Chapter 38 - Noelle
THIRTY-EIGHT
NOELLE
Today is the day.
By the time we sit in the exam room for my twenty-week appointment, I already feel like we’ve crossed into a new season of our lives.
Matt is different lately. Not cured. Not magically healed.
Just lighter and living in the moment. He jokes with the nurse, holds my hand without the scowl.
He still has dialysis three times a week.
His creatinine and potassium levels are stubborn, refusing to fall in line no matter how clean they scrub his blood.
But he’s stopped acting like every conversation is a countdown.
And that’s a win. A huge win.
Our doctor moves efficiently, her voice calm and reassuring as she explains what she’s seeing on the screen. I watch Matt’s face more than the monitor. The way his eyes track every movement. The way his thumb rubs slow circles over my knuckles like he’s grounding himself.
I officially added Matt as the father on the paperwork, so this is now our baby, and he’s prouder and more invested than he is when the Armadillos win and their “Broken Play” works even when the opposing teams know it’s in their bag of tricks.
These ultrasounds are amazing—3D and color. The doctor follows our baby from all directions and presses until she gets the shot she needs.
She looks at it from different directions and says, “Are you sure you want to know?”
Matt squeezes my hand and peers into my eyes. We nod. “Yes.”
Here comes the moment I’ve been waiting for.
“It’s a boy,” she says.
Something inside me bursts open. I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.
Matt exhales a sound that’s half laugh, half disbelief. His eyes shine as he stares at the screen like he’s memorizing every little curve of our baby boy’s body.
“A boy,” he repeats softly.
I squeeze his hand, overwhelmed by how right it feels.
Afterward, we go straight to a baby décor store because apparently that’s what you do when the universe hands you confirmation that joy still exists. We wander aisles filled with tiny clothes, cribs, and impossibly small socks. Matt picks up a ridiculous football-themed onesie and holds it up.
“I can’t wait to tell your brothers,” he says, grinning. “Finally, a baby boy in the family.”
I laugh, shaking my head. “They’re going to hate you.”
“They already do,” he says cheerfully.
On the drive home, we talk about Oklahoma City—the Armadillos absolutely dismantling them on the field. A bloodbath.
“I hope the network doesn’t think I did anything wrong,” I admit. “I mean, I reported fairly.”
“We beat them last year too,” Matt says. “Twice. It’s not a scandal. It’s a pattern.”
That steadiness again. The man who sees the big picture even when his body is fighting him.
“How is J.D. with you taking off half days three times a week?” I ask. “It’s been over three months now.”
He shrugs. “Winning is everything to J.D. As long as we’re winning and I’m doing my job—which I am—he’s fine.”
Then he smirks. “It helps that I’m his sister’s… baby daddy.”
I make a face. “No. Just no.”
He laughs. “Baby daddy.”
“Stop. It sounds like all you are is a sperm donor and we’re not actually together.” Part of me wishes that I didn’t know that Brooks is the biological father. Matt didn’t donate the sperm, but he is this baby’s father.
“Baby daddy.”
“Matthew Allen Stricker.”
He goes quiet.
The car fills with something heavier, softer. I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I don’t know when the call will come or if it will come soon. I don’t know how long dialysis will work or what the future will demand of us.
What I do know is that we’re not waiting for life to happen to us. We’re living it.
“Butterfly,” he says finally. “I’d marry you tomorrow. No questions asked. But I’ll answer the one that matters and say I do.”
“Ready when you are,” I tease.
The tires on the car squeal as he does a U-turn. “To the courthouse we go.” His smile is wider than a football field.
Is he taking me to the courthouse? I panic. “No, I need a dress at the very least. And there's a very good chance that my family would kill you if we got married without them.”
“I know, babe. I’m taking you for deviled eggs.”
“Ew, no,” I gag. Even the thought sours my stomach.
“Just kidding. We’re going through the drive-thru for ice cream before you and I go to work. Your special airs tonight, right?”
My hands fly to my chest. “I forgot in all the excitement.”
“Will it feel weird to watch yourself for an entire hour?” he asks, briefly taking his eyes off the road to study me.
The interview is on Oklahoma City’s offensive lineman.
His family was in a car wreck, his brother was paralyzed, and Amari Brown came out of it without a scratch.
There was no alcohol involved, no one to blame.
Amari dedicates every game to his brother, who used to play right beside him all through high school.
His brother skidded through an intersection on a rainy night, hydroplaning into a light post.
“A little. I hope I portrayed what I felt for him. I teared up three times in the interview. But what made me pitch this story to management was the way he smiles. The way Amari and his brother stay upbeat, positive. Amari says he’s blessed that he has the money to buy the things his brother needs.
Well, you watch it tonight and see how they play video games together and how they’ve built a business that his brother runs. ”
He smiles and says, “I wouldn’t miss watching my baby mama.” He cracks himself up, and I shake my head.