Page 43 of Colliding with Ten

Mateo leaned against the counter, looking at me as if deciding whether to say what he was thinking. “You know, guilt doesn’t make people laugh like that.”

Grabbing my bag off the wooden bench, I headed for the door. “Keep me posted,” I said.

Halfway down the hall, I was still smiling. Hearing about Ayla made the rest of the day feel lighter. My throws were looser, and my reads faster. I tried not to overthink why I felt so good.

The season's pressure was building, so when Shay called, I told her she could come over. The press had already written our story. Hand-holding had turned into headlines about power couples and relationship goals. None of it was real.

We saw each other when our schedules lined up, which wasn’t often. In those rare gaps between flights and obligations, we didn’t pretend it was more than it was. She kept things simple for her own reasons, and when we were together, it worked.

She came over on Thursday, letting herself in with the key I’d given her back in August, when my head was uncomplicated. I heard the door, then her heels on the marble in the entryway.

I was in the kitchen with an ice pack velcroed to my shoulder, watching the news. She sat at the island and watched me make a protein shake.

“I don’t know how you drink those things. They taste like paper,” she said.

“Well, good thing you’re not here for the shakes.”

She pulled the band from her hair and shook it loose. “Definitely not.”

The news anchor’s voice broke through. “In sports news tonight, authorities are investigating another break-in at the home of a professional football player. This time, police say the residence of Dallas tight end Kenny Holmes was burglarized while he was traveling with the team for Sunday’s away game.”

My hand stilled on the blender lid. On the screen, aerial footage showed a large gated property washed in blue and red police lights. Yellow tape stretched across a side entrance. A reporter stood near the curb, one hand pressed to her earpiece as she spoke over the footage.

“According to police, no one was home at the time, and no injuries have been reported. Investigators say several high-end items and cash were taken. This marks the second reported burglary involving a player in less than three weeks . . .”

Shay turned toward me. “That’s scary.”

“Yeah,” I said, but my voice sounded far away as I wondered if Ayla was being safe.

Shay looked back at me. “Do you have security?”

“Yes.”

“I mean, good security?”

My eyes stayed on the television. “Better now.”

That seemed to put her at ease, but the news had put me more on edge for reasons I didn’t want to think about. We ordered food and talked about a shoot she’d done that day in Malibu. I listened, or rather tried to. My eyes kept drifting to the game film paused on my laptop across the room. For a time, she didn’t notice, or I thought she hadn’t. Then she reached over and closed it.

“You’re off the clock.”

“I know.”

“Do you?”

I looked at her then. She was watching me with a stare that made me aware of how far away I was.

Later that night, the lights were low. She was straddling me, thighs warm against my hips, her mouth on mine. I kissed her back. Then—too quick to stop—I imagined she was Ayla.

Jesus.

I must have reacted because Shay stopped the kiss. Pressing her forehead to mine, she checked on me. Her breaths were controlled. Mine weren’t.

“Hey,” she said, piercing me with a look in the dimmed light. “Are you all right?”

I closed my eyes, ashamed. Shay didn’t deserve this. She had come over, reminding me that I was a person and not just a quarterback, and this is what I gave her in return.

“I’m sorry.”