Page 36 of Colliding with Ten

I shifted my leg higher on the pillow and winced when my knee pulled.

“What was that?”

“What was what?”

“You made a sound.”

“I’ll be fine. AJ is gonna bring my meds soon.”

I closed my eyes. Big mistake. With nothing else to see, his face filled my mind. “I should probably go.”

“Because of AJ?”

I didn’t answer. He knew.

“Before you go,” he continued.

I waited.

“Promise me you’ll be careful.”

“I’ll be careful. Goodnight, Lennox.”

I wondered if he noticed I used his first name.

“Goodnight, Callahan.”

The line stayed open, filled with distant sounds, and feelings neither of us had any business having.

Finally, he said, “Get some rest.”

I smiled. “Please?”

His voice warmed. “Please.”

“That’s better.” I shook my head and smiled at my dark reflection in the TV.

Then I ended the call before this got deeper. I didn’t need to feel guilty. Nothing had happened. Still, my skin was warm and my chest heavy.

It had been thirteen days of elevating my leg. Thirteen!

On day three, I’d accepted my fate. Day seven, I was feral. By twelve, I cycled back to acceptance and failed. Nothing was more excruciating than resting when your body wanted to move. I binged reality TV. Every confession made me roll my eyes, and every cliffhanger annoyed me. Television, I decided, was overrated.

I was also annoyed Lennox hadn’t texted or called. I hadn’t reached out either. What would I say? Hi, it’s the cheerleader you injured. Entertain me. No. He had games to prepare for, film to study, practices, interviews, and whatever else franchise quarterbacks did besides ruin knees and send too many flowers. I refused to be a nuisance just because I had endless couch time and zero dignity. It was also obvious that talking to him on the phone was a bad idea. I’m sure he realized that too.

By the third week I gave up and went back to rehearsal. Sitting on the floor, stretching, and seeing my reflection all around me, I felt more like myself than I had in the previous two weeks. This lasted twelve minutes before Savannah spotted me.

“Ayla. You’re not cleared.”

“I’m not dancing,” I protested.

She crouched in front of me, eyes kind but unyielding. “Your body needs more time, three weeks post–MCL/ACL injury. This isn’t a suggestion.”

“I feel fine.”

She smiled, but her eyes said the blow was coming. “Sit this one out.”

And just like that, I was relegated to the corner. I stretched anyway, doing ankle pumps and isometric squeezes while holding the bar for support. It wasn’t a workout, but it scratched the itch. After rehearsal, I limped to the team’s trainer.