Page 62 of Colliding with Ten

“I told you, there’s nothing going on.”

“I didn’t say something was going on. Not in that way. But I think something’s already happened, whether you’ve realized it or not.” She let me go and pulled on her jacket. “I’m not saying it to punish you. I’m saying it because I actually like you, and it’s a little sad, watching a guy this smart be the last one in the room to figure out his own face.”

“My face?”

“You should see it. Go back to the video.” She smiled at me with sympathy. “Anyway. Good luck with whatever that turns out to be.” She kissed my cheek and walked out the door, the lock clicking behind her.

I stood in the entryway after the door shut, replaying her words. I tried to remember what my face looked like in the video. I looked happy, sure, but we were being silly with each other. It’s easy to look happy in a situation like that. I could only chalk this up to Shay misunderstanding everything.

But that faded as an old, familiar ache hit my chest. I’d never figured out the relationship part, but this part—the ending—I’d gotten good at the ending through repetition. There were others before Shay. I always told myself I didn’t want more, that this was how it worked for a guy with no room for anything but football. I never fought to keep anyone. I made it easy, never asked them to stay. And now someone had lost interest in me again, even though they hadn’t asked for much.

Shay hadn’t hidden anything. I just hadn’t looked up to see it happen—same as always. I gave everything to the game and whatever was left to people in my life. If I wanted a different result, it wouldn’t fix itself by accident. I didn’t know if I had it in me yet, but I knew nobody else could do the work for me.

That was one night of deciding I needed to pay better attention, then seven days of doing what I’d always done: burying myself in football and letting everything else sort itself out. It didn’t, because the next week, the video with Ayla and me took on a life of its own. People spliced footage of us at the airport and on the sidelines of the football field. They replayed that collision from three angles, set to pop tracks like a romance-movie montage. They slowed it down, zoomed in, and reframed everything. People wanted a story and were damn sure going to tell one, whether it was true or not.

Then Simon called again while I was watching film from my couch. “There’s a company,” he said. “Forge and Flight. They make upscale athleisure. They like what’s happening online.”

I sighed, not liking where this was going.

“Just hear me out,” he said, noticing my hesitation. “They’re not interested in exploiting it,” he continued. “They want to shape a story. Two athletes who’ve been injured but recovered. They think the chemistry between you two can build a story.”

I leaned back on the couch, less annoyed, and considering this was a good opportunity, not for me, but for Ayla. It could be positive press for her with a narrative we could control.

“And?” I asked.

“They want to sign you first.”

I thought about it. “I won’t say yes unless she does.”

There was a pause.

“They’ll ask her.”

“And if she says no. It’s a no from me too.”

There was a much longer pause.

“It’s a lot of money.”

“I don’t care.”

Simon sighed. “Okay.”

“And Simon?” I said before he could hang up.

“Yup.”

“She gets paid the same as me.”

I could picture his startled look.

“Lennox—”

“The same,” I repeated. “My standard fee.”

“She’s not a big name.”

“She’s doing the same work, and I don’t care about the money.”