Chapter 26 Noelle
TWENTY-SIX
NOELLE
Sound bites. That’s how I’m judged.
Finding that story that may be thirty minutes long and breaking it into a sound bite that will hook viewers in an instant. Then they’ll come back to view the whole story.
Stu Johnson sits across from me on a folding chair in the locker room, helmet resting at his feet, sweat darkening the collar of his jersey.
There’s nothing flashy about him. No nerves.
No performance. Just the calm steadiness of a man who’s been doing this long enough to know what matters and what doesn’t.
When I ask about longevity—what keeps him grinding through another season—something shifts.
His expression softens, his eyes dropping for just a second before he looks back up at me.
“My daughter’s sick,” he says quietly.
My stomach tightens before my brain can catch up.
“She’s six. It’s called Usher syndrome Type 3,” he continues, his voice even, practiced. “It affects both hearing and vision. Her vision is okay right now. She wears glasses but she can see. In the last year, she lost all her hearing, and her vision will go at some point.”
Words like genetic, progressive, and permanent weigh heavily in my chest. Too heavy. My hand curls tighter around the side of my notepad.
Stu tells me how he and his wife learned sign language together. How they practice as a family every night at the kitchen table. How they narrate the world for her—colors, expressions, everything she won’t always be able to see clearly. He doesn’t dramatize it. He doesn’t ask for pity.
“We don’t know how fast it’ll progress,” he says. “So, we focus on what she can do now. We want our baby girl to experience and see everything she can, so in the future, when she can’t see, she’ll know. She’ll be able to imagine what the rest of us see clearly and take for granted.”
I nod, professional on the outside, unraveling just a little on the inside. My pulse stutters, my thoughts skidding into places I don’t want them to go.
What if? What if something goes wrong with my baby? What if love isn’t enough to protect a child from the things you can’t control?
I force myself back into the moment, back into my role. I ask the right follow-up questions. I thank him. I keep my voice steady.
But fear has already found its way in. What I learn from Stu is love is blind.
It doesn’t matter what body part fails when you love someone.
You do what you need to do to make that person feel loved and connected.
Genetics give us hair and eye color but also things that require medical intervention.
The cameraman and my female producer give me the wrap signal. I thank Johnson for his openness and ask him to let me know if they need anything. And all the while, my hand rests unconsciously over my stomach, as if instinct already knows what my heart hasn’t fully accepted yet.
After camp concludes, I sit in my rental car longer than necessary, hands gripping the steering wheel while the sun dips lower. I pull out my phone and stare at Brooks’s name.
I hate that my stomach still reacts.
Me: Can we meet for dinner after camp?
The reply comes almost instantly.
Brooks: Thought you’d never ask.
Trademark Brooks.
He shows up cocky in text form too—assumes this is me circling back, realizing my mistake, missing the crumbs he offers. I let him think that. Let the arrogance sit between us unchallenged while we settle on a local dive just outside town.
Before I go inside, my phone buzzes again.
A voicemail from Matt. I step back into the quiet of my rental car and listen. He sounds tired. Regret laces every word.
“Noelle, umm… hey. I’m sorry about my reaction when you told me about the baby. I don’t want to leave it… I mean us. I don’t want to leave us the way we did. Have you told Brooks yet? I’m here if you need a shoulder to cry on or a person to yell at. God knows, I deserve it.”
He shouldn’t have snapped at me and been so curt. It cut me deeply when it was the last thing on earth I needed. The knot in my chest loosens a fraction, so I text him back before I can overthink it.
Me: Meeting Brooks tonight. I’m telling him.
Three dots appear. Disappear. Then:
Matt: Be careful. I’m here if you need me.
I tuck my phone away and open the door.
The bar smells like fried food and old beer. Neon signs hum softly, casting everything in a hazy glow. Low lighting. Sticky floors. The kind of place where secrets blend into the background noise. Brooks is already here, lounging like he owns the place, a drink in hand, his grin firmly in place.
It feels fitting.
I slide into the booth across from him, my heart hammering so loud I swear he can hear it.
He talks. I barely listen. Something about how we can still be together when I’m in town and have some fun.
What? No.
I watch the door. The clock. My hands twist together in my lap.
Just say it.
Don’t back out now.
When he finally pauses, smirking as if he’s waiting for me to grovel, the anxiety spikes so hard it’s almost physical.
“I’m pregnant,” I say. The words tumble out before I can soften them.
For a second, he just stares. His face shifts—confusion first, then calculation. His jaw tightens, eyes narrowing as he decides how this affects him.
“If this is some ploy to get back together,” he says slowly, “it’s not happening. I need to share this.” His gaze travels down his chest to his groin area.
Disbelief flashes hot and sharp. “Of course I don’t want to get back together. I won’t be one of your side pieces.”
His brows lift, offended. “Then why—”
“It’s yours,” I blurt.
That’s when it hits him.
Color drains from his face. His mouth opens, then closes. He leans back hard, as if the booth might tip, running a hand through his hair. Anger flares next—his breathing labored. “I want proof,” he snaps.
“You’ll get it,” I say calmly, surprised by my own steadiness. “But don’t worry. I don’t want you to be part of his or her life.”
That stops him.
I press on before he can interrupt. “I don’t want anything from you. But I thought you should know.”
He gives a harsh, single laugh. “If you’re here for money, it’s not happening.”
“I didn’t ask,” I say quietly. “I just wanted you to know that I’m raising this baby on my own.”
Silence stretches, thick and ugly.
Then he squints at me, his lips curling. “So…what? You and the old man parted ways?”
The insult lands, but it doesn’t stick.
Because now, I realize something with startling clarity: Brooks doesn’t see people. He only sees how he can gain an advantage. How in the world did I not see this for over a year? Back then, I didn’t listen to my intuition.
I stand, shoulders back, heart still racing—but lighter.
“No,” I say. “We didn’t.”
Did we?
I leave him sitting there, off-kilter, tapping his drink against the table, while I walk out feeling proud of myself for standing my ground and knowing one thing for sure.
I can do this. The O’Ryan family may be messy and loud, but we are loyal, and I know I’ll never be in this alone.