Chapter 13 Noelle
THIRTEEN
NOELLE
The Oklahoma sun has no mercy.
By nine in the morning, my ESPN polo sticks to me in places I haven’t felt since cheerleading.
The turf has fuzzy steam rippling from it like a mirage.
I steady my mic, breathe from my belly the way Birdie taught me (it’s always good to have a professional singer in the family), and lock my eyes on the camera’s red tally light.
“Good morning from Oklahoma City,” I say, bright but not bouncy, the way I practiced.
“I’m Noelle O’Ryan with ESPN at rookie minicamp, where coaches are getting their first in-depth look at this draft class.
Can they bump this five-win team from last year into a contender for a division championship? ”
The producer’s voice crackles in my ear. “Clean. Keep rolling. Two more takes for safety.”
I nod, close my mouth, and wet my whistle.
I think about how my mom used to say that.
I’m not sure if I remember her saying it or if I’m recalling things J.D.
and Greyson say. Taking an inward breath, I repeat the sound bite.
The words come out smoother the second time, then the third, and my shoulders drop a half-inch, relieved.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been on a sideline with a mic, but it’s the first time for a football game.
I’ve always been cheering. My experience has been with baseball and soccer for the most part.
Coach Laramie jogs over and explains today’s schedule.
“You have complete access, just don’t distract them during instruction. ”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything unique or secret that you’ll be covering that you don’t want us to show?” I ask.
“Great question, O’Ryan. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll let you know.”
O’Ryan. No one has ever called me O’Ryan like I’m one of the guys. Like I’m just as important as J.D. or Greyson. I like it.
This is my job. My shot, and I’m ready. Trying to cool off, I pull at my shirt three or four times, fanning myself. It’s no wonder he called me O’Ryan, considering I’m almost as sweaty as the players.
I pivot off-camera, walking down the sideline to catch the rookie receivers working on drills, and I see Josiah Dream, who played for my college team.
When the coach blows the whistle for a water break, he runs over to me, giving me a big hug.
“Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. I heard about you and Brooks. I’m sorry he’s such an ass.”
“Thanks, now I have two people’s sweat on me,” I joke as he squeezes me. “I’m so excited to start my career, so show me some skills today, and I’ll make you front-page news on the midnight broadcast.”
“You got it, Noelle. You’ll be the face of the network in no time. I better get back.”
“Thanks, Josiah. Good luck.”
A playlist hisses out of a portable speaker, all bass and bravado.
“Ma’am, are you waiting on eighty-seven?” a staffer asks, dragging a tall, dimpled wideout toward me.
“‘Ma’am’ makes me feel forty,” I tease, lifting the mic. “But yes—Devonte?”
He grins like he’s never had a bad day. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Devonte it is,” I say, swallowing a laugh. We angle so the team logo is visible behind us. My producer gives me a thumbs-up. “Okay, Devonte—first day with the big boys. What’s the speed like out here?”
“It’s fast,” he says, eyes bright. “But I’m faster.”
I grin. “Bold.”
“Gotta be.”
Smiling, because I feel the exact same way. If we don’t believe in ourselves, who will?
We trade a few more questions—footwork, routes, who’s mentoring him in the room. He slips once and calls me “ma’am” again, then apologizes like I’m the person who can make or break his career. Believe me, I’m not nearly that important. I let him off the hook with a nod.
His confidence is contagious. When we wrap, he asks if he can shout out his mom. He does. The camera guy chuckles. I pretend I’m not melting from his love for his mom and the heat.
Segment, B-roll, segment. My day becomes a loop of light and shadow, flashes of helmets and white towels, and the slow drip of my own sweat down my spine. I sip warm water between takes and send a quick text when my hands aren’t full.
Me: First interview done. No fainting, no mic drops, no profanity.
I watch the typing bubble blink and vanish, blink and vanish, and then:
Matt: Proud of you, Butterfly.
Me: Butterfly?
Matt: You’re spreading your wings.
Matt: Don’t forget to hydrate. And eat something with protein. Not just gummy bears.
I snort. He knows me too well, but not as well as I would like. I snicker while staring at my phone.
Me: You say that like gummy bears aren’t a food group.
That’s when I realize he knows a lot more about me than I do about him.
Matt: You should treat your body like a temple. Healthy foods.
Me: Maybe you should teach me how, Coach.
Matt: Don’t call me Coach.
The bubble appears again and lingers. I picture him in the quarterbacks’ room in Austin, hunched over a laptop, laser-eyed and bossy. But I remember he’s not there, and something flips in my stomach. I’m beginning to feel this thing with Matt is beyond revenge on Brooks.
I like him. More than as my brother’s best friend or my white knight saving me from a crappy boyfriend, but as someone who makes my heart smile and gives me goosebumps just from thinking about him.
I tuck the phone into my back pocket and head for the linebackers.
Around noon, the heat hardens into a wall.
I feel it when I step into the sun—the way it presses on my skin and turns my head cottony.
My last interview is with a rookie who can’t stop giggling on camera.
I laugh with him, and then, when I step out of the frame, my vision blurs at the edges; people become outlines without faces.
I bend my knees and breathe. I’m fine. I am.
“Hey, you good?” someone asks. Footsteps scuff. It’s Josiah again, helmet tucked under his arm, sweat gleaming on his forehead. “You look a little—”
“Don’t say pale,” I warn, forcing a smile. “I prefer ‘gorgeous’ or ‘mysteriously luminous.’”
He chuckles and extends a half-empty bottle of lemon-lime Gatorade—the good kind, the kind that tastes like Little League and childhood. “You should sit. It’s a hundred degrees.”
I eye the bottle, then Josiah. “You’re offering your backwash? That’s how documentaries start.”
He looks horrified. “Oh, my bad. I can run and…”
“I’m kidding,” I say, taking it and tipping it up. The salty-sweet drink hits my tongue, and I suddenly realize I’m parched. I swallow twice and hand it back. “We’ll pretend the CDC approved that.”
He laughs, relieved. “Noelle, take care of yourself. We wouldn’t want you to have a heatstroke on your first day in action.”
“Got it. Now go run faster if you want to be on the highlights tonight,” I say, waving him off.
When he jogs away, I sit on the edge of the sideline bleacher for exactly ninety seconds, the aluminum branding the backs of my thighs, my stomach doing a slow barrel roll. Nerves, heat, dehydration—I pick a culprit and point at it. Then I stand, fix my ponytail, and march back to the field.
The afternoon crawls, but then I get sprayed by an errant water bottle and wear it like cologne. Every time I slide the mic flag into my palm, the network name catches my eye: ESPN. My stomach swoops. In a good way.
By the time the producer finally says, “We got it,” my legs feel like they belong to a much older woman and my brain is fried.
I help coil cables anyway, because my dad didn’t raise me to stand around while other people work, then the crew and I step onto the shuttle with a sigh that comes from my toes.
My phone vibrates as we pull away.
Matt: You alive?
Me: Technically. A rookie shared his Gatorade with me.
Matt: You drank after a player?
Me: He has dimples. I assessed the risk.
Matt: Noelle.
Me: I know him. I’m not a savage.
Matt: Hydrate. Eat. And stop collecting rookie DNA.
I bite down on a smile that’s too big for my face and tuck the phone against my chest. The window of the producer’s car vibrates against my temple. The world streaks past in tan, green, and heat.
By the time I reach the hotel, the nausea has settled into a slow wave. I ride the elevator with two kickers and a box of delivered salads and try to breathe through my mouth. My room key sticks, then relents.
I drop my bag and peel my polo off like it’s a sticker, then stand in front of the vent blowing out some much-needed cool air in my sports bra until my goosebumps hurt.
I pull on my softest thing—an old, thin, gray Armadillos tank Matt once handed me when I spilled iced coffee on myself while watching Parker practice with the team last year.
He gave me the look of a man trying to decide between sighing and strangling me, then threw me his tank that was strewn over his shoulder.
He tossed it with a gruff, “Cover the crime scene.” I never gave it back. Sorry, not sorry.
I flop on the bed and scroll through the photos the cameraman took of me for promotions—the one where my hair blows just right, the one where I look too serious, the one where I’m laughing with my whole face. I pick two and text them.
Me: Your fake girlfriend is officially ESPN material.
Matt: You look like you were born on that sideline.
Me: I only tripped once. Maybe twice.
Matt: I’ll need to review the film.
Me: Nerd.
Matt: Accurate.
The nausea swells, then fades. I chug hotel water, grimace, and reach for the mini pretzels because I hear Matt’s voice in my head: Protein, Sunshine. And salt. I nibble, stare at the ceiling for a beat, then thumb out another message.
Me: A rookie called me ma’am like eight times.
Matt: He’s polite. I like him.
Me: Of course you do.
Matt: Did he look at you?
Me: I mean… I was holding a microphone.
Matt: Noelle.
Me: Don’t worry, Coach. I told him my fake boyfriend is very scary and hates germs.
My phone buzzes without the courtesy of the three waiting dots. Incoming FaceTime.