Page 59 of Colliding with Ten

I spun away before he could answer, focusing on the medicine balls in the corner. “Shit.”

“Let me finish,” he said.

I blew out a breath, hands on my hips, trying to calm myself.

“If everything checks out and there is nothing else, you splint the finger, and you play.”

We stared each other down. I sighed in frustration and glanced at Mateo. What choice did I have? This was my career.

The doctor won, and the splint went on. By Wednesday, photos of me at practice were everywhere. It didn’t matter how many times the team said I’d play next week or that it was minor. The narrative played on: “injury-prone”, “can he stay healthy?”, and “is his body breaking down?”

It was the same parroted bullshit on repeat, what I’d worked all season to avoid. I stared at my hand that night, flexing my fingers into compliance. I was sick of proving my worth over and over. I made this team a winning team. The numbers didn’t lie. Why couldn’t people get that?

The noise changed overnight. One day, it was about my hand, and the next, sports talk radio had found a shinier story. When I got home, my agent called.

“You want to explain this?” he asked, breathless like he was running on a treadmill.

“Explain what?” I asked, opening my refrigerator for electrolyte water.

“The video,” he responded. “You and the cheerleader.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose, knowing I wouldn’t like this. “What video?”

“Don’t play dumb. It’s everywhere.”

“Lemme call you back.”

After we hung up, I pulled up the video. Ayla and I sat side by side in the airport. I threw my head back, laughing at something she said. I barely recognized myself. That guy looked happy and more relaxed than I’d been in months.

But that was it, that was the video. There was nothing scandalous there. I hadn’t told anyone we bumped into each other because there was nothing to tell, and this video proved it.

The caption was harmless: When you get snowed in with a QB and a cheerleader. The comments, though, you’d think we were halfway to a honeymoon suite based on how people were framing it.

Isn’t he dating a model?

She’s with the Hawks

That chemistry though

Not as cute as Shay

People wrote fanfics in the replies or dissected her looks. I stared at the screen, jaw tightening the longer I looked. We looked normal, just two people passing the time. Lovers? I didn’t get that leap. The video didn’t even catch her leg on my lap. Thank God for small mercies.

My phone buzzed again with my agent’s number. I slammed the refrigerator door shut.

“So,” Simon said when I answered. “Did you and the model break up?”

“That’s none of your business.”

No way was I telling anything personal to a guy who represented half the league and gossiped for sport. I hired Simon to negotiate contracts, which he did well. I was one of the highest-paid in the league, but that didn’t make us friends.

“You sure this is nothing?”

I moved to the living room and sat on the couch. I thought of the video again and how comfortable Ayla had made me feel that night. We shared a lot in those few hours.

“Yes.” Even though the answer felt uncomfortable in my chest. “It’s nothing.”

We hung up. I tossed my phone on the couch and rubbed my face. Great. My life was a spectacle, and now Ayla was part of it. Being a franchise QB, getting pulled apart and misquoted was normal for me. But Ayla was just trying to get home, and now strangers were tearing her apart for entertainment. I wanted to protect her, but I couldn’t protect her from this.