Page 44 of Colliding with Ten

She looked thoughtful. I think she sensed I was sorry for more than being weird around her. I rested my forehead against Shay’s shoulder and caught my breath. I forced myself back into the room, accepting the choice I’d made by letting her in. Ayla didn’t deserve to be dragged into my head like this. I had met her once and spoken to her twice, and nothing justified any of this.

An hour later, I turned over in bed and told myself it was the pressure of the season. It would pass. It had to. A championship was on the line. Everything else was noise.

Pulling my mind back to the field the next week, I refocused on the work. Momentum was fragile. One bad Sunday could undo weeks of work and belief, so we kept the pace brutal. I tried not to think about what happened with Shay.

Later one night, while icing my knee, I scrolled and saw a post from the Hawks Flight Crew. I had started checking their account daily for updates since our game in New York and had seen some videos of Ayla earlier in the pre-season. This week’s spotlight was on Ayla. I stopped and clicked.

The video opened with her laughing. She had an upbeat energy as she talked about dance and being part of the team. The segment had been filmed after her injury, so she talked about her recovery. Then, she joked about being restless and learning to practice patience.

I watched it again and again. By the fourth time, she had taken over my thoughts. The interview stuck with me, replaying in the back of my mind between drills and meetings. I caught myself smiling alone in the locker room and shook my head, disappointed in myself. I blocked the Flight Crew’s social media after that.

New England was next, and we got down to business. No celebration happened beyond the locker room. My mind was already in Denver, where my foundation had a fundraising event I’d been planning for months. We supported families facing food insecurity. Mobile pantries and school meal programs were part of the work that didn’t always trend, but changed lives. Football was important, but this was too. I hadn’t grown up hungry, but I’d seen it in Illinois. Now, I had the money and the platform, so I used it.

Denver was supposed to be quick: a charity event, donor roundtable, then back on a plane before my body noticed the time zone change. The storm had other plans. By the time the event wrapped, the snow was swallowing headlights. When I reached the airport, nothing was moving. Commercial and charter flights were grounded. The boards flickered from delayed to canceled in ruthless waves, every update tightening my chest. I couldn’t afford to lose a day.

I could’ve gone back to a hotel. Everyone suggested it. But if a plane moved, I needed to be on it, so I headed for the VIP lounge to wait it out.

And that’s when I saw her.

The knee brace propped on her suitcase caught my eye. Then the hair, those curls with the honey highlights that I’d been trying to forget for a month. I stopped walking, pushed up my shades, and looked again.

Ayla Callahan was sitting in a corner by the window, stranded in the same airport as me, and the universe was either punishing me or handing me a gift. But there was no way I wasn’t gonna try and figure out which it was.

11

THE PROMENADE

AYLA

Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, snow whirled sideways under the floodlights. Runways were blanketed in white. Snowplows flashed their orange lights as they tried to clear paths that would be buried again in minutes. The loudspeaker came on with another cancellation, drawing another groan from the restless passengers.

I was in a corner with my luggage. My carry-on made a perfect leg rest, and my coat doubled as a blanket. I had a paper cup of tea and a romance book I’d grabbed at the bookstore. I picked it because the cover had a pastel sky, which in my mind meant the book was low on the spice scale. But around chapter fifteen, the author abandoned butterflies and accidental touches.

My eyes widened at the words on the page. The heroine was now being pinned against a wall by the sort of man mothers warned their daughters about. Mouth open, my hand came up to cover it as heat climbed my neck.

“Oh my God,” I whispered to myself, flipping the page.

Every paragraph made it worse—no, better. The tension and the way the author wrote his hands. His hands. I didn’t know hands could be that attractive. I mean, they’re hands. They pick up stuff and throw footballs. I cleared my throat as an image of Lennox throwing a football flashed into my mind.

My fingers pressed against my temple, trying to shut off the images my mind imagined. The images of the man in the pages and Lennox were bleeding together. The hero’s hands, voice, frame, and that damn mouth were starting to look like a quarterback in California. I shut the book halfway, but couldn’t forget it.

“Oh no, we’re not doing this.” I fanned myself with the pages like that would help.

Then a shadow fell across the book. I glanced up, expecting a playful child or an airport employee. But no, this person was big. He wore a grey sweatsuit, the fabric soft and new, with one pant leg and sock pulled halfway up his leg and the other loose around his ankle. Taller than most men, he carried his physique with confidence. Every detail could’ve walked straight out of the paragraph I’d just read.

My gaze traveled upward, my pulse climbing with it, helpless to stop myself from admiring his broad chest, strong shoulders, and hands in his pockets. A hoodie covered his head, hiding earbuds and sunglasses that concealed most of his face. Then he lifted a hand and slid off his sunglasses, the hood following. My breath stopped. If I had been standing, my legs would have given out right there.

Lennox was here, as in here at Denver airport, looking unaffected by the madness. The corners of his mouth curved into a smirk, a familiar look to other pictures online. Wait, was that delight on his face? A face that said, Well, this just got interesting.

“Fancy seeing you here,” he said, in a low voice, filled with amusement.

The voice was his; the intonation and cadence, I’d know it anywhere. That was bold to admit, considering I'd barely known he existed until a month ago. I suppose with my book daydreaming, I could have imagined him standing here, but no way could I have crafted such detail alongside his voice, too. My romance novel was still open in my lap to a page that might combust under his gaze.

“Lennox?” my voice cracked.

He smiled and tugged out the earbuds. “Was headed to the VIP lounge when I saw you.” His gaze moved downward. “Your knee brace caught my eye.”

I lifted an eyebrow, still trying to remember how to breathe. “My knee?” I looked down at it as if it had created a grave offense. “You recognized me from my knee?”