Chapter 21 Matt
TWENTY-ONE
MATT
Rookie camp.
The smell of freshly painted white lines and cut grass.
The pristine look of the various position rooms. But it’s the sound that gets me.
Cleats grinding into turf. Whistles snapping sharp enough to raise the dead.
Twenty-two-year-old men trying to prove they belong before anyone can tell them otherwise.
It’s football stripped down to its bones.
They’re here to show their speed, agility, and ability to learn fast and make decisions even faster.
I love it here.
Which is probably why I don’t love that my head feels like it's concussed.
I blink hard, adjusting my cap as I watch two new rookie quarterbacks cycle through drills. Footwork. Release. Timing. Muscle memory built one rep at a time. I bark a correction, clap my hands once, and force my body to fall back into the rhythm I’ve lived in most of my adult life.
“Again,” I call out. “Quicker feet. You’re late.”
The kid nods like his life depends on it. Because right now, it kind of does. These aren’t first-round draft picks. We signed them as free agents to the scout team, where they’ll stay for now unless we need them. Fighting for a spot on the fifty-two-man roster starts today.
Greyson says something to number one, pats his shoulder, and walks toward me.
Shaking my head, I say, “Number one. I hate guys who pick number one. I already know they’ve been coddled from an early age, told they’re the best, just as the number implies.”
“Stricker, he has talent. Give him a chance. I won’t be around forever to make you look good,” he smirks.
“I corrected him, and he did the same damn thing over again.”
“Everyone can’t be me,” Greyson lifts his palms into the air, which makes me glance behind him to the sideline. Sometimes I wonder how he’s my best friend in Austin.
Noelle stands just past the numbers, microphone crooked, notepad tucked under one arm.
She’s all business today—neutral clothes, hair pulled back, posture straight like she’s daring the world to underestimate her.
She’s talking to a rookie receiver, nodding, smiling, and asking questions that don’t sound like fluff.
Good.
She’s doing exactly what she said she would. Staying away from O’Ryan territory. Free from her brothers and charting her own course. And I just need to make her steer clear of me.
My chest tightens anyway, watching how she’s confident in her abilities here but not in the bedroom.
“She’s good,” Greyson says beside me, his voice casual but proud as hell.
I don’t look at him. “She’s always been.”
Greyson snorts. “I wasn’t disagreeing.”
He shifts, hands on his hips, scanning the field like he still belongs out there throwing passes instead of managing them. He looks wrecked in the way only new fathers do—dark circles under his eyes, shoulders slumped—but there’s something lighter about him too. Happier. Softer around the edges.
“How’s Witley?” I ask.
His whole face changes. “Three days old and already running the house. Sutton hasn’t slept. I haven’t slept. Even Paulina is in dire need of some shut-eye. Pretty sure I cried during a diaper change this morning.”
“Is that because you’re sentimental or because you forgot how gross babies are?”
Greyson grins. “Both. Why do babies look like Winston Churchill when they frown? But Witley is worth it.”
I chuckle, even as something twists low in my gut. Greyson gets all of this. A family. A future measured in birthdays and first steps.
Me? I get a timeline based on lab results.
“You look tired,” I say.
He scoffs. “You’re one to talk.”
“Fair.”
We watch another drill in silence, the air thick with heat and noise. My vision blurs at the edges when I turn too fast, and I have to pause longer than I want to let the dizziness pass.
Greyson notices, like the best friend he is. Our relationship started out rocky, but he’s the one person in Texas that I tell my secrets, except for how I feel about Noelle. “Hey,” he says quietly. “You sure you’re ready to be back?”
Ready? Yes. Should I be? Probably not.
I keep my eyes on the field. “What, you think rookie camp’s too much for me?”
“I think you almost walked into a tackling dummy.”
I sigh, rubbing a hand over my face. “The sun's bright.”
“That’s not what I asked.” He lowers his voice. “How are your eyes?”
I hesitate, then shrug. “After Noelle and I cooked and decorated, the doctor stuck a four-inch needle straight into my eyeball.”
Greyson winces. “Jesus Christ.”
“Fun party trick,” I add. “I don’t recommend it.”
“Matt.”
“I’m fine,” I say, sounding like a rehearsed line. “Pressure was up. They drained it. Adjusted meds.”
“And the rest of it?” he presses. “The stuff you keep dodging.”
I glance at Noelle again without meaning to. She laughs at something the receiver says, throws her head back just a little. Looks alive. Focused. Free.
I swallow. “They want me to start dialysis,” I say. “Sooner rather than later.”
Greyson’s jaw tightens. “And?”
“And I’m on the transplant list for a kidney.” I roll my shoulders like I’m shaking off a bad hit. “Not exactly breaking news.”
“That’s not nothing,” he says sharply.
“I know.” I force a half-smile. “But it’s manageable. I’ve been dealing with this my whole life.”
“Managing and pretending it’s no big deal aren’t the same thing.”
I twist my lips and say, “The clock’s ticking, Grey. I get it.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should. I don’t like the look in his eyes—too knowing, too worried.
He exhales slowly. “When can you have a transplant?”
“When someone who matches all the markers dies, is a donor, and lives close enough to Austin for a helicopter to fly it in within an hour or two.”
“So, you don’t know.”
“Maybe soon. Maybe never.”
Grey takes his helmet off, letting it fall beside his leg. “What if you have a live donor?”
I shrug.
“Shrugging is not an answer, Stricker.”
“Neither is hovering,” I shoot back, then soften.
Greyson studies me for a long beat, then nods once. “All right. But don’t freeze me out. You don’t get to go through this alone.”
I don’t trust my voice to stay steady, so I leave it.
As I blow the whistle, the two rookie QBs run to us. “Five-minute break, then we’re running with the receivers.”
They jog to the Gatorade, dangerously close to Noelle. Any man in her proximity brings out the possessiveness inside me. I guess my focus stays on her a little longer than needed.
Greyson clears his throat. “So.”
Here we go.
“So,” I echo.
He glances toward Noelle again, then back to me. “Fake-dating my sister. That’s… done now, right?”
My chest tightens. “She can’t stop talking about Witley,” I blurt out, which has nothing to do with his comment.
“Witley is adorable, but I’m talking about Noelle.” He keeps his tone even. Careful. “She went to New Orleans. She’s not going to be around Brooks for a while. Seems like time for a clean break from him and this ridiculous fake relationship.”
Clean.
Nothing about this has been. I want her more than she can ever know.
I nod slowly. “That was always the plan.”
There was a fork in the road, and we took the forbidden path.
Greyson watches me like he’s trying to read something I’m not saying. “Good.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I just don’t want her hurt,” he says simply. “She’s been through enough.”
I think about Noelle in that bathroom stall. On my couch. In my arms. About the way she looks at me like I’m something solid she can lean on.
I think about dialysis rooms and transplant lists and the math I do in my head when I can’t sleep.
“Me neither,” I say quietly.
Greyson claps my shoulder once, firm. “All right. Let’s survive rookie camp without anyone tearing an ACL.” He heads back toward the field, barking orders, already shifting gears.
I stay where I am for a second longer, watching Noelle scribble something down, completely unaware of the way my life feels like it’s narrowing to a single point.
Fake-dating should be over.
That’s what we agreed on.
But standing here, with the Texas sun blazing and the clock ticking louder in my head than any whistle, all I can think is how much I want one more day. One more conversation. One more chance to pretend that timelines don’t matter.
I adjust my cap, force my focus back to the quarterbacks and wide receivers who are anxiously waiting to show me their mad skills, and blow the whistle.
“Blue 42, Cinderella,” I call out. “You ladies did read up on the playbook, right?”
Because if there’s one thing football taught me, it’s how to keep playing even when you know the hit is coming.