Page 118 of Colliding with Ten

“You know what makes you good at what you do? It’s not the arm. Plenty of guys have good arms. It’s the way you see things. Micro-movements, body language. You know how to read people, Lennox. You’re tuned in to what’s happening in your space in a way that most people aren’t.”

He looked at me straight. “If you felt a connection in that room between the two of you. I’d bet on it. And chances are, whatever you were feeling, she was feeling it too.”

His words touched a place that had been hollow all week. “Then why hasn’t she called?”

Jace shrugged. “I don’t know. But you haven’t called her either.”

I opened my mouth, then closed it, thinking. “She left in the middle of the night, without even saying goodbye or waking me up. She just snuck out.”

Jace tilted his head. “And you’re hurt about that.”

“I’m not—” I stopped, then decided to be honest. “Yes.”

“Okay. Have you considered that if you’re scared, maybe she is too? The phone works both ways. You’ve been walking around all week like somebody canceled Christmas and haven’t picked up the phone to ask her what’s going on. You’re not moping because she left. You’re moping because you don’t want to be the one who goes first again. But somebody’s gotta go first, and it might as well be the guy with the stronger arm.”

I gave him a look that said, ‘Really?’

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I heard myself say it, too. It was corny, but it doesn’t mean I’m not right.”

I considered his words. Jace had good instincts. We knew each other well. I’d been throwing him the ball since college, and as a friend, he’d been loyal. He hadn’t given me bad advice yet.

“Think about it.” He clapped me on the shoulder. Then he walked back toward the catering table, because Jace’s emotional availability had a time limit.

I turned back to the rack and pulled off an Austin Ottone hoodie, an Avirex jacket, and Chrome Hearts jeans. The diamond necklace I always wore would sit at the collarbone, bringing everything together. I was holding the combination up in the mirror when the door opened.

Zariah Brooks walked in, smiling, taking full command of the room. She was in a tailored dress that hugged her frame, her dark skin shining under the lights.

“Hi,” she said. “I’m sorry . . . I didn’t realize both of you would be here.”

She offered her hand, looking surprised. I took it. She gave a confident handshake and held my gaze.

“Lennox Monroe.” Her lips curled into a smile. “I’m excited about this interview.”

“Likewise.”

She turned to Jace. “And you must be Jace Rockett.”

Jace straightened, mid-chew with a slider. The half-demolished piece sat in his right hand, sauce glistening on two fingers. He stared at her as she smiled wider.

“I just have to say, your catch last game in double coverage? That was incredible. I watched it five times.”

Jace nodded, chewed, his jaw moving in slow motion. Processing the food and her presence had seemed to overwhelm his operating system. He grunted something that might have been “mm-hmm.”

She waited as Jace lifted a finger, indicating, “one moment”, and swallowed. “Yeah. Good throw.”

He looked at me when he said it. Good throw? The man whose routes made highlight reels, whose contract was the largest in his position's history, had just credited his best catch of the season to the throw.

Zariah chuckled, recovering without a stumble. She was a professional through and through. “Well,” she said, turning back to me, “I’m looking forward to sitting down with you, Lennox.”

“Same.”

She smiled at Jace and headed back out. Jace still held the slider, his eyes fixed on the door she'd left through.

“What?” he asked, without looking at me.

“You had one job.”

He frowned back at me. “I didn’t embarrass you.”