Page 58 of Colliding with Ten

Announcements blared through the terminal. The airport was waking up. Flights were resuming, and reality was dawning.

I excused myself to freshen up and limped to the bathroom. Sleep-tousled curls and tired eyes looked back at me in the mirror. I brushed my teeth, splashed water on my face, and tried not to think about how quickly time moved when you wanted it to slow.

When I returned, he was already by the departures board, my duffel slung over one shoulder next to his backpack. He looked back when he heard my steps.

“Your flight to New York is here.”

I nodded. “Yours?”

His eyes flicked to the board. “Yeah. We’re both up next.”

We turned to each other. Silence fell, the moment strained, knowing we’d run out of time, but not words.

“Well.”

“Yeah.” His voice was rough again. “Guess this is it.”

I nodded, trying to smile. “Thanks for everything.”

He stepped closer, touching my hand, then leaned in and pressed a kiss to my cheek, short-circuiting my brain. “Get home safe, Ayla.”

I nodded again, unable to trust my voice. Turning away was harder than I expected. I started down the corridor toward my gate, feeling his eyes on me the whole way. When I glanced back, he was still watching.

I told myself not to look again. I’d already said goodbye, but when I reached the escalator, I couldn’t help myself.

He walked away, hoodie half up, backpack strap across his chest. Then he stopped, turned back, and our eyes met one last time. That same mischievous smirk I’d grown to like too much in too little time curved across his mouth, and I smiled back before the escalator carried me out of sight.

14

INSTANT REPLAY

LENNOX

Denver was two weeks ago. I texted Ayla when I landed, made sure she got home safe, and that was it. I told myself it was fine and tried not to dwell on why it bothered me.

We were at home against Philadelphia. Late in the fourth quarter, at our one-yard line, players were stacked on both sides. Bodies leaned, and at the snap, they clashed. The offensive line pushed towards the end zone. I kept the ball and made it through the pile to score the touchdown.

Noise exploded around me. It took time for the pile of muscled men to move. Helmets collided with mine in celebration, but I was distracted by a jolt of pain. My left pinky was wrong, the tip at an unnatural angle.

Turning away from the nearest camera, I snapped it back into place, the finger straight again. Pain shot up my arm. I flexed and curled my hand, then jogged back to the sideline like nothing had happened.

Later, in the training room, it caught up with me.

“Dislocation,” the doctor said. “You’re lucky.”

“I don’t need a splint,” I said.

“You do.”

I ran my hand through my hair and paced as the team doctor and Mateo watched. “Christ. Fuck this. It’s not my throwing hand.”

“We still have to treat it. Splint for about a week to let the joint settle back in, and then buddy tape it.”

I grunted. The press would be salivating over another injury story. Fuck. My. Life.

I grabbed the doctor’s shoulder and looked him in the eyes. “Am I gonna play Doc?”

He shrugged. “If . . .”