Chapter 32 Noelle
THIRTY-TWO
NOELLE
Three weeks later, everything feels different.
Not easy. Not settled. Just… steadier. Like the ground stopped shifting quite so violently beneath my feet.
I’m beginning to show, my belly popping out ever so slightly.
I come straight from seeing Brooks. Sutton had the Armadillo Team plane take me to New Orleans so I wouldn’t have to spend the night.
My nerves are still zipping when I pull into the parking lot of Matt’s high-rise.
The papers are signed. The NDA. The relinquishment of rights.
Black ink on white pages that somehow made everything both safer and scarier.
Matt opens the door before I can knock. “Well?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
“He signed it.”
The relief that washes over him is immediate and unguarded. He pulls me into his arms, his forehead dropping against mine like he’s been holding his breath for weeks.
“Thank God,” he murmurs. “One less thing we have to worry about.” He gives me a gentle peck on the lips. We don’t say Brooks’s name again. We don’t need to.
“I’ve been thinking,” Matt says after a moment, brushing his thumb over his lips. “You could move in here. If you want. No pressure.”
The words hit deeper than he knows. “Are you serious?”
“Your roommates are never home. Professional cheerleaders must travel a lot, and I just want you here with me,” he rambles, trying to throw out as many reasons as possible.
“I need to think about it,” I say softly. “Is that okay? It’s not just me anymore, and I…”
He nods, even though I see the hope flicker and retreat behind his eyes. “You need to think about it. I get that.”
He makes me a snack plate of apples, cheese, deviled eggs, and pickles. And like everything else, my life changes in an instant. I take a bite of the deviled egg and can’t keep it down. I run to the sink and retch. “Were those eggs old?” I ask when I finally catch my breath.
Matt opens the fridge and checks the date. “No, they don’t expire for two weeks.” He rips off a paper towel, wets it, and wipes my mouth. “I’ll start a hot shower for you.”
“Okay, but I’m babysitting Witley today, so I don’t have much time.”
“I’m heading to practice after I get the shower going.” He leans down, staying far away from my mouth, and kisses my neck.
Joking, I say, “A real man kisses his girl after she throws up.”
“I guess I’m fictional then, because there will be no kissing with throw-up breath.”
I chuckle to myself, thinking about how lucky I am to have this man by my side.
When I get to Sutton’s, Witley is curled against her chest—tiny and warm, her little fingers twitching and her legs drawn up to her chest while she sleeps. Sutton looks tired but peaceful, a laptop open on the arm of the couch, her world somehow balancing between football operations and motherhood.
“I have food,” I announce.
Sutton smiles. “You are officially my favorite person. Texas twinkies?”
I shoot her a look. “Those are for special occasions.”
“This is special. Seeing my sister-in-law.”
“Next time, I’ll order ahead.” I take Witley carefully, her weight barely more than a breath in my arms. Holding her feels different now—like my body recognizes something my mind is still trying to catch up to.
“How are you feeling?” Sutton asks gently. “Really.”
I hesitate, then shrug. “Some days I feel like I can do this. Some days I wake up terrified.”
“That’s motherhood,” she says softly. “Even after the baby gets here.”
I swallow. “I’ve been reading everything I can, and they make it sound so rigid. I don’t remember my mom being scheduled. I made a friend, Clara. She works at the library where I’ve been researching.”
“From what I understand, your mom didn’t have the luxury of being strict with routines.
With you being so much younger than J.D.
and Greyson, she had to take you everywhere.
She also didn’t have every single bit of information at her fingertips.
Research first—then decide what works for you.
You don’t have to do what Birdie or I do.
You are the mom of your baby, and what you say goes. ”
“It’s all so much. Vaccinations or not. All or some. All but spread out. Breastfeed or formula. Don’t leave them in a seat once they can sit up for longer than fifteen minutes.”
Sutton stops me. “That’s where I draw the line. We’re mothers, but we are also career women, and if we need thirty minutes to get a presentation done or, in your case, an interview edited, sit them in the damn seat or swing or whatever. You do what feels right for you.”
Smiling, I say, “Thank you. I’m so lucky to have you and Birdie.” I get choked up looking at Witley and thinking about what happened to my mom during childbirth.
It’s as if she knows what I’m thinking, and she rubs my back. “You’ll be okay. This baby will be healthy and loved by a big, messy, loving family.”
I hold back the tears welling in my eyes and nod.
Sutton quickly changes the subject. “When is your next doctor's visit?”
“Next week.”
“Are you going to find out the sex? Oh wait, that’s not until twenty weeks, right?”
“Yeah, twenty weeks is what the doctor said. Part of me wants to know everything. Part of me wants one surprise in my life that isn’t terrifying.”
She laughs quietly. “I completely understand. Either way, you’re not doing this alone.”
I nod, my throat tight. “Brooks signed the NDA. He gave up his rights.”
Sutton’s eyes flash with fierce approval. “Good. I’m glad Armadillo Legal could help. That man doesn’t deserve access to you or that baby.”
I stare down at Witley, at the miracle of her breathing. “Matt asked me to move in with him.”
“And?”
“And I’m scared,” I whisper. “But I also don’t want to be anywhere else.”
She reaches over and squeezes my knee. “That’s what love feels like when it’s real.”
By the time I leave, something in me has settled.
Me: What time will you be home from practice?
Matt: Seven. Are you making deviled eggs?
Me: If you’re lucky.
At 6:58, I pull into his parking lot, slinging two suitcases from the backseat. I press his number on the pad, and he rings me up.
He opens the door just as one piece of my luggage, the one with the stubborn wheel, gets stuck coming out of the elevator.
“There’s more in the car,” I say.
He freezes. “Are you—”
“I’m moving in.”
He laughs and lifts me right off the ground in those strong, tattooed arms. “You have no idea how happy you’re making me right now.”
“Oh, I know. Something in your pants is poking me,” I cackle as he swings me around.
He presses his groin against me as much as he can. “You want me to poke you?”
“No. Well, maybe.”
He puts me down, carrying my luggage inside, and says, “I’ll go get the rest. You… make yourself at home.”
Home.
“Okay.”
When he returns from my car, he looks like a homeless person—my fluffy beanbag on his head, three tote bags thrown over his arms while carrying two baskets of toiletries and pictures.
I pull out my phone and snap a picture before he can protest. “Thank you!” I say, jumping up to peck his lips.
“Is this all?”
“No, we can go get my furniture whenever. I still need to pay my part of the rent until October. That’s when our lease is up.”
“So are you moving in because you had to move out in six weeks anyway?” His tone hints at disappointment. He sets the baskets down and starts untangling himself from the tote bags.
“No. My boyfriend asked me to move in with him, so I said yes. Sutton said he must love me.”
He saunters into my personal space. “I do, but you cannot take over my entire closet,” he protests.
“You wear the same Dillos gear almost every day, so I’m sure you have room.”
“There's plenty of room. Now let me help get it put away.”
I roll my hard-shell suitcase, and Matt brings the rest. We survey the logistics of where things should go.
Bathroom stuff in the master. Clothes, half in his closet and half in the guest room.
We argue over pillows. Over where my shoes go.
Then, we decide to put everything else in his office and spend some time together before I fall asleep.
I’m spent from all the travel and the emotion of the day.
The kitchen is open to the living area, so I plop down on the couch. Matt opens the fridge and pours himself a glass of almond milk. “You drink almond milk?” I ask as he pops popcorn.
“Yeah.” When the popcorn’s ready, he hands me the glass and says, “Have you tried it?”
“Yeah, and it’s not milk.”
“Just try it. It goes perfectly with popcorn.”
I take a sip, and it’s okay, but I don’t want to admit it. “It’s not good.”
“It took me a while to get used to it, but now I love it.” He winks at me like he’s no longer talking about milk. Matt grabs a bottle of water for me, and we snuggle on the couch, a bowl of popcorn in our laps.
“What do you want to watch?” he asks.
“Preseason football,” I say instantly.
He grins. “You’re perfect.”
After a few bites, we curl into each other, the TV flickering, his arm wrapped around me, my head tucked against his shoulder. For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like someone’s waiting to take everything from me. It feels like something we’re building.
Together.