Forbidden Play (O’Ryan Family #1)

Chapter 1 Noelle

ONE

NOELLE

“Noelle is oblivious. Still.”

Bree’s whisper slides through the bathroom like oil on water—slick, deliberate.

I freeze midstream in the stall, heart stuttering as my brain scrambles for context. Oblivious to what? My pulse roars in my ears, loud enough that I’m sure they can hear it. Because deep down, I already know exactly who they’re talking about.

Brooks.

My boyfriend.

For over a year.

How could I be so na?ve?

The ache in my chest is so intense that I know they can hear me breathing. Renee chimes in, almost sympathetic. “I don’t know why Brooks stays with her if he has sex with other people. Why not just break it off and play the field?”

My teammates’ laughter comes next, the arch in Bree’s voice and Renee’s rolling giggle stabbing me in the back as they dissect my life in a bathroom.

I should come out swinging from this stall. Say something cutting and clever, snap the way I do at home when my youngest brother, Witt, forgets to pick up the dog poop in the backyard and I’m the one who steps in it.

At home, with my family, I have an edge and humor and can whip up just the right words to make them laugh at exactly the right moment. Here, with girls like Bree and Renee, I’m always searching for the version of myself that fits in.

Holding my breath, I just listen.

“Noelle is too pure…too good.” Bree says it like it’s an insult. “Brooks is bored and just wants to have some fun, if you know what I mean.” I can’t see her, but I bet her eyebrows are wiggling. “Tabby actually knows what she’s doing.”

My stomach does an airplane barrel roll. Bored.

A pause. A girlish giggle that sounds sorry, almost.

“Her brothers are football legends. It’s all about connections,” Renee offers a snarky take on why Brooks has me for a girlfriend.

I peek through the slit in the stall, and something inside me hardens. There’s nothing left in their tone but spite and that desperate need to be interesting by torching someone else’s life.

And they’re throwing the match on me and my life.

The bathroom is silent, but my ears are roaring, the blood pounding so hard behind my eyes I barely hear the door creak when I open it. Their heads pop in my direction. Their eyes land on me—wide, guilty, only a little sorry.

I square my shoulders, wishing I were anywhere but here. “How long?” I say, my voice small, too high. Not the voice I use at home. Not really me.

Bree just rolls her eyes. Renee looks like she may feel sorry for me as they both open their mouths to defend the gossip spewing from their mouths.

“Don’t,” I say quickly, holding up a hand as if that’s enough to keep their words away. “I don’t need your sympathy when you’re spreading rumors or…truths. I just need—”

I break off, tears stinging. God, in front of them. Of course. I wipe my cheeks with the side of my hand.

Bree looks away, pretending she’s not jealous of Tabby and me. Bree would do anything to get her hands on Brooks. Her words come out razor-sharp. “Months, Noelle. Tabby has been riding his cock for months.”

Renée moves, takes a step, uncertain. “Noelle, I’m—”

“Don’t,” I snap, tears threatening to pour. Their false concern makes me want to throw a softball as hard as I can into their guts because that’s what I feel like. Like I’ve been gut-punched.

Crying at home is one thing, with Greyson teasing me and tossing me a Nerf ball to shut me up, or Dad making dumb faces until I snort-laugh. But with these girls, it’s pure ammunition.

A weakness.

I shoulder past them, not bothering to look back. I need air. Need to get away. I need to run. Run to where, though? I’m not going to Brooks. Not now. Not ever again.

By the time I make it outside, the sun is blinding, and the chatter on the quad drills straight into my skull. My throat is tight and sore from trying not to sob until I got past the main doors.

Why can’t I make real girlfriends who would stand up for me?

Take me aside and tell me about my boyfriend’s extra-sex-curricular activities?

It’s not a new feeling. I’ve always been able to be me around guys—their intentions are obvious, their jokes simple.

There’s no hidden battle with guys, no shifting alliances—guys are just easier.

I laugh up a snotty sob, thinking about what my granny would say to me right now. “You’re madder than a wet hen.”

And she’d be right.

I’m sick of crying over Brooks skipping family events or, worse, ignoring me when he is around. But cheating? That’s a whole new kind of hurt.

When I punch in Brooks’s number, it goes straight to voicemail.

My mom would know just what to say. I hold the tears back long enough to force unplanned words from my mouth.

“You’re a cheater and a liar. We’re over.

Have fun with Tabby.” That’s all. But the tears fall once again.

I wipe them away, and through blurred vision, I finally step off school grounds.

I text Parker out of habit. He’s my younger brother by eleven months. Mom always called us her twins.

Me: You at home? I need to hang out a sec.

No reply. I should have known better since he’s preparing for workouts, hoping a college other than Dad’s will offer him a scholarship.

Every muscle in my legs burns as I jog to my rental house that I share with two male cheerleaders. As my feet pound the pavement, my backpack slams against my back over and over. College students don’t run. We stroll, enjoying the sights and sounds of campus.

Two weeks from graduation, I should be wishing college would last forever. I’ve loved my classes. I can’t wait to be a sports journalist, and I’ve loved cheering for my team and for Brooks, but most of it was make-believe, a fairy tale with a messy ending.

Did I come out with any real, true girl friends? No.

Did I find the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with? I thought I did, but that’s wrecked now, too.

In my room, I collapse on my bed, clutching the stuffed rabbit my mom gave me when I was three. “What am I going to do now?” I ask Bibby.

She stares back at me with her little blue eyes as if she knows the answer.

Greyson will know.

My brothers are all completely different. John David, or J.D., is by the book. Greyson is easygoing. Parker is gentle. Witt is—well, Witt. He rarely speaks and keeps to himself.

I grab my keys and head to Greyson’s house. Even though he’s ten years older than me, he’s always been the one I turn to the most.

His truck isn’t out front, but that doesn’t mean anything—four-car garage. The Corvette in the driveway barely registers.

I walk in without knocking. In our family, doors are always unlocked. Always open.

The kitchen is half-lit. An abandoned bowl. A stack of playbooks on the counter.

And sitting at the kitchen table is someone I didn’t expect.

Matt Stricker.

Quarterback coach for the Austin Armadillos, sitting at the kitchen table studying his iPad.

He looks up and smirks. “Lost?”

I roll my eyes—a familiar, practiced motion. “Just escaping the drama.”

The normalcy of my voice surprises me. I sling my bag off my shoulder and grab a bottle of water like I live here. Honestly, I kind of do, considering I pop in for five-minute hangouts with Greyson’s family all the time.

Matt leans back in his chair, watching me with that half-smile the guys always say means he’s about to talk trash. There’s something steady about him. Not a friend. Not a threat. Just... Matt. Greyson’s best friend. He smells like chalk, sports detergent, and old leather.

Home base.

“No Greyson?” I ask, my voice as casual as I can muster.

“Paulina won another tennis match, so they won’t be home tonight. I’m dogsitting.” He glances over his shoulder at the golden retriever sleeping on the couch. “You look like hell, Noelle.”

I laugh—a sharp sound, more real than anything since I left the bathroom. “Thanks. Just what a girl wants to hear.”

Opening the bottle, I suck the water down, not realizing how much crying dehydrates me. I toss the empty bottle into the recycling bin for a score. I mumble, “I should have taken the softball scholarship, but I wanted to fly into the air and hope that men catch me.”

“Cheerleaders can be scary,” he says, watching me for a beat too long. “Something happen?”

There it is. The real question. I sink into the chair across from him, kick up my feet, and let my guard down for the first time today.

“Can I just... can we just hang?”

He gives a mini salute. “I’m not much for pep talks, but I’m good at Madden. Or I could make you the world’s worst sandwich.”

The tension in my shoulders eases. This is why guys make sense—straightforward comfort, no drama, just shared space. A little banter and you’ve reset everything.

“We’re not playing a football game. Do you do anything else?” Seriously. I’ve never seen him with a date or doing anything other than football. “How about Mario Kart?”

He snorts. “Only if I get to be Mario. Luigi freaks me out.”

For some reason, I find myself laughing at the thought, like all my problems are vanishing because of my brother’s best friend—Matt Stricker, older than me by more than a decade.

We head to the man cave for a little video game competition, and for a while, there’s nothing but the sound of controllers clacking, me cursing at the screen when he shells me, and him laughing like he hasn’t got a care in the world.

Eventually, I forget the searing ache in my chest. It’s just graphics, noise, and friendly competition.

Eventually, the questions will come, and I won’t be able to hold back the tears. But here, in Greyson’s basement with the man who seems to understand that sometimes silence is more honest than small talk, I feel like I can breathe again.

When he beats me on the Urchin Underpass level, he slaps his hand on my leg and squeezes my knee. “Doesn’t matter the game, sweetheart. I always win.”

My whole body tingles as the pads of his fingers press into my skin. And that cocky grin is to die for. Matt has saved me several times over the past year, always being there when Brooks was flirting or dancing with other girls. And I always loved how I felt in his arms.

Our eyes linger. Too long.