Chapter 45
FORTY-FIVE
MATT
The field feels different under my feet.
Not unfamiliar—never that—but sharper somehow.
Like I’m more aware of every step, every breath, every inch of space between me and the players I’m coaching.
I keep my distance, careful, deliberate, except for the quarterbacks.
Greyson. The backups. And J.D., who hovers close enough to check my face every few minutes like he’s waiting for me to vanish again.
I hold the tablet up, drawing lines with my finger. “They’re going to blitz. Over and over. They think they can rattle you early. You see this?” I tap the screen. “That linebacker cheats left every time.”
Greyson nods. “So, we burn them?”
“We punish them,” I say. “Quick release. Trust the read.”
The public address announcer cuts in. “Fans, please direct your attention to the video board as we celebrate one of our own—”
I keep talking. “If they bring pressure on third—”
“Matt,” Greyson says.
“Are you listening?” I snap, eyes still on the tablet.
He jerks his chin upward. “Are you? We’re supposed to be looking at the Jumbotron.”
I look up.
And the world tilts.
My face fills the screen—older, thinner than I remember, but unmistakably me. Then Noelle’s voice carries through the stadium, calm and strong and steady in that way she gets when she’s telling a story that matters.
“Matt is probably going to be upset about this,” she says, smiling softly at the camera. “But my career is about finding stories. Reporting on stories.”
My chest tightens.
“This one will be airing in its entirety on the Sports Network this Tuesday at nine p.m. But since my brother coaches this team, my sister-in-law is the general manager, my brother is the quarterback, and my fiancé is the quarterbacks coach… I thought it was important that you see first what Coach Matt Stricker has gone through—and survived.”
Images flash.
Me on dialysis.
Me hunched over a tablet, working when I shouldn’t have been.
Zoom calls from my living room. Hospital rooms. IV lines.
“This game gave him something when his body was failing him,” Noelle continues. “A distraction. A purpose. Something to hold onto during weeks in the hospital and months of recovery.”
Noelle’s cheeks have rounded now that she’s in the third trimester, her hair is thicker, and she really is glowing. She’s been my rock. Never giving up on me. Never.
The screen shifts.
The proposal.
The embrace.
Her face when I collapsed.
The terror in her eyes—I have to look away for a second.
Then surgery. Recovery. Pictures with the O’Ryan clan. My sister. My mom. Noelle laughing again.
“All of you,” she says, her voice breaking just slightly, “your messages, your letters, your support—it gave me the strength to help him fight. And I hope seeing his story reminds you that whatever you’re facing… you can make it. You can beat it.” She chokes up.
Silence crashes over the stadium.
Then the chant starts.
“MATT! MATT! MATT!”
Then a live feed flashes to Noelle in her seat with her hands tenting her nose.
I can’t imagine how hard this was for her to put together.
And the emotions she’s had to relive. She continues to amaze me.
Not that long ago, she was a scared, beaten-down young woman in need of comfort and a kiss.
Who knew that would turn into fake dating and then to where we are now.
Engaged.
In love.
A baby on the way.
And the strongest woman I’ve ever known. A woman I know is strong enough to weather any storm that comes our way.
I stand there, stunned, lost in thought, as the camera zooms in on me and captures the tears I didn’t even realize were there. Greyson grips my shoulder. J.D. clears his throat and pretends he’s fine.
The announcer comes on again. “Thank you for sharing your journey, Coach Stricker. Now it’s Dillllooooo time.”
Greyson runs out on the field with the other captains for the coin flip. We win the toss and elect to receive the ball. The roar of the crowd races through my veins. I laugh to myself.
Life is good.
Late in the fourth quarter, we’re down by four. I lean in, heart pounding, and call the play I drew up months ago—back when I wasn’t sure I’d ever stand on this field again.
Greyson and LaRue execute it perfectly. Touchdown.
We win. The crowd jumps and dances, and the guys hoist me on their shoulders when it should be Greyson or LaRue.
And the fans refuse to leave, chanting my name.
A name they may not have known before my kidney failed and failed again.
I stand in the back of the locker room—I really shouldn’t even be in a confined area with all the sweat and germs—but I want to see the celebration in the guys’ eyes. This is why I love football.
Later, Noelle and I celebrate somewhere quiet, away from cameras and noise. She’s glowing, hand on her belly, her eyes bright. We drove out to Andy’s Deli. It’s far away from the city lights and people.
“I want pickles dipped in a chocolate shake,” she announces.
I grimace. “That’s disgusting.”
She arches her brow. “You made me drink almond milk for weeks.”
“That was for the baby.”
“This is for the baby,” she says sweetly, sliding the glass toward me.
Although I’m very strict about what I eat, I’ll do anything for this woman, and this proves it. I take the pickle spear from my plate and dunk it into the thick chocolate. I was right. Disgusting. The two should never be eaten together.
She laughs like she’s won something important.
But I’m the winner of this game. I scored her.