Chapter 11 Noelle
ELEVEN
NOELLE
It’s a universal law in the O’Ryan house that dinner is loud, messy, and slightly hazardous to your physical or mental health.
When the whole crew is here it’s slightly chaotic, but I wouldn’t have it any other way. My brothers act like every household item is a football—throwing glasses, utensils, or whatever is in reach.
Tonight’s spread is chaos on steroids: J.D.
and Birdie carrying in chicken wings with all our favorite flavors.
My personal fave is the bone-in garlic parmesan ones.
Flats only for me. Sutton slices watermelon.
Dad has the deep fryer going with homemade fries.
Parker grabs the roasted vegetables from the oven, transferring them to a bowl.
Paulina sets out plates, and even Witt emerges from his cave long enough to roll his eyes at Parker’s playlist.
Family banter is the soundtrack. “You call that music?” Greyson shouts over the thump of Parker’s phone, grabbing tongs like a weapon. “If you start dancing, I’m leaving.”
“Says the man who once did the worm at his wedding,” J.D. fires back, and Paulina snorts her lemonade through her nose.
“I was just practicing my moves.” Greyson grabs Sutton by the waist, kissing her neck. “Gotta come up with new moves to shake the defenders.”
Birdie waves a hand for calm, gesturing for everyone to sit. “Let’s hold off on the sports talk. We have a couple of weeks before you’re back at it, so let’s talk about something else.”
Sutton jumps in. “Noelle, give us the scoop. Any news on job interviews? I know you’ve had a few.” Instantly, every head swivels, some hopeful, some dreading more football talk.
“It’s between me and two other girls for the sideline reporter gig. I’m cautiously optimistic, which means I already stress-bought three blouses I can’t afford.”
Dad shakes his head. “Noelle, please don’t act like you’re destitute. You have everything. And if you need anything, just tell me.”
I know he’s right, but I try to live as my mom would have wanted and take responsibility for myself. “Sorry, Dad.” He just grins as everyone fills their plates.
Sutton rolls her eyes. “Just don’t let Aunt Birdie style you,” she teases. Sometimes Aunt Birdie forgets she’s not on stage and wears fishnets to the local pizza parlor. She and Sutton are opposites. Sutton is classic and simple. Birdie is edgy. Both are fun and easygoing.
Leaning across the table, Paulina, who is still at the age where asking any question is fair game, pipes up. “Are you still dating Matt? He’s so cute, and he’s got drawings all over his arms like Daddy draws.”
“Not the same kind, kiddo. If you’re done, take your dish to the sink and put the brownies on a plate,” Greyson rumbles, giving me what he probably thinks is a subtle glare, then looking at the tattoo on his wrist. He feels that one single tattoo is a moral failure.
He turns to me. “Plus, you have no reason to be around Brooks anymore, right, Noelle?”
My cheeks go warm, and my mind snags on that afternoon in Sprouts.
Matt with his faded country music tee, his biceps flexing when he lifted his shirt to clean my puke, his inked skin scrawled down his arm, rib cage, shoulder, and that gadget fixed just above his waistband.
I didn’t mean to gawk, but the sight made my pulse stutter—a little bit of intrigue, a little bit of worry.
What was it? A medical thing? He shut me down fast when I asked, and now I keep returning to it, my curiosity itching.
Dad clears his throat, eyeing me in that what aren’t you telling me way. Probably trying to reconcile whether the tattoos or the dating is the bigger worry.
“Umm, we’re seeing how it goes. Brooks has been texting me, so we’re posting some pics.” Before I can deflect or expand, my phone buzzes on the table. Unknown number.
Every instinct screams scam, but I answer anyway.
“Hello, is this Noelle O’Ryan?”
I clamp down on a gasp. “Yes, this is she.”
“This is Tricia from the Network. We’re thrilled to offer you the sideline reporter position for our league coverage this season.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes, you’ll need to come in for orientation tomorrow,” she says and then sends a schedule to my phone. “Do you accept?”
“Yes.”
For a heartbeat, I can’t breathe. Dad is staring now, everyone silent except Parker, who’s shoving half a roll in his mouth. “I got the job,” I manage, then I cover the bottom of the phone. I whisper-shout, “I got it! I got the job!”
The table erupts. Sutton shoves her glass up for a toast, Birdie squeals, and even Witt cracks a smile. Dad looks prouder than he did when Greyson got drafted.
Back on the call, I try to keep my cool. “Thank you! When do I start?”
“We’d like you to cover rookie introduction events for all the teams in our region—starting next week. Your schedule will include a visit to New Orleans for the Blacksmiths’ training camp, Austin for the Armadillos, Oklahoma City, and Dallas. Maybe Atlanta.”
Inside, anxiety tap-dances with excitement. Rookie days. New Orleans. Brooks.
I hang up and the questions rain down. Dad wants details. “What’s your first assignment?”
My mouth runs on autopilot. “I’ll be covering rookie days for every team around here. I’ll have to travel—New Orleans, Austin, Oklahoma City. Do interviews, social content, sideline reports… the works.”
Greyson whistles. “They’re giving you the hard stuff right away, huh?”
Sutton pats my shoulder. “You’re ready.”
“Does that mean you’ll see Brooks on assignment?” Birdie asks, concern lacing her voice.
“I—I guess maybe.” Nerves crawl up my spine. “When is your rookie camp?” I ask J.D. Before he can answer, I continue, “If Matt’s not busy at rookie camp, can he tag along? That should make Brooks believe it.”
Greyson slaps the table. “Anything to make this fake-dating go away.”
That gets J.D.’s attention. “Actually, Matt’s taking a little more time off. Officially, he won’t be back until training camp starts. If Matt agrees to tag along, it’s fine with me. But, Noelle, that’s a lot to ask, especially right now.”
I’m not sure what he means because J.D. sometimes talks in theory instead of speaking directly.
Birdie just takes this in stride, but it’s like the rest of the world tilts beneath the table. “Wait… What? Why would you give your quarterback coach time off during rookie days?” I sputter.
J.D. shrugs, and Sutton, who is also the general manager of the team, puts on her professional voice.
“Matt needs a few extra weeks. He’s been coaching since he was twenty-four.
Matt has earned some freedom.” He takes a deep breath.
“Technically, he’s still working. He blows up my phone hourly with schemes and ideas. ”
Greyson and J.D. share a quick glance—they know—but the rest of us are still staring, open-mouthed.
Witt’s voice cuts through the confusion, quiet but sure. “It’s about time some things changed around here. Dad says we’re supposed to be open and honest.”
All our eyes go wide. “So, are you going to tell everyone about your pen pal?” I ask. “Today I got the mail, and there was a letter to Witt in a girl’s handwriting.”
“That was an invitation to an in-person tournament later in the year,” he says, shaking his head at how stupid I could be.
Dinner resumes with baby talk and how Greyson’s tennis courts are now being used by a foundation that helps kids who are struggling growing up in a single-parent household.
But my head’s spinning. When the leftovers are boxed and everyone drifts away, I slip outside into the Texas twilight, phone in hand.
I dial Matt. When his voice clicks on, I don’t even say hi. “I’m the new official sideline reporter for ESPN. I’ll be doing rookie days, all over the region.”
There’s a beat where I swear I hear his smile even through the phone. And for a second, all the nervous energy dissolves in the warm Texas night.