Chapter 41
FORTY-ONE
MATT
The couch creaks when I shift, and for a second, I’m back there again—flat on my back, the bed tipped just enough to keep me still, pillows wedged under my knees like they were afraid I’d break myself if I moved wrong.
I remember the way the incision pulled every time I breathed too deep, the weight of my own body feeling foreign, fragile, like I was being held together by instructions and IV lines.
Five days in that room. Nurses in and out, numbers on screens, someone always reminding me not to twist, not to sit up too fast, not to rush what couldn’t be rushed.
I’m home, cleared from the hospital but not free. No lifting. No driving. Pills lined up like soldiers, alarms telling me when my body needs help staying alive. Recovery isn’t dramatic—it’s slow and quiet and measured in small wins.
Standing without bracing my hand against the counter.
Falling asleep without feeling like I’m guarding something fragile inside me.
The kidney is working. I’m healing. But everything still feels careful, like one wrong move could send me right back to that bed, staring at the ceiling, learning how to trust my body again.
A month after surgery, I walk a mile every morning.
Not fast. Not like I used to. Just steady laps around the park’s walking trail while the sun is just coming up, when there are fewer people around.
I have to be careful, and so does everyone around me.
The doctor said walking is encouraged, if I listen to my body.
I’ve become very good at listening. This time, I’m older and listening.
I can shower on my own now. That felt like a victory I didn’t know I’d crave so badly until I had it back. No baths yet. No soaking. Just warm water and careful movements, one hand braced against the wall while I wash around the incision instead of over it.
Independence comes back in pieces.
I still can’t lift more than ten pounds.
Which means I can’t help Noelle the way I want to.
She’s getting bigger every week, the curve of her belly unmistakable now.
Watching her struggle to bend over while I stand uselessly beside her might be the hardest part of recovery.
My body is healing, but protecting the people I love is an instinct, and sometimes I do normal things that set me back.
My mom’s in her late fifties and can bend over much easier than Noelle or me.
She’s been staying with us since the surgery, moving through the house like she’s always belonged here.
Cooking. Folding laundry. Sitting with Noelle, getting to know the woman I love when I need to rest as they video-call with Shelley.
Mom doesn’t hover—she never has—but she watches me with a quiet awareness that reminds me she’s been here before.
Hospitals. Waiting rooms. Fear dressed up as patience.
“She’s glowing,” Mom says one afternoon, nodding toward Noelle as she shuffles past with a basket of laundry.
Noelle scoffs. “That’s sweat.”
Mom stops and smiles. “No matter. You’re still glowing.”
“She’s in love with you, you know,” I say as I saunter toward her, wanting so much to show her how much I love her but knowing I can’t. It doesn’t stop her from flashing me her boobs. Talk about incentive to recover quickly. Her ta-tas are the best medicine.
“Not as much as you love these.” Smirking, she dares me to touch her while my mom is in the other room.
I waste no time, squeezing her mango-sized boobs.
I kiss the space above her chest. “I can’t wait to be inside you again.
Mom is going out to dinner tonight. Evidently, she met a friend at the café down the street, so we can have some alone time. ”
“A guy? Did she meet a guy or a girl?”
“She put on makeup and jewelry, so I think it’s a man.”
“Could be a woman. But probably a man. I’m so excited. She shouldn’t have to go through life alone. She’s too fun. Like the mother I didn’t have.”
Gingerly, I tuck her under my arm. “She’s happy to play any role you want her to.”
She presses to her toes and places a sweet, slow peck on my lips.
Each day I’m getting better but also bored.
Noelle works and travels. Greyson gives me the idea to run Zoom calls with the quarterbacks, receivers, and tight ends.
We review film of their footwork, timing.
Greyson stops by daily, either before practice or after, bringing updates and pretending he’s not checking my color, my energy, the steadiness of my hands.
Life is moving forward.
“So, I think I’ll be ready to go back to the facility in a few weeks,” I say, testing her reaction.
Fear sits like a veil over her face. “It’s too soon. Too many people,” she says, putting her hands on her hips like it’s settled. “You’re not risking it yet.”
“Not on the field or the sideline. Meetings first, in person. I’m not risking anything,” I argue. “I’m easing back in.”
Noelle hates that plan.
She gives me that look. “We were given a second chance. You almost died.”
“I didn’t.”
“You were close enough.”
I shut up after that. It’s a month away, so we can decide then. No sense in arguing over something so far down the road.
Her baby shower is next Monday. Mom leaves afterward—she insists she doesn’t want to overstay her welcome.
And Noelle and I need time alone. We’re both desperate for some intimacy, even if it’s just kissing.
I don’t want her thinking she’s no longer desired because she’s pregnant.
In fact, it’s the opposite. If I wasn’t recuperating, she would be begging me to leave her alone.
I’m mid-Zoom call when Noelle appears in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Are you working again?”
“I’m coaching.”
“You’re tired.”
I am.
The kind of tired that settles deep in the bones. The kind that doesn’t show up until you stop moving. I close my laptop. “Okay.”
She softens instantly, crossing the room and pressing a kiss to my temple. “Rest.”
I lean back, watching her waddle toward me, my hand instinctively finding her belly. “Okay.” I need to be what she needs right now. A month ago, I wasn’t entirely sure I would survive a second transplant. Now I’m planning a future.
When she leaves for work, I lie down and email the jeweler I have designing an engagement ring. I can’t help but smile. It’s perfect, like my girl.
I click the remote from the couch and catch Noelle on the broadcast of our game against the New Orleans Blacksmiths. J.D. and Greyson assured me they would watch out for Noelle. You never know what Brooks will do or say. I just hope the NDA he signed means something and he won’t let anything slip.
The analysts throw it to Noelle at halftime as she asks J.D., “How are you containing the New Orleans offense?”
“We’re taking the long ball away from them. And our G is performing out of this world.”
“Coach, I know who G is, but the audience may not.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, Greyson.”
The third quarter starts, and the New Orleans quarterback throws it to Brooks. He jumps to catch the ball and is hit from both sides by the Armadillo defense. He lies on the ground. Not moving.
I wait in front of the television for Noelle.
What’s her reaction? Will she run to his sideline?
She’s carrying his baby. Fuck. Finally, they help him off the field and take him into the injury tent.
The game continues, and the Blacksmiths punt to us.
We take over the ball on the forty-two-yard line.
“Cinderella 42 Black,” I shout at the screen. “Call it. Call it, J.D.!”
Great minds think alike because Greyson throws a low stinger to the running back—which is why it’s called Cinderella, because it’s at the receiver’s shoes; 42 is for four yards downfield; and Black means we’re making money on this play.
The defense is pulled to the left while the running back is going right.
He gains ten more yards after the catch for a first down.
Greyson drives the field in eight plays for another touchdown.
When New Orleans’s offense takes the field, there’s no Brooks. At the next television timeout, two faces fill the screen: Noelle and Brooks.
“I wanted to give you an update on the injury from Brooks Pendleton from the man himself. What happened out there?” She maintains a steady voice, but I heard the hitch when she used the word man.
His eyes are trained on her baby bump. All I can think is for him to hold up his end of the NDA.
“A dirty play by the Armadillos, that’s what happened.”
“No doubt the secondary hit you hard, but that’s their job,” Noelle says matter-of-factly. “Are you in concussion protocol?”
His eyes narrow. “No. Broken ribs.”
“How long will you be out?”
“I’m going back in on the next series,” he claims. There’s no way they’ll put him back in when they’re down by twenty-one points nearing the fourth quarter.
Brooks takes a few steps backward. Noelle lifts her shoulders and lets them fall as she says, “That doesn’t seem smart. That’s all from the New Orleans sideline. Armadillos 35, Blacksmiths 14. We’ll have to wait and see if Pendleton gets back into the game.”
Noelle O’Ryan is one hell of a reporter. Knowing Brook’s baby grows inside her, she’s a complete professional. There wasn’t a hint of a flirtatious smile or one that showed she regrets any of the choices she made.
I text her.
Me: That must have been hard to stand beside him, pregnant.
Noelle: He’s a mentally stunted jackass.
Me: He’s regretting not treating you like the woman you are.
Noelle: Honestly, I don’t care. I hope he finds someone to change his ways.
Me: You’re way more forgiving than I am.
Noelle: He doesn’t have someone that loves him like I do.
Me: True. No one could love you more than me.
Noelle: It’s time you show me how much ;)
Me: Thought you would never ask.
Noelle: I’m not asking. I’m demanding. I need to feel your touch.
Me: My hands are ready to meet your demands.