time the investigation ended, her career would already be damaged. The facts were on her side, but the narrative was salacious and irresistible to every outlet chasing clicks.

“We need you in front of cameras today,” the head of PR said. “The press conference is already scheduled for this afternoon. We’ll add this to the agenda. You address it, and you shut it down.”

I nodded. Then I asked the question that had been on my mind since I’d seen the first headline. “What’s happening on her end?”

People shifted in their seats, while some exchanged glances.

“The Hawks have suspended her fellowship pending their own review,” the GM said. “Her access to the training facility has been revoked. We don’t have details beyond that.”

My stomach dropped. The muscles in my jaw tensed. They’d taken her fellowship because of photos that proved nothing except she had the bad judgment to care about me. She was out on her own as I sat in a conference room with lawyers and executives discussing how to protect the brand.

“I’ll do the press conference. But I’m not just addressing the competitive integrity angle. I’m addressing her.”

The PR head hesitated. “Lennox, we recommend keeping the focus on⁠—”

“I’m addressing her,” I repeated. “I’m not going to stand behind a podium and let a room full of reporters reduce her to a ‘security breach’ without defending her integrity.”

Coach Reeves uncrossed his arms. He didn’t say anything, but the look on his face said: That’s my quarterback.

The press room was full, standing-room-only. Cameras lined the back wall, and the front two rows were packed with reporters holding phones and recorders. I sat at the podium in a navy blazer over a vintage SpongeBob T-shirt featuring Squidward. The press wouldn’t understand what it meant because I was talking to Ayla, hoping that if she saw this, she would know and call me. Presentation mattered, especially today.

The first ten minutes were softballs—questions about my concussion symptoms and the upcoming matchup. The team’s playoff positioning was also a hot topic. I answered each one, choosing my words carefully. Anything could be used as ammunition, and I wasn’t handing anyone a loaded gun.

Then it began. “Lennox, there are photos that show you’re in a relationship with Ayla Callahan. Given her role as a medical fellow for the Hawks, can you address the allegations that you received inside information about their roster?”

I leaned into the mic and dropped my voice. “I’m going to say this once.” I looked into the camera to address the audience. “I’m not here to discuss my personal life. But I am here to talk about professional integrity, because right now, it’s lacking.”

Reporters in the room fidgeted. Their pens stopped moving.

A different reporter jumped in. “The Hawks looked exposed in that game, Lennox. Did Ayla provide you with information about players’ injuries?”