Chapter 13 Noelle #2
I hesitate just long enough to swipe my hair into a lazy knot and adjust the tank so it doesn’t swallow me whole, then accept the call.
Matt’s face fills my screen—too close at first, beard shadow darker than usual, eyes soft. He looks tired.
“Hey, Butterfly,” he says, and the gravel in his voice reaches me all the way here. “You didn’t pass out on live TV. I’m impressed.”
“Low bar,” I say, smiling. “How’s Austin?”
He leans back; I catch a sliver of the QB room—whiteboard graffiti, a blinking projector, a coffee mug that’s probably been refilled a dozen times.
“Hot, loud, and one of the rookies thinks ‘progression’ is a type of protein shake.”
I groan. “Tell me you didn’t yell.”
“I used my ‘firm teaching voice that your brothers love.’”
“Wait. J.D. said you were taking a few weeks off.”
“A few days here and there, but not the whole week every week.”
“Why?”
“I have things to take care of.”
“What things?” I ask, then soften when his smile tilts. When he doesn’t answer, I admit, “I… miss home.”
He hears the wobble and straightens. “You okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically, because that’s what you say. “But the water in the hotel tastes like chemicals.”
“Did you eat?” His tone slides into protective mode again.
I hold up the pretzels. “Gourmet dining.”
He sighs in a way that says he wants to DoorDash me a steak and personally watch me chew it. “Next time, call me when you feel off.”
“And hear ‘hydrate and eat a protein bar’ in stereo? Hard pass.”
He opens his mouth to protest and then pauses, his gaze snagging on somewhere below my collarbone. His eyebrows rise, then his mouth curves like he’s trying not to laugh.
“What?” I demand, squinting at the screen. “Don’t you dare say my face looks weird.”
“Oh, your face looks great,” he says, far too relaxed. “It’s just—how do I put this delicately—you might want to do something about those.”
“Those—”
I follow his line of sight down and realize my tank is doing me zero favors in the air-conditioning. Zero. “Oh my God.”
I slap a pillow to my chest so fast I almost drop the phone. Heat rushes to my cheeks, impossible and instant. “You’re the worst,” I mutter, not meaning it at all. He’s quite the opposite.
“I’m simply observing,” he says lightly. “Journalistic integrity.”
“You’re not a journalist.”
“I’m method acting then.” He tries and fails not to laugh. “I mean, if a rookie noticed—”
“No rookies noticed,” I say, mortified and weirdly… not. His voice softens the mortification into something fizzy and ridiculous.
“Good,” he says. “Because I’d have to drive up there and run a clinic on eye discipline.”
“You can’t bench the entire rookie class.”
“Watch me.”
“You’re very intimidating through an iPhone,” I deadpan.
He leans closer until his eyes fill the frame, green and intent. “I don’t like guys looking at you like you’re… available.”
I forget how to breathe for a second. The pillow is a furnace. “We’re fake, remember?”
“Yeah.” The word is quiet. Not untrue. Not the whole truth. “I remember.”
Silence buzzes. The air conditioner kicks on and flutters the corner of the curtain. I can hear my own pulse in my ear like it’s close to the surface.
I clear my throat first because I always do. “For what it’s worth, I was too busy not fainting to flirt.”
“You could’ve called me before you almost fainted,” he says, grouchy again to hide whatever else that was. “I would’ve told you—”
“To hydrate and eat protein,” I chorus. “Yes, Dad.”
His mouth twitches. “Your actual dad would make me run entire stadiums for letting you get dehydrated.”
“My dad would make you run stadiums for breathing near me,” I say, and we both grin because it’s true.
His eyes tip to the pillow again, playful now. “So, are you going to fix your, uh, wardrobe malfunction or are we pretending that’s not happening?”
I narrow my eyes and adjust the pillow with exaggerated primness. “I’m maintaining my modesty.”
“Good call. Hotel AC is brutal.”
“You noticed.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I notice… things.”
I swallow. I should steer us back to safe ground now, talk about cover-two looks or airport food, anything that doesn’t feel like standing on a high dive. Instead, I let the softness sit with us. It doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like floating.
“Hey,” he says after a beat, gentler. “You did great today.”
“Even when I almost face-planted?”
“Especially then. You’re tougher than most guys I coach.” He pauses, looks away like he’s measuring something, then looks back. “You belong there, Noelle. On camera. On that field. You’ve always belonged.”
My throat tightens fast. Tears threaten in the embarrassingly immediate way they always do when someone says exactly the thing I’ve been white-knuckling for. I tilt the phone so he can’t see my whole face in case it betrays me.
“Thanks,” I say, voice a little raw. “That means more than… you know.”
“I know,” he says softly.
We talk about nothing for five more minutes—the motel art that looks like it was painted by an AI that’s only seen football fields, the rookie who slid in his cleats like a cartoon character, the way the rookies smell like a high school summer.
When the yawn finally sneaks up on me, it takes my entire face hostage. I don’t even get to be cute about it.
“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Bed. Now.”
“Bossy.”
“Always,” he says, and his smile shifts into something almost shy. “Text me if you feel off in the night. I’m serious.”
“I will,” I say, and I mean it.
“And eat a real breakfast.”
“Do donuts count?”
A smile slips out as he’s shaking his head. “I will hang up.”
I laugh, and the laugh tips into another yawn. “Night, Coach.”
“Night, Butterfly.”
I end the call and the room goes too quiet too fast. The pillow is still clutched to my chest like a shield.
I toss it aside, stare at the ceiling, then slide off the bed and pad into the bathroom to splash cool water on my face.
The mirror shows a girl with sun-kissed cheeks, tired eyes, and a gray tank that needs to be retired from video calls.
My stomach rolls once, then settles.
“You’re fine,” I tell the girl. “You’re just tired.”
Back in bed, I pull the covers to my chin and reach for my phone one more time. A text lands before I can type.
Matt: Proud of you. For today. For everything.
I breathe out and feel something in my ribs unclench.
Me: Miss you. But in a professional, ESPN-approved way.
Matt: There’s no form for that.
Me: I’ll make one.
Three dots. Then:
Matt: Sleep. Hydrate. And maybe… find a thicker tank ;)
I grin into the dark like a fool and toss the phone to the nightstand.
The AC hums me toward sleep. Somewhere between the last conscious thought and the first dream, I realize I am not thinking about the heat anymore, or the mic in my hand, or even the way my name sat under the ESPN logo and made my heart stutter.
I’m thinking about a grumpy quarterback coach who notices things, and how dangerous it is that I like that he does.