Chapter 31 Matt
THIRTY-ONE
MATT
Noelle stares out the window, neon lights from the restaurant streaking across the glass in a blur as we drive further away. Her family’s laughter still echoes in my head, along with the weight of what I said in front of all of them.
I clear my throat. “I’m really sorry.”
She turns slightly. “For what?”
“For not talking to you first. About Brooks. About the NDA.” I keep my eyes on the road. “I didn’t mean to ambush you in front of everyone.”
“It felt like you were… planning my life,” she says carefully. Not accusing. Just honest.
I nod. “I was.”
She looks at me, shocked.
“I don’t want Brooks anywhere near you or the baby,” I say. “Not now. Not ever. And if something happened to me…” My voice tightens. “I need to know he couldn’t swoop in and take advantage of you.”
Her breath catches. “Matt…”
“I’ve already set things up,” I admit quietly. “My insurance. My retirement. Everything. If I’m gone, it goes to you and the baby. Married or not.”
The words sit heavy between us.
“I’m not trying to trap you,” I add. “I just… refuse to leave you unprotected.”
Her eyes shine, and for a second she can’t speak.
“I don’t plan on you going anywhere,” she finally whispers.
“Neither do I.” I glance at her. “But I plan for worst-case scenarios. It’s a coach thing.”
A soft laugh breaks through her emotion. “You and your game plans.”
“I’m serious,” I say. “You’re not alone anymore. Not in this.”
We stop at a red light. The city hums around us, but the moment feels small and private. I reach for her hand.
“I meant what I said,” I tell her. “Whatever you need… I’m here.”
She leans across the console and kisses me—hard, sudden, full of everything we’re not saying out loud. I pull her closer, forgetting the street, the future, the world, until a car honks behind us and she laughs into my mouth.
“Okay,” she breathes. “Before we get arrested…”
We pull apart, still smiling.
“Will you ask Brooks to give up his rights, legally—and sign an NDA?” I ask, forcing my voice to stay steady. “It’s your decision.”
I don’t look at her right away. I’m afraid if I do, she’ll see how much I need her to say yes—not for control, not for power, but because the thought of Brooks having any claim on her or the baby makes something primal twist in my chest.
She exhales, long and slow, and the sound of it feels like a release. Like she’s been holding her breath longer than either of us realized.
“Yes,” she says. “I’ll have Sutton ask the Armadillos’ legal team to draw up a contract. Then I’ll go see Brooks.”
Relief hits me so fast it’s almost dizzying.
“We can just overnight the documents to him,” I offer, already thinking ten steps ahead. Distance is safer. Cleaner. Less room for manipulation.
She shakes her head. “Coach… this is Brooks’s baby. He has a right to change his mind. I don’t want him to, but…”
Her voice trails off, and I hear the conflict in it—the part of her that still wants to be fair even to someone who never was.
I turn to her then, needing her to understand. “Not your coach.” I wink. “Your boyfriend.”
The word feels dangerous in my mouth. Powerful. True.
“And he’d be crazy to give up this baby,” I admit, even though every selfish part of me hopes he will. “But I still hope he does.”
Because loving her means wanting to protect everything that belongs to her—even the parts that terrify me.
Then she presses a hand to her stomach. “I need deviled eggs.”
“What?” I blink, my mouth falling open. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that phrase uttered. Maybe on Thanksgiving. Maybe.
“Right now. I need deviled eggs.” She nods firmly. “If I don’t get deviled eggs, I might cry.”
“Drama must run in the O’Ryan genes.”
“This baby is dramatic,” she says. “You stressed it out with legal talk.”
I laugh. “Your baby is eight weeks old.”
“And already very emotionally complex.”
So, we head to her house instead of mine because she needs eggs like a desert needs water. Ten minutes later we’re in her kitchen, boiling eggs like it’s a crisis response. She’s in my hoodie, hair up, pacing like she’s waiting on lab results.
“How many eggs do you think is appropriate?” I ask.
“All of them.”
I peel shells while she mixes yolks with mayo and mustard, focused as if this is the most important recipe of her life. Some of the filling ends up on her cheek.
“You’ve got—” I reach out, wiping it away, my thumb lingering longer than it should.
She looks at me the way she always does when things go quiet—like she’s taking a snapshot she doesn’t want to forget.
“Thank you,” she says softly. Not for the eggs. For everything.
We eat deviled eggs straight off the counter, laughing when the filling falls out and lands on the floor.
She adds pickle relish to the top, and I can’t think of anything more disgusting.
But at this moment, she’s the cutest thing in Texas.
She lights up my world, one that has been hiding depression for too long.
And for the first time all night, I stop worrying that I crossed a line. Because no matter how long I have on this earth, I plan to protect Noelle and the baby with everything I have. And all that I am.