Page 124 of Colliding with Ten

29

THE BLACKOUT

AYLA

It was Sunday, and AJ was out jogging, using his free time to work out. The Hawks had their bye week, so they weren’t playing today. He had been gone since four p.m., running laps in Riverside Park.

Meadow was at the far end of the couch with a mug of tea and a food magazine in hand. I was drinking my second glass of wine while watching the pregame on TV. The Stallions were playing against Buffalo tonight, a prime-time game which the network had been promoting all week.

The past two weeks were full of contradictions. At work, everything went well. The fellowship grew from observation to participation. Hill let me assist with assessments, trusting my hands and eyes to help the players. Two days ago, he told me my instincts were good, and I should consider the next step. I began thinking about school again.

Then I got home, checked my phone, and felt the floor cave in. Lennox hadn’t reached out. I deserved it. If someone left me without a goodbye, I wouldn’t have called either. But knowing this didn’t lessen the hurt. Maybe he didn’t care, and that felt worse.

I wrote messages, many starting with ‘hey’ and ending there, since ‘hey’ felt like showing up at a house on fire with a garden hose. Nothing I typed explained what I’d done or did so without my hands shaking. I took another gulp of wine. I thought leaving was the right decision, but it didn’t make me miss him less. I took another sip. Maybe the wine would keep me from thinking about him.

The pregame panel returned, four men in suits behind a curved desk. Highlights from other games played on the screen behind them as they ran through each conference's playoff picture. The Stallions led their conference, the Hawks second.

Then the hosts switched gears. A split screen came up. Lennox was on one side, the Buffalo quarterback on the other. The headline read: RIVALRY RENEWED: STALLIONS AT BUFFALO, 8:20 PM ET.

“Up next,” the host said, “our exclusive sit-down with Stallions quarterback Lennox Monroe. This one’s a must-watch, folks.”

Meadow’s head shot up to the screen. My face flushed. I wasn’t sure whether it was the wine or the shock of seeing him on screen.

The interview opened on a wide shot of the studio, Lennox sitting across from a woman I’d seen a few times. She was beautiful. Her cocoa-brown skin was luminous, and her tailored dress hugged her hourglass figure, still visible even as she sat on a couch. She had the kind of body many women dreamed of having. The screen read: Zariah Brooks.

Lennox sat across from her, hair coiffed, and his eyes were the brightest blue I’d ever seen. It was like standing in front of him. I missed him so badly it became a physical ache in my chest.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Meadow said.

“Shh.”

She chuckled.

The interview started with football questions and a season outlook. Zariah was good. She listened and pushed for more in the right places. They had chemistry, and I hated seeing it. I wondered what the story was, then chided myself for how careless I’d been. I had no right to know now.

Then the questions shifted to his personal life. Zariah brought up the Denver airport video, and my hands started to shake. This, again. I wanted to go one week without hearing about it.

“When people talk about my game, that’s fair. That’s part of the deal. I signed up for that. I’ve never been the guy who expects a pass when I mess up on the field. The criticism stings sometimes, but I can take it.”

He paused and looked Zariah straight in the eye. “But when it comes to who I care about, who I spend my time with, that’s different. That was never part of the agreement. That was never something I opened up for debate.”

I sat up. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Meadow lowered her mug beside me.

Zariah tilted her head. “So when the media or the public speculate or criticize your private life⁠—”

“They cross a line. Every single time.”

Zariah paused for effect, then asked, “Are you okay with being judged for personal decisions you make, especially when some of that judgment carries . . . let’s say, insidious implications?”

They were talking about race, about the people who dragged me through the mud because I, a Black woman, dared to touch their precious quarterback.

He sat up straighter. “I’m not here to manage other people’s ignorance. And I’m not here to explain who I spend my time with to people who think they have the right to know about it.”

Leaning forward, I listened as the air left my lungs. Knowing he was willing to draw that line made me feel wanted in ways I never felt before. Not because he was white, but because he was choosing me over what others may believe or say. My father never did that

“I’ve seen things written. Heard people try to make it about politics, about image, about race. About what a quarterback is supposed to look like and who he’s supposed to stand next to in a photo. And they used it to attack someone.” He shook his head. “It’s unacceptable. But I wanted people to know I don’t care about these misguided opinions.”

He paused, and I held my breath. My heart was beating out of my chest.