Page 125 of Colliding with Ten

“I know who my parents raised. I know who I am as a man. I don’t need the world’s approval to know when I’m making a good decision. I’m not going to justify how I feel about someone to people who don’t know the first thing about what it means to care about another person, especially if that person doesn’t look anything like what they expect.”

My eyes burned, and I couldn’t move my hands.

Zariah nodded in understanding, allowing his words to land. “So what I’m hearing is . . . You protect what matters.”

“Always. And I don’t apologize for it.”

That’s when the first tear fell.

Zariah held his gaze. She respected him, possibly not just because of the interview, but also on a more personal level.

Meadow hadn’t picked up her mug again. I stopped breathing. My hands had the blanket in a death grip. My throat was a knot; I couldn’t have spoken if I’d tried.

The interview cut to a highlight package. I sat there, wet-faced, wrecked, staring at the television. God, I needed to put the wine down.

Meadow turned to me, her expression a mix of awe and exasperation. “If you don’t go after that man, I’m leaving your brother and doing it myself.”

I laughed and released a breath, wiping my eyes with the heel of my hand. I was relieved she wasn’t pretending she didn’t know about us anymore. She’d watched me mope around the apartment for two weeks. AJ hadn’t noticed anything because he was too busy with the season. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Yes, you do. You’re just scared of what it would do to your relationship with AJ.”

She was right. I was scared. Every time things got hard or complicated, I ran. I’d run from my father when his expectations became too much. Then I’d run from Lennox’s bed when we were just starting to figure things out. Running was my first instinct, my default setting. But leaving him had never made me want him less.

I convinced myself leaving was the smart choice—the one that wouldn’t let me fail or disappoint anyone, even myself. But watching Lennox defend me to the entire country, when he shouldn’t have to, made me question who or what I’d really been protecting myself from.

The front door opened, and I wiped my face. AJ walked in, sweating through his hoodie.

“What did I miss?” AJ said, coming into the living room.

Meadow got up to kiss him, while I grabbed my glass of wine and ducked into my room.

Before I left, I heard him ask, “Game’s at eight?”

“Eight-twenty,” Meadow said.

I splashed water on my face in the bathroom, then continued watching the coverage in my room. The pregame panel was breaking down the Buffalo matchup and the bad blood between the two teams. Lennox and Buffalo’s quarterback, Kyler Leighton, had history. They showed a clip from last year’s game, with players scuffling near the sideline. Coaches had to pull guys apart. I’d thought the Stallions-Hawks rivalry was bad, but this was worse.

“This is gonna be a war,” AJ said out in the living room. He was excited to see his conference rivals in a battle. Quarterbacks appreciated good quarterback drama, but from a safe distance.

When the game started, the hits were needlessly aggressive. After the whistle, men were still shoving hands, and the refs separated players twice before the first quarter was halfway done. The trash talk was never-ending, the players squabbling long after the play ended.

“Somebody’s getting ejected before halftime,” AJ said, his voice booming through the apartment.

I was on my bed, knees pulled to my chest. Every muscle in my body was tense as I watched Lennox take hit after hit. They were all legal, but borderline. Sometimes flags were drawn; other times, they weren't. He rose each time, snapping his chin strap back into place without looking at whoever had tackled him. His pride wouldn’t let them know it hurt, but I knew it did. I’d seen the scars. Watching people try to break him again made me want to reach through the screen and pull him out.

Three-quarters of the way through the first quarter, Lennox stepped under center. They snapped the ball. His receivers broke into their routes, but the coverage was tight. He stayed in the pocket, feet shuffling, buying time for someone to get open. Then the pocket collapsed. He tucked the ball and ran.

He dodged the first defender and slipped past another. After crossing the first-down marker, he slid, right knee tucked under him, signaling the play over. The whistle blew.

Then, a defender, number fifty-two, a linebacker who either didn’t hear the whistle or didn’t care, launched himself into Lennox. The hit was savage, shoulder-to-helmet, making a violent sound. Lennox’s head snapped sideways, and his body crumpled to the frozen turf. He didn’t move after that.

I was on my feet. I didn’t remember standing. A horrified scream died behind the hand that was pressed in front of my mouth. The play was dead. Why would he do that?

“Oh, that’s dirty,” AJ shouted. “That’s a flagrant foul.”

On screen, Jace Rockett, number one, launched himself at number fifty-two. Full sprint, driving the linebacker backward. Two more Stallions piled on. Buffalo players jumped in. The field was a mass of bodies, referees blowing whistles, and coaches sprinting from the sidelines.

Meanwhile, I watched Lennox on the ground, with my heart in my throat. The trainers ran out to Lennox, who still wasn’t moving.