Page 112 of Colliding with Ten

I read it back. Hated it. It could mean anything depending on how he read it, and I had no control over that. I was exhausted thinking about this. So I hit send before I could take it back. Then I turned it off, put the phone in my bag, and pressed my palms against my eyes until I saw spots. I hated myself.

My flight boarded twenty minutes later. I found my window seat, tucked my bag underneath, and stared out at the tarmac as the plane filled around me. The sun was coming up over the hills, and I thought about him waking up to it without me. Would he reach for me? Would the empty side of the bed tell him what I couldn’t say?

The plane pulled back from the gate, taxied, and lifted. Los Angeles tilted beneath me and faded. My hand went to my collarbone, right where he’d left his mark, and I didn’t move it for the entire flight home.

25

THE PLAY

LENNOX

Iknew before I turned over. Rooms felt still when you were the only one in them. I lay on my stomach, eyes closed, facing the wall. I turned over anyway. Her side of the bed was empty, the sheets cool. I stared at the ceiling, then turned and pressed my face into her pillow, inhaling her scent, holding on to it.

She was still there in the only way she could be, through the smell of bergamot from her shampoo. But there was another scent too, one that was just her. After Denver, it had driven me insane for two weeks. I caught the memory of it in the film room, rewinding the same third-and-seven coverage four times before realizing I wasn’t watching anything on the screen. After the photoshoot, I fantasized about her hair against my jaw in the hotel room. The memory of her scent drifted through the truck as I drove home from practice. I spent the rest of the drive telling myself to get it together, but I failed.

Now it was soaked into the pillow, and before I buried my head in it, there was the impression of her curls. It was a sprawling shape across the cotton, changing the bed and making it look like a place I wanted to be instead of where I slept.

I lay there a few more minutes before getting up. I checked the bathroom—not because I thought she’d be there, but I still hoped I was wrong. I walked through the house. The rooms were undisturbed, except for a faint trace of her in the air. I knew she wasn’t here. Confirming it was hell.

In the kitchen, I made coffee. While it brewed, I stood at the counter, arms folded, teeth grinding. She hadn’t promised me anything. Her leaving wasn’t a betrayal. She never said it would be more. I knew that. But my jaw was still tense.

I found my phone in the living room, where I’d discarded it before sweeping her off her feet. Four texts from Jace about the film session this afternoon, and Mateo about the week’s schedule, which I ignored. One came from my mother, sent at four-thirty in the morning. Retirement had freed her from respecting waking hours. She said Ayla was lovely and hoped I knew what I had there. I stared at it, shaking my head, then moved on to Ayla’s text.

I almost stayed.

I’d been careful with this. More careful than with anything that wasn’t football. I hadn’t rushed her or crowded her. I’d given her every exit, because I wanted her to stay for the right reasons. I thought if I was patient, if I kept my mouth shut and let this breathe, she’d stop thinking about why it couldn’t work and let it work. But she left while I was sleeping and sent me three words that told me she’d almost done what I’d asked. Almost. She stood in the dark and chose to leave without waking me, without giving me the chance to say a single thing. Not even goodbye. So yes, Mom. I knew what I had there.

Football had never done that to me, even with torn ligaments and broken bones that hurt like hell. Ayla had seen pieces of me I hadn’t laid bare in some time. I’d told her what I wanted. I’d let her see how much she mattered. I kept going over the night, looking for the mistake. Maybe something I said or pushed too hard on. Maybe something I failed to say. Maybe letting her see that much of me was the mistake. I didn’t know. That was what kept cutting. But I’d done it again. I’d somehow left myself open to being left behind.

I thought about responding at least ten times. I had things to say, but I’d already said them in the dark, as best I could. I told her I wanted to try—or at least, I thought I did. We had sex, which usually didn’t mean much, but last night felt different. I didn’t expect her to show up with a suitcase or blow up her life. I just needed to know this wasn’t the end. She’d made her decision. I wouldn’t reach out and ask why. She deserved to come back on her own terms, or not at all.

I picked up the coffee and walked to the glass wall. The hills were pale in the early light. I’d stopped seeing this view a long time ago, but I looked at it now, because at least then, I didn’t have to look at the empty bed or pillow I’d already decided I wasn’t washing for at least a week. It was a small concession. Nobody had to know about it.

In the meantime, I had a list as long as my fucking arm. Film session in four hours. Game plan to review. The offensive coordinator wanted forty-five minutes before Wednesday. There was a season to finish, a ring I still hadn’t won, and an organization paying me too much to lose focus. Football had always been the answer. I told myself it still was.

I finished the coffee, rinsed the cup, made the bed, and left her pillow where it was. Grabbing my keys and phone, I stood in my bedroom doorway and looked at the empty side. Then I left.

I was at the facility by six-fifteen. Morning sessions didn’t start until eight, and nobody expected the starting quarterback to be there before the strength coaches had coffee. I started in the weight room, alone, which was how I preferred it today. Lower body first, because a quarterback’s power starts from the ground up.

I almost stayed.

I racked the bar and moved to the bench. Chest press and rotator cuff work, because quarterbacks who neglected their rotator cuffs became quarterbacks who couldn’t throw.

She almost stayed. The illusion of last night I’d gone to sleep believing—the one where she was in my arms, and we’d stopped pretending this wasn’t what it was—had a shelf life of about four hours. Whatever was on the other side of that decision—AJ, her father’s failures, the team finding out—it outweighed everything I’d put on the table.

By seven, the facility was filling up. I moved to the film room. Game tape from Sunday’s opponent was queued up on the screen. My phone rested on the table beside me. I checked it. Nothing. Flipped it over.

The defensive coordinator I’d be facing Sunday liked to disguise his coverages pre-snap. His safeties crept toward the line to suggest a blitz, then rotated back. The counter was patience and pre-snap read discipline. I needed to slow my processing down and not commit early.

Maybe I pushed too hard with the dinner and my parents. Maybe I took something still forming and pushed it into a room full of expectations. I was still no closer to an answer. I noted the protection scheme and got back to work.

Team drills started at ten. I ran the offense through the week’s install, including red-zone packages and two-minute drills. I checked my phone between reps. Nothing.

Jace jogged back to the huddle and tossed me the ball. He tilted his head, studying me the way he studied a cornerback’s leverage before the snap.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I’m fine.”