Page 8 of Colliding with Ten

I lifted one side of my headphones again. “Say it.”

Eli asked questions loaded with football terminology that most people wouldn’t understand, and I answered, reassuring him.

Eli nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I thought.”

“I know.”

“Just confirming.”

“I know that too.”

He huffed, but the tension in his shoulders eased. Eli had four years on me, but he still ran every checked play past me before the coordinator, and nobody thought that was strange, the coordinator included. The standard I held myself to had become the standard the team held itself to. That was the job. Most people thought it was reading defenses and throwing footballs, which was a lot of it, but there was also this.

The visitor’s locker room belonged to us when we arrived. The equipment staff had everything laid out: jerseys, cleats, towels, shoulder pads, and more. The Stallions logo was stitched and printed across so many items that it reminded us that we didn’t borrow space. We took it.

I went to my stall and set my duffel down by the number ten and the name Monroe stitched across the back of my jersey. Then I started my regimen in the same order I always did, taking off my watch, tie, jacket, shirt, and pants. Then I put on my compression gear, left sock, right sock, left ankle tape, and right ankle tape. There was no music. The room had its own flow as everyone prepared. Coaches moved in and out with clipboards and headsets.

By the time I stepped onto the field to get warmed up, the sky over the stadium had deepened. The sun hung low above the rim. The stadium lights were warming up, waiting to take over when the sun went down. Fans scattered through the lower bowl, loud even hours before kickoff. Music pumped through the speakers while cameras followed players jogging out and stretching.

The turf was a bit softer than ours. A light breeze was blowing over the field. I jogged out with Theo, Trey, Jace, Reggie, and the rest of the offensive players, rolling my shoulders as they passed me the first warm-up ball. The leather landed in my hand, and at that moment all attention focused. The first pass snapped out easily, a short spiral to Jace, who was ten yards away. He caught it without looking impressed. We went through our practices: short passes, intermediate passes, rollouts, and deep sideline balls. My wrist felt a slight pull from the tape and stretching, but there was no pain.

On the far sideline, the Hawks had started their own warm-ups. Rookies tried not to look like rookies, especially their QB Callahan. I knew the name from college recruiting a long time ago, but didn’t remember the details. He was walking the turf, trying not to look nervous. Coaches watched on as media crews lingered, hungry for content.

Callahan was a sixth-round draft pick with a decent arm. He was mobile and a quick learner, but was still adjusting to the speed of the game. He had been elevated to QB1 because Damon King got injured in the preseason, and the Hawks had no better option. He was smart enough to be dangerous eventually, but too green to be dangerous tonight.

A whistle blew across the field, and a flash of movement pulled my attention to the opposite sideline. The Hawks cheerleaders were warming up in their purple practice tops with gold accents. The dancers went through a short progression in unison while staff adjusted spacing around them. I didn’t usually pay much attention to cheer squads, but then a dancer near the end of the line lifted one leg. Her highlighted curls were pulled back, and the late sun caught her light brown skin on her shoulders. I watched, impressed.

Jace cut across my line of sight and clapped. “Ten. You throwing or sightseeing?”

I turned the ball in my hand and gave him a look. He grinned.

I hit him in the chest with the next pass, making him grunt. “Does that answer your question?”

“Damn,” he said, shaking out his hands. “You’re so sensitive.”

I shook my head, and I didn’t get distracted again. The only thing that mattered was the game. By the time we finished warm-ups, the lower bowl was packed, and the sun was almost gone. We went back inside.

I showered fast and changed into a full uniform. I taped both wrists myself, paying more attention to the right. The scar there had healed, but my memory of the pain hadn’t faded. I sat in front of my stall and closed my eyes, doing breath exercises. I went through the game plan in my head.

My phone rang inside my bag. My eyes popped open. No one called me on game day. Everyone knew better, and anyone who didn’t learned fast.

I ignored it and let it ring out. Then, the phone vibrated with a text.

Jace glanced over. “I bet any money that’s a woman.”

“Shut up.” I reached into my bag, more irritated with caring than with whoever had violated the rule. The screen lit up. It was Shay. Jace was right.

I had been seeing her since early June. Although, seeing was generous. Fucking was more accurate. She was a beautiful model, but smart, too, which many people underestimated because they were looking at her face. For a few weeks, it had been easy. We used to have dinner after training camp and spend the night in a hotel whenever I had a late obligation downtown. I enjoyed spending time with her when I could.

I opened the text. It was an invitation to a fashion event in Los Angeles two weeks from now.

Then her message. “You should come and be seen off the football field. I’ll look incredible in a dress.”

She probably would have. Still, I was certain the answer was no. Not when the season was about to start, and momentum was fragile. Our chemistry, confidence, timing, and trust were the difference between stacking up victories and merely chasing them. I wasn’t giving a fashion event that time. I also couldn’t give her the false impression that she had that kind of access to me. I wasn’t being mean; it was just the truth. I didn’t want to set a precedent for behavior I couldn’t keep up with. Shay hadn’t done anything wrong. I just couldn’t do it now. After the season, I would have more time.

I backed out of her message and texted Lena, my assistant.

Lennox