Chapter 17 Noelle
SEVENTEEN
NOELLE
Morning finds me in the same hotel bed, same sheets, but in an entirely different universe.
I lie very still and listen: the air conditioning vent whirs, footsteps thud above us, ice clatters in a hallway bucket.
Matt’s inked arm is solid over my waist, his breath steady at the back of my neck, teaching my jittery body a calmer song.
Last night’s surprising events play behind my closed lids.
The whole night in soft-focus frames—his patience, his voice, the way he asked and waited, the way I answered and didn’t feel wrong for once.
A mixture of desire and disbelief washes through me. I can’t believe that happened. I can’t believe it could feel like that without the panic of performing. I can’t believe I got to be…with him.
The phone alarm nudges us out of the dream. Matt groans into the pillow like the world has personally offended him.
“Is it already time to wake up?” I ask.
He rumbles, “Not for you.”
“I have rookie camp at nine,” I say, though my voice doesn’t sound convincing. “ESPN expects me to look presentable and be prepared.”
“I can’t help with being prepared. Well, I could, but this is your career.” He peels his arm away and props himself on an elbow, studying me like he’s checking for fractures. “But you may need a shower. You smell—”
“Rude.” I smile anyway. He kisses me once, slow and unhurried, then another time for luck. The second one makes me forget my name for a second.
“I was going to say you smell like a dream.”
There’s a softness to Matt, a contradiction to the inked coach shouting and correcting players.
I always knew it was there, but my main interaction with him has always been with my family.
And with my brothers, if you’re not cocky, they think something is wrong with you.
They like being surrounded by people with confidence.
And Matt has those qualities, but today I’m realizing there is more to him than a former football player and now a coach.
He’s more than Greyson’s best friend. More than one of J.D.
’s assistant coaches. He’s quick-witted and caring.
Ripping off the tangled sheets, Matt’s naked body twists, and that little round monitor catches my eye.
He walks into the bathroom. I sit up, leaning where I can admire him in the mirror’s reflection.
He takes a needle and jabs it into his side, then places his palms on the counter and closes his eyes.
His shoulders fall as he releases a quick breath.
Something is wrong. He’s regretting what we did.
It’s not like we had sex. But in all honesty, this oral sex was a million times better than the full sex I had with Brooks.
It was everything I had imagined but didn’t think existed.
Trusting someone else to let me find out what I enjoy.
And I had orgasms, not pretending I was satisfied.
The shower turns on, and I gather our clothes and make separate piles on the other bed. He’s out in five minutes. “All yours.”
Does he mean his body is all mine? Or the shower?
I look in the mirror and somehow seem surprisingly rested, even though it was less than four hours of sleep. It’s the post-non-sex glow. The veil of satisfaction. Being touched, almost worshipped, feels fantastic. The only thing bothering me is Matt poking himself with needles.
“I’m ready.”
Matt’s gaze travels the length of me. “I don’t like it.”
Dang, he can be grumpy. “Why?” I look down at my outfit.
“Because Brooks doesn’t need to see your legs.” There’s a bite behind his words.
“Possessive much?”
He twists his lips and runs his hand over his stubble. “Let’s call it protective.”
“Whatever you say, Coach.”
“Not your coach.”
I skim my fingers over his cheeks. “What would you call last night?” I want to make sure he remembers how good we feel together and doesn’t start reconsidering our fake-but-not-so-fake dating. “Pretty sure you were coaching me.”
He raises a crooked brow, places his hand on my back, and leads me out of the hotel room.
At the facility, New Orleans is already roaring.
Rookies swarm like bees, coaches clap, and whistles slice the heat.
I’m back in my reporter skin—hair up, mic in hand, questions ready.
I can do this. I can hold last night like a secret under my ribs and still ask questions.
Today, I hope to find a story to work on and pitch to my producers, something other than, “How do you feel?” or “Is it harder than you expected?”
After interviewing one of the rookie linebackers, I have a story—a real one. A tearjerker. I’m pitching it to my producer when Brooks pops up like a bad memory. Helmet off, sweat beading at his temples, his smile turned to maximum wattage.
“Hey, stranger,” he says, his voice pitched for me and the nearest camera. “Are you highlighting me tonight? I was surprised you gave the kicker all that airtime last night.”
“It’s about stories, not just stats. And after nearly two years together, I can’t think of anything interesting to say about you.” I keep my reporter smile in place.
He chuckles, knowing he’s getting to me. “Late night?” His gaze flicks down and back up, a move I used to miss. But it reminds me of all the times he looked at other women in the exact same way.
“I slept.” The lie tastes like chalk because I would rather scream, “Matt gave me multiple orgasms, which you never did.”
He leans closer, too close, like we’re sharing a joke.
“Or did you?” His grin sharpens. He knows how I look without sleep, but for many different reasons.
Parties that lingered into the wee morning hours or traveling on a bus from an away game.
“Did you have to wait for the old man to take his little blue pill?”
I step back. “Don’t,” I warn, my eyes pinching in the sun, but I wobble. Something’s not right.
He shrugs, catching my arm. “Relax. I’m kidding.” Then he cocks his head like he’s the lead role in his own movie. “Unless you’re…knocked up with your old man’s baby?”
The air evaporates. I’m certain the ground tilts. One time with Brooks. I see a calendar flipped open in my head with a big red circle around a date I’ve been pretending isn’t important. I hate that my hand flies, traitor, to my stomach.
No.
Brooks sees it. Of course, he does. He smirks like he’s scored.
“Back off, Brooks,” I bite out. “I’m here to work. And you’re here to learn how not to be a liability.”
“Liability, huh? That’s hilarious. I’m going to save New Orleans, and you know it.”
His eyebrows shoot up; the smirk slides. A coach’s whistle blasts nearby. The special teams assistant sprints over. “You okay?” he asks, already scanning my face like it’s his job. “Take five. Get some shade.”
“I’m fine,” I say, since that’s the script I memorized in childhood. If you say you’re fine or okay, people quit asking questions.
When Mom died, I was asked, “Honey, are you okay? Honey, can I get you anything?” a dozen times a day. I’m well versed in the art of getting people to believe me.
He ignores me and scans Brooks’s face. I’m sure he knows we were college sweethearts. “Take five,” he repeats, firmer. Then to another staffer, “Grab her water.” To me, lower, “Want me to call Stricker?”
“No,” I say, too fast.
My producer says, “We’ve got enough film and spotlights. Let’s talk more about that story later.”
A cautious smile spreads across my face. “Okay.” Then I tell the assistant coach, “I’ll call Coach Stricker. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be okay.”
He nods once and peels away. Brooks opens his mouth like he’s going to say something else, and I slice him with a look I learned from my mother when she meant business—put your toys in their place when you’re finished playing.
“Go,” I say again, and this time he listens.
I make it to the tunnel, flipping from sticky heat to cool shade. I sit against the concrete, and my stomach bubbles and sweat covers my face. I brace my hands on my knees and suck in air through my nose the way Matt told me.
Someone must have called Matt because he is by my side within minutes. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay first. He presses a cold bottle into my hand, pops two stomach-calming tablets into the other, and takes my mic so I can swallow them.
“Talk to me,” he orders, softer than the word sounds. He crouches in front of me, all heat and worry, and I see his mind working overtime.
“I’m okay,” I say, because my mouth is stubborn. “It’s just the heat.”
“You were sick in Oklahoma,” he says carefully. “And then yesterday in the car, you got quiet and breathed weird for twenty miles. And now today you look like the world is a carousel spinning faster than you can handle.”
“It’s not…I’m fine.” My eyes sting, traitors. I blink hard. “He just said something disgusting.”
“What did he say?” The temperature of his voice drops ten degrees.
“That I might be… that I might be pregnant with my ‘old man’s baby.’” I try to put air quotes around it, but my hands shake. I laugh, a brittle little sound, because the alternative is sobbing. “Hilarious, right?”
Matt doesn’t laugh. Something moves behind his eyes that I can’t name. He takes my free hand, his thumb pressing the map of my knuckles.
“We’re not going to let him get in your head,” he says. “You hear me?”
The part I don’t say is the part that explodes quietly in my chest anyway. If I’m pregnant, there’s only one possibility. The one time with Brooks, six weeks ago, when I convinced myself it meant we were fixing things. When I thought scraps counted as dinner. I feel sick for a different reason now.
I shove that thought into a box and hammer nails into the lid. Right now, I have a job. Right now, I will not fall apart on the sidelines for Brooks to enjoy.
“Hey,” Matt says, like he can see the box and the nails and the way I’m holding the hammer too tight. “You want to call it for the morning? I can walk you back.”
I shake my head. “I want to finish. I won’t let him win. I want to be good at this.”
A slow nod. “Okay. Then we finish.” He leans in and touches his forehead to mine for a second, just long enough to transfer the steady from his body to mine. “You’re not alone.”
I breathe him in. “I know.”
I make it through the rest of the morning.
I get clean quotes. I take notes that aren’t just about football—tiny things I like to fold into highlights: the punter with the lucky shoelace, the tight end who learned sign language for his sister, and the head trainer who keeps peppermints in her pocket for queasy rookies.
She even offers me one. “You’re a rookie reporter, after all. ”
“Can you tell?”
She says, “No, but everyone knows the O’Ryan family. And of course, Brooks has told everyone that will listen that he’s going to win you back. Told us you were meant to be.”
“Hah! He had his chance and blew it many times, and I’m happy now.”
“With Coach Stricker?”
It throws me a little, knowing our relationship is a balancing act between fake and real, between my brothers and what I want. “Yeah. He’s… a great guy.”
I can handle my brothers if only I knew Matt’s feelings.
She touches my elbow. “A word of advice from a woman who lives in a man’s world the same as you. Make sure you know their demons. Most every man at this level has some. Heck, maybe us women do, too.”
Demons? Like our mom dying.
What would Matt’s be? Does it have to do with that little monitor? He always seems grumpy or mad when I bring it up. He tries to brush it off, but I see the mask he wears.
I wave to the New Orleans coach, and he gives me a little salute like we’re on the same team. By the look on his face, he’s proud that I pushed through and got back in the game, so to speak.
Brooks stays far away. Good.
Later, my phone lights up with a text from Birdie, then three missed calls, and then another text from J.D.
I step into the shade to listen to the voicemail, but J.D.
calls back first, breathless and happy and a little terrified.
“The baby girl’s coming,” he says. “Sutton is in labor. Greyson’s a mess.
I’m pretending not to be. I’m going to be an uncle. ”
“You’re already a dad.” Excitement crashes through my body. “Oh my God.”
“Can you get back?” he asks. “We know you’re on assignment, so don’t you dare feel guilty if you can’t, but if you—”
“I can.” It’s out before I even glance at Matt talking to the female trainer just outside the end zone. “We’ll be there.”
“We?”
I turn. Matt’s already walking toward me, like his bones felt my name. “Me and Matt.”
There’s a tiny beat on the line, and I fill the void with something harmless. “You know he’s here with me because of Brooks,” I add, which isn’t a lie.
J.D. exhales. “Okay. Drive safe.” His voice goes soft. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”