Page 55 of Colliding with Ten

I hesitated.

“Ayla. Trust me.”

I sighed. “Okay. But if you injure me again, I’m suing. I don’t care how many flowers you send this time.”

He chuckled. “Got it.”

I rested my leg across his. His legs radiated obscene heat, warming me. It was calming. He started talking again about Denver’s snow making New York look like a rookie winter, but as he spoke, his hand moved absent-mindedly up and down my shin. I pretended to ignore it, but my heart couldn’t.

As I concentrated on settling my heart rate, three boys, around eight or nine years old, appeared. Their eyes were wide as saucers and fixed on Lennox.

“Yo, no way,” the kid in the middle whisper-shouted. “That’s him.”

Lennox paused. “Hold on a second.”

He carefully slid his hands under my calf and eased my injured leg off his lap, setting it on my carry-on. Then he turned to them with a warm smile. Lennox had kept his hoodie pulled up and sunglasses on through the terminal, but in the corner with me, he’d tossed them aside. That must be why he was recognized. Now, he was getting more curious glances.

“Lennox Monroe!” the tallest boy squeaked, clutching a crumpled sports magazine against his chest. “Are you really Lennox Monroe?”

“In the flesh,” Lennox said, smiling as he crouched to eye level with the trio. “What’s up, guys?”

They exploded with excitement.

“Can you sign my shoe? I don’t have paper.”

“Can you sign my magazine?”

“You’re really tall.”

Lennox bent to sign the shoe and took every signature in stride. Then he leaned in with a big grin so each of them could get a picture. He asked for their names and used them in his answers.

Then the smallest boy, wearing a Stallions backward cap, stepped forward with dead-serious intensity. “Look, Mr. Monroe,” the kid said, lowering his voice. “You gotta stop dragging your back foot when you throw the deep ball. Coach says the throw starts down here.” He pointed at his hips. “Not up here.” He tapped his shoulder.

I bit the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing.

Instead of laughing, Lennox narrowed his eyes and listened with rapt attention. He mimicked a quick throwing motion from his crouch. “So I’m throwing too much with my arm?”

The kid hesitated, not having prepared for follow-up questions, but he committed anyway. “Exactly,” the kid said, nodding like a seasoned offensive coordinator. “Your feet gotta go first. Then your arm.”

“Feet, then arm. Got it,” Lennox said, deadpan serious, dipping his head as if he were taking notes on a play-sheet. “That’s good advice. I’m gonna use that. Thanks for the tip, man.”

The kid beamed, looking like he had just won the Super Bowl. I watched Lennox with an ache unfolding behind my ribs. Many athletes knew how to smile for a camera and work a crowd, but I knew he wasn’t faking this.

Then the biggest kid looked past Lennox and caught sight of me sitting with my leg propped up. His eyes darted between us.

“Whoa,” the kid said. “Is that your girlfriend?”

I froze, my eyebrows shooting up.

Lennox didn’t even blink. He tilted his head back, threw a cheeky glance over his shoulder at me, then looked back at the boys. “Hmm, do you think she is?” he said, keeping his voice light.

“Yeah, definitely,” the third boy piped up. “She’s really pretty.”

A laugh bubbled, but I held it in. Lennox grinned as he stood from his crouch, but he didn’t correct them. Instead, he leaned down toward the three of them.

“Listen, I need a favor from you three.” Lennox dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Nobody else knows I’m over here. If the rest of the terminal finds out, we might get a crowd, and she’s very shy. He threw a nod at me. Can you guys keep this between us?”

The three boys stood up straighter, puffing out their chests, honored at being trusted by their hero.