Page 140 of Colliding with Ten

“It is.”

His bedroom was dim. The curtains were still drawn, and the room smelled like him—a faint trace of mint, the woodsy smell from his cologne, and something uniquely him that I was becoming addicted to. The framed photo of him and his mother sat on the shelf, and next to it, between the Heisman trophy and a piece of expensive art, SpongeBob stood guard. I smiled.

Curling up on his bed, I pulled the covers to my chin and was gone within minutes. The flight from the Hawks game, the flight here, the long hours of the fellowship, and the lying—can’t forget the lying—all of it crashed into me.

At some point, half-dreaming, I felt the mattress dip. Warm lips pressed against my forehead.

“Sorry,” he murmured.

“I’d better get loads of pancakes in the morning,” I mumbled.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good luck. Go win.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

I smiled into the pillow, already drifting. His footsteps sounded on the stairs, and the front door opened and closed before silence.

I woke with a start. The room was dark. Hours had passed; the sun was gone. I sat up, heart pounding, wondering what had woken me. I blinked into the darkness. My head was foggy from sleep, and my heart thudded. I could see the outline of the Heisman Trophy and smelled Lennox in the air, reminding me of where I was. It wasn’t a dream.

But something was wrong.

I checked my phone. It was six-seventeen West Coast time. The game had started. My body felt like it should be later. The disorientation made everything foggier. Lennox wouldn’t be home for hours. He hadn’t texted, but he wouldn’t, not during a game.

I tried to settle back into the sheets, telling myself it was nothing. I was in an unfamiliar place with jet lag and a nervous system still wired from the day.

Then I heard a faint shuffle from downstairs. Footsteps.

I froze.

For one desperate, hopeful moment, I thought it might be Lennox. Maybe the game ended early, or my phone clock was wrong. Maybe he’d forgotten something and had come back. I’d hear his voice, and I’d feel stupid for being scared. But when I checked, the game update said halftime. The Stallions were down by ten. He wasn’t here.

A crash broke the silence, glass breaking, igniting the nerves in my body. Every heartbeat slammed against my ribs. With trembling hands, I hit his name on my phone. The line rang and rang and rang, no answer. Of course, there was no answer. He was busy with the game.

I could call the police. That was the rational thing to do. But what if it was his mother? His father? A friend with a key? What if I called 911 and armed officers showed up at Lennox’s house because his girlfriend heard a noise and panicked? And what if they ended up hurting someone? What if they ended up hurting me? This was America. Things like this happened all the time, and it would be my fault.

I hit redial. Come on, Lennox. Please.

Ringing. Voicemail.

Dialed again.

Ringing. Voicemail.

Shit.

I stared at the door. It was cracked, the dark hallway beyond. Every shadow there was alive. What did Lennox tell me a few weeks ago? There had been break-ins, footballers being targeted while they were playing games. But they usually happened when guys were on the road. This didn’t fit the pattern.

I was an absolute disaster in situations like this. I needed Lennox to tell me that what I was hearing wasn’t a threat. I wanted to hear that it was his father coming for the last of the pickles. That I was jet-lagged and paranoid, but everything was fine.

A drawer slid open. My blood ran cold.

Okay. Okay. Think, Ayla.

Rule number one: don’t panic.

Rule number two: oh, forget it. I was already there. My hands were slick with sweat, the phone trembling between them. My breath came in shallow pulls I was trying to keep quiet.