Chapter 14 Matt
FOURTEEN
MATT
The drive to New Orleans is supposed to be easy.
But Noelle O’Ryan has a way of turning a four-to-five-hour easy drive into provoking me at every turn.
She’s got her bare feet propped on my dashboard, toenails painted the color of cotton candy, humming along to some pop station.
The guy singing sounds like a little girl who sings about three octaves higher than any human should be able to.
I shouldn’t look at her legs, but I do. They’re stretched out, tan and smooth, and every time she shifts, my focus goes straight to wondering about what’s under her skirt, how soft her skin is between her legs, and arguing with myself about keeping physical distance between us.
“Feet off the dash, Butterfly,” I say, giving her a side-eye. “You’re leaving prints all over my windshield.”
She smirks. “I’ll leave them everywhere if you don’t start driving like someone born after 1950.”
I snort. “The truck's older than you. Show some respect.”
“It also rattles when you hit sixty,” she fires back, grinning. “You sure it’s gonna make it to Louisiana? We should’ve driven your Corvette.”
“Don’t insult the truck. She’s sensitive.”
“She?” she says, drawing the word out like it’s a dirty secret. “You named this old thing? What’s her name? I bet it’s Betty.”
“Holly. My dad bought her used for my Christmas present when I was in high school,” I say, reminiscing. “She can do one hundred miles per hour. Dare me.”
She cackles. “You’re kidding, right? We’ll end up splattered on the road.”
“And here I thought you were adventurous.”
“Are you daring me? Sure. I know Holly can’t go that fast.”
“Holly has a V8 engine, not some turbocharged four-cylinder that’s made now.” We’re on a straight stretch of the interstate, so I press pedal to the metal, literally, and the truck stutters for a half-second, then picks up speed—seventy, eighty, ninety.
Noelle rolls down the window, screaming, hair whipping in the wind.
I’ve never seen anything so pure and happy.
It’s breathtaking. I can’t take my eyes off her when I hear a prolonged honk from the vehicle in the other lane as I drift dangerously close to it.
I swerve quickly, and Noelle slides across the bench seat against me.
Not going to lie, I love the way her body molds into mine.
“Okay, okay. Slow down.”
“Apologize to Holly for doubting her.” I keep my foot on the gas.
“You want me to say sorry to a truck?”
“Yep.”
Noelle huffs. “Sorry, Holly.”
I grin. She grins as she rolls up the window, but I catch the little tilt of her head when she watches the scenery pass by, the nervousness hiding behind all that sass. She pulls her backpack with her ESPN badge clipped to it, into her lap like it’s a security blanket.
I soften a little. “You’re gonna kill it, you know.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t believe it yet. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I say simply. “You were the star of late night on the network last week with Oklahoma City.”
“In whose mind?”
Mine. I recorded it and watched it on a repeating loop.
“The viewers'. Didn’t you see the ratings?”
“Umm… was that when I was sweating so much that my ta-tas were showing?”
Ta-tas. God, I love her.
“Noelle, the segment with you was the highest rating of the hour. And I didn’t notice the ta-tas.
” That last part, a complete lie. I notice everything about Noelle O’Ryan.
Expelling a big breath, I lay my hand on her knee.
“Are you freaked out about seeing Brooks? You know we don’t have to fake all of this if he’s really what you want. ”
Her lips twitch, and for a second, the tension drops. Then she plops her backpack on the floor and starts fiddling with the radio, landing on some old '90s country song. “I guess I’m more loyal than I should be.”
Fuck, that’s a shiv to the ego. She’s still hung up on him after all he did to her.
“Loyalty is in your family’s DNA. It’s a good quality.”
“This is torture.”
“Seeing Brooks?”
“I can handle Brooks. No, these songs on the radio. Why didn’t we drive your Corvette? Now that would have been fun.”
She laughs, a real one this time—and for the next few miles, we let the highway fill the silence.
By the time we roll into New Orleans, the air’s thick enough to chew. The facility’s got that new turf smell—fresh paint, sweat, and ambition. I can already hear the rookies running drills before I even park.
Noelle hops out of the truck, slipping on her sunglasses and pressing her badge to her lanyard like it’s armor. “You good?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says, too quick. “You go do your coach-y thing. I’ll go be professional.”
“Professional,” I echo, smirking. “Try not to trip over any microphones this time.”
She swats my arm and walks off, hips swaying just enough to make me regret talking.
Inside, I find a few familiar faces—some of the same staff from when I coached in Louisville. They’re running rookie drills, trying to make sense of raw potential.
“Stricker!” one of them calls. “Slumming it with us today?”
“Guess I missed the gumbo,” I joke, shaking hands. “Just here to watch, not to interfere.”
They trade looks. “We’re just doing basics today,” one says, lowering his voice. “But tomorrow we’ll have to keep you off the field. Team rules. Rookie Media Day.”
“Understood.” I keep my voice neutral, even though it feels like a kick. I came here to help Noelle, to make sure she doesn’t get swallowed up by the chaos. But rules are rules.
“So, are the rumors true? You’re dating a recent college grad and the head coach’s sister?”
“Yeah, she’s one of a kind.” I hate lying to my friends and colleagues, but I need to make sure they believe it, and I hope they ride the hell out of Brooks.
“Jesus, do you have a death wish?”
Maybe I do. “From Brooks? No. You know he’s a real douchebag.”
“I was thinking more about Greyson and J.D.,” he says, raising both his eyebrows.
“They weren’t happy at first. Still probably aren’t, but they’re supportive.”
Across the field, I spot her—head tilted back, laughing at something. Brooks Pendleton stands beside her, helmet under his arm, his hand brushing a piece of her hair away from her face. He’s grinning that same smirk I used to see on rookies right before they throw an interception.
Something sharp lodges in my chest.
She’s smiling back. Not the big, unfiltered Noelle smile—the polite one. The one she uses when she’s trying too hard. My hope is she’s just trying to get through the day without punching him. She values her new job and wants to be the best at it.
Apples don’t fall far from the tree, and there’s no doubt she’s just as competitive as the rest of the O’Ryans.
Still, when he touches her hair, I feel my jaw lock.
A staffer beside me whistles low. “Seems like Brooks is already working his charm again.”
“Yeah,” I say, tight. “That’s his favorite play. Draw her back to convince her he means it this time. But I have faith she knows his game plan too well now to fall for his lies again.”
Brooks says something else, and then he jogs back toward the huddle, glancing at me over his shoulder. The bastard winks.
At me.
I swallow a curse, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Let’s go to the field,” the offensive coordinator says, but I don’t hear a damn word after that. I’m scanning for Noelle and the cameraman. They set up on the sidelines.
When she’s finished with a couple of interviews, I grab a water from the huge cooler and stride over to the ESPN sideline reporter.
“Hey, you promised you would hydrate.” I hand it to her and rub her back.
Her lips curve, a quiet smile filled with thanks, the kind that speaks louder than words ever could.
After getting lost in her eyes, Brooks runs over, tunneling his fingers through his golden mane.
“I’m ready.”
My body stiffens as Noelle shifts and says, “Okay.” She turns to me. “I’ll be done in a few hours. I’ll just meet you at the hotel.” Her expression unfolds like she’s letting a secret slip out, making sure Brooks understands that she and I are still dating.
“Senior citizens sleep in separate beds, right?” Brooks asks with a deep belly laugh.
“Hah. Not us. We have too much fun sleeping together. Knock 'em dead. I have a video meeting with the Armadillos staff. Can’t wait for tonight.” I lean down and give her a lingering kiss. Gotta make him believe, right?
The look on Brooks’s face is priceless. His jaw drops. His eyebrows hit his hairline. If she wanted to make him believe we’re in a true relationship, he seems convinced right now.
There. I did my job.
But there is one problem: I want everything I just insinuated. Want her lips on mine.
Dinner that night is at some trendy spot near the hotel—dim lighting, candles, jazz bleeding through the walls. She’s glowing from the day, still in work mode, talking about the interviews she nailed and how the head coach complimented her prep notes.
I want to be proud. I am proud.
But every time I picture Brooks’s hand in her hair, I want to put my fist through something.
She notices. Of course, she does. “You’ve said maybe four words since we sat down,” she says, leaning forward. “You planning to keep glaring at your gumbo, or do you want to tell me what’s eating you?”
“Nothing.”
She grins, but it fades quickly when I don’t bite. “Matt, come on. You’ve been weird since the facility. Did something happen?”
I push my spoon away, staring at the table. “Not worth talking about.”
“Bullshit.” Her tone is pure O’Ryan—stubborn, relentless. “If you’re mad, say it.”
I lean back, jaw tight. “Just tired.”
“Liar.”
We finish dinner mostly in silence.
When we get to the hotel, she drops her bag on the bed and spins on me. “Okay, spill it. You’ve been brooding like it’s your full-time job. What’s wrong?”
I shove my hands in my pockets and turn to the wet bar, searching for bottled water. “I said I’m fine.”
“You’re the worst liar I’ve ever met,” she says, crossing her arms. “Is it something I did?”
My temper snaps before I can stop it. “You really don’t see it, do you?”
Her eyebrows knit. “See what?”
“Brooks,” I bite out. “The way he looks at you. The way he touches you like he still owns you. And you just… you just let him.”
Her mouth falls open, and she pops that perfect fucking hip. “He brushed my hair out of my face, Matt. I didn’t respond.”
“You fucking smiled at him like he’s the drip of chocolate at a fondue fountain.”
Her head tilts and her eyes narrow. “I did not. I faked it. I was doing my job.”
“He was flirting. And he knows exactly what he’s doing. You want a man that treats you like shit, is that it? Can you not see it?” My voice comes out rougher than I meant it to, chest tight. “He’s playing you.”
Her eyes flash. “This is my career. You think I don’t know that? I just didn’t want to make a scene.”
“I wanted to make one for you,” I admit, and it’s the truth that stings most. “You don’t deserve that. You deserve someone who’d burn the damn field down before letting a guy like him near you again.”
We’re standing too close now, breathing the same air. She’s flushed, her chest rising fast, her eyes darting between mine.
—
“You’re staring,” she says, folding her arms.
“I’m observing,” I reply.
“Like a scientist?”
“Like a man trying not to make terrible life choices.”
She snorts. “You’re failing.”
“Spectacularly.”
Her lips twitch, and suddenly I’m in trouble. The dangerous kind. The kind that ends with me forgetting every rule I ever made for myself.
“You know this is a bad idea,” she says softly.
I take a step closer. “I know.”
“And you’re still going to do it.”
“Without hesitation.”
She exhales slowly, like she’s trying to talk herself out of me.
It doesn’t work.
It never does.
“Matt,” she whispers, softer now. “Why do you care so much?”
“Because—” I start, but the words choke off.
Because I do. Because I can’t stop. Because this fake thing hasn’t felt fake in weeks.
Even if it’s mostly been texting and video calling, the conversations have felt real.
Hell, I felt something the first time I saved her from being humiliated by Brooks.
She tilts her head, and that’s all it takes.
One beat, then another, and our mouths collide.
The kiss is sudden—frantic, messy, real. Her hands clutch my shirt, mine cup her jaw, and for a second, everything stops spinning.
There’s no noise, no Brooks, no rules. Just her.
When we finally break apart, we’re both breathing hard. She looks up at me, lips swollen, eyes wide and glassy. “You done being mad at me?”
I huff out a laugh that sounds half-broken. “Not a chance.”
“Good,” she says, her voice trembling, “because I’m not done with you either.”