Page 74 of Colliding with Ten

“I said what I said.”

She shook her head, smiling. I opened the door.

“Give me ten minutes.”

“I’ll buy you fifteen.”

Her expression softened. “Okay.”

I left her room and walked to the elevator alone. On the ride down, I kept running my thumb over my palm, still remembering the texture of the last curl I’d smoothed into place.

17

THE COMEBACK TRAIL

LENNOX

Forge & Flight studio sat in a converted warehouse. Their slogan, ‘Find your wings,’ lined the walls. An assistant handed me a green smoothie—tastier than it looked—and pointed me to the wardrobe, where the new line hung in rows. But I was distracted. Any minute, she’d walk in. Helping her this morning hadn’t lowered my excitement about today. I tried to play it cool, but every time the front door opened, my heart rate picked up, and my ears strained for her voice.

A few minutes later, I knew she was there without looking. Every sound in the studio faded. Crew shuffling, music playing through the speakers—none of it could take away her bubbly enthusiasm. I told myself not to look, but couldn’t stop myself.

Already prepared for a lot, I turned, but her smile made me forget what I’d been saying to the stylist. Ayla looked refreshed, her curls bouncing again. The skylights highlighted her skin, the golden hue shining before she reached the makeup chair.

My body moved towards her. Hands in my pockets, casual, or hoping to look it, I walked over as she greeted the stylists and photographer, laughing at a joke. She turned when she saw me coming.

“Your timing wasn’t bad.”

“Did anyone say anything?”

“Nope. We’re in the clear.”

The director clapped his hands. “Let’s get them in the chairs. We’ll start the shoot with Lennox since he’ll be done first.”

Ayla shot me a look, one eyebrow raised.

“Guess I’m up first.”

She smirked as a production assistant ushered her to the far end of the studio, while someone else sent me to another corner. She favored her right side, a subtle shift most would miss. Maybe her knee still ached, but she wasn’t complaining. She waved before disappearing behind a divider. I smiled to myself before heading to my chair.

The makeup chair was quick: a few brushes of powder, and the torture was over. The stylist ran product through my hair, molding it, but I messed it up a bit to avoid gagging when looking at the photos later. They dressed me in Forge & Flight’s newest tailored black joggers and a sleeveless compression top with their subtle winged logo near the collarbone.

The first setup had a white backdrop, a steel bench, and soft lighting. The photographer called out cues, and I followed: hold the football, shift weight to the right, glance into the camera, then look away. I contracted my core and adopted a cool stare, creating the mask that made me who I was on the field. The shutter snapped in quick bursts.

Then the tone changed. They switched to the “rehabilitation” series with me sitting on the bench, wrapping my wrist near my surgical scar. They guided me through rehabilitation motions that got me back in the game.

“Perfect,” the director said after a few more takes. “Now let’s get Ayla in.”

I nodded and stepped aside as someone handed me a towel and a bottle of water. I wiped the light sheen of sweat from my neck and found a corner near the monitors.

Ayla walked onto the set in Forge & Flight’s new training line with charcoal gray shorts and a fitted top. Her hair was loose, curls pulled back by a band, while a few wild strands fell around her temples. The camera loved her, and she wasn’t even posing yet.

The photographer adjusted the lights as she stretched. Her first shots were stills, but then they had her move through a slow sequence of controlled extensions and angles. Every so often, she’d shift weight, right foot, push off.

“Let’s show the rehab phase,” the director called.

In the next sequence, they had her move, bringing in a low platform, resistance bands, and a mat, all part of the brand. Later, she rose with arms outstretched, feet on pointed toes, left leg raised behind her. Someone mentioned she was doing an arabesque. Light poured down her long legs, highlighting the sculpted muscles years of training had brought her. I couldn’t look away.

Every pose and turn reminded me of what she’d fought to get back. When she jumped, she pushed off her left foot and landed on her right. I was holding my breath until I knew she wouldn’t tumble. She smiled after the landing, and the muscles in my shoulders relaxed. Forge & Flight might’ve called it a recovery campaign, but watching her, it was all flight.