Page 131 of Colliding with Ten

“My brain is fine.”

“Your brain has a Grade 2 concussion, and you transposed numbers on a cognitive assessment two hours ago. You need the night off.”

I couldn’t argue for two reasons, one of which would make my headache worse. Players came through over the next hour. The offensive line apologized for the pocket collapsing, even though it wasn’t their fault. DeShaun told me the hit on fifty-two was “the greatest thing Jace had ever done,” and it had already gone viral. Five men surrounded my bed and filled the room, so Mateo kicked them out after a few minutes.

The team had a flight back to LA. That left Mateo in the chair by the window, reviewing his notes, with security outside the door. True to his word, Jace had texted Mateo that he’d be swinging by in an hour.

I thought about my interview that had aired before kickoff. Millions of people had watched it. The guys said that most people agreed with what I said, and some wrote think pieces online about it. My nurse had threatened to confiscate my phone if she saw me on it again, so I hadn’t seen anything. It was shut off.

I wondered if Ayla had watched it or seen the game after. Did she know I was hurt? Or maybe she’d been busy living the life she’d gone back to when she’d left mine. Maybe I was lying in a hospital bed thinking about her while she hadn’t been thinking about me. I could call her. If she knew I was hurt, maybe she would care. I could tell her that I wanted her here, but that wouldn’t be fair. Buffalo was hours from New York City.

I wanted the first time I talked to Ayla Callahan to be from home, not in a hospital bed slurring my words. She deserved better than that. We both did. So I counted ceiling tiles instead. I couldn’t sleep. The nurse came in every two hours to wake me up for neurological checks.

Around midnight, Mateo and Jace slept on cots in my room. In the dark, I decided. I was going to call Ayla. Jace was right. The phone worked both ways. I just needed my head back first.

31

THE BREAK IN THE LINE

AYLA

Forty minutes outside Buffalo, I realized I had no plan. After five hours of white-knuckled driving, I still hadn’t thought about what I’d do once I arrived. I didn’t know which hospital he was in or if he was still there. Had they transferred him? Discharged him? Flown him back to LA? I’d driven hundreds of miles on adrenaline, never stopping to consider the logistics.

I’d called him several times, but all went to voicemail. That left me barreling through upstate New York at night with no information. I pulled into a rest stop, engine running, and stared at my phone. I needed someone with connections to the Stallions’ organization. I had an idea, a bad one, but had no other choice. I called Hill. He’d admitted to speaking with someone on that team.

It rang five times. I nearly hung up when he picked up. His voice, groggy with sleep, was not pleased. “Ayla?”

“Hi. I know it’s late.”

“It’s two forty-two in the morning.”

“I know. I’m sorry. I need your help.”

There was a pause, then the sound of sheets rustling. “What’s wrong?”

“If a player was hurt during a game in Buffalo and needed to be taken to a hospital, which hospital would that be?”

My heart ratcheted up as silence came from the other end.

His voice was guarded. “Are you asking about Monroe?”

I closed my eyes as my fingers shook. I didn’t want him to be disappointed in me. “Yes.”

He sighed. “Where are you?”

“About forty minutes from Buffalo.”

Another silence followed, longer this time.

“You drove to Buffalo?”

“Yes.”

“In the middle of the night?”

“Yes.”

“For another team’s quarterback?”