Chapter 4 Noah
NOAH
Two months later—August
The air at the field smelled like fresh-cut grass, sweat, and something fried from the concession stands.
The preseason crowd was still thin, but you could feel the hum building—like the stadium itself was waking up after a long nap.
I shifted the strap of the backpack over my shoulder and adjusted the little hand gripping mine.
A little hand belonging to a boy who would never see his mom again. God. My stomach plummeted as the thought intruded—that happened a lot, as I thought about my sister and how she’d never get to see her son again.
Fuck, I missed Nat. I missed her smart-ass comments and the way she laughed without a care in the world.
I loved how she’d FaceTime me every single week with Miles gabbing in the background.
The way we’d gang up on my parents when they get all judgmental and say how disappointed they were in us.
We always imagined you doing more with life.
Or my favorite. Mrs. Dickerson’s son is a doctor, Noah.
A doctor. Do you know how uncomfortable it makes me to say what you do?
Nat would always tell them to fuck off, but then they’d pout for months and withhold love to us. That was the part that pissed me off. The withholding love messed with Miles, and God, I wished Nat was still here.
Despite having Miles for months, I still woke up and expected her to walk in the door with a chip on her shoulder and her signature smirk.
“Uncle Noah, are we late?”
“Not even close, buddy.” I squeezed his hand and crouched to his level. “We’ve got time to see the field before warmups. Want to see where I work?”
Miles grinned so wide his cheeks pushed into his lashes. “You mean where the big guys run into each other?”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
His curls were sticking to his forehead under a too-big Rampage cap. He’d insisted on wearing my jersey—his mom’s old one—so it hung down to his knees. I tugged it straight and told myself to breathe. This was fine. I could handle this.
I’d been repeating that to myself for two months, and it still didn’t sound true.
I got the call about her accident while on a trip with my friends. And while that gutted me, my life shifted a week later.
The day the lawyer handed me Nat’s will, the words blurred before I finished the first paragraph.
There were two letters in the folder—one for my parents, one for me.
Hers to me was short. You’re the only one who gets it.
Don’t let them convince you otherwise. Miles needs you.
Help him laugh, Noah. That’s all I want. Make him have a fun, joyful life.
I folded it back up and put it in my wallet. It was still there, creased and worn from me checking it too often, like proof. Like it would make my life go back to normal.
The fight started the minute my parents saw the papers. Mom crying, Dad pacing, both of them talking over each other about stability, about how a single football player couldn’t raise a child. About how I didn’t understand what I was agreeing to. That Nat couldn’t really mean that I’d parent Miles.
They weren’t wrong. I didn’t know what I was doing.
However, Nat and I had often teamed up against our parents.
Whenever one of them made a comment about Nat’s horrible life choices—she was a bartender and made bank—she’d ignore them.
They’d huff every time I talked about football because “it wasn’t a long career for me” and I’d forget to check in with them for a bit.
They were inconsiderate, and all their flaws had amplified more since Nat died.
But when Miles woke up from a nap that first week and asked if he could still have pancakes the way his mom made them—three little ones stacked like a tower, syrup only in the middle—I learned how to watch him fast.
Now the tower pancakes were my Sunday ritual. I could braid a shoelace, pack a lunch, read Dragons Love Tacos without glancing at the words. I could also sign a hundred condolence cards I never wanted to read and smile through a thousand versions of you’re doing great, man.
I wasn’t doing great. I was holding it together because the alternative would break both of us, and if there was one thing I loved more than football in my life, it was Miles. My life wasn’t about just me anymore.
“Uncle Noah!” Miles tugged my hand again, pointing toward the tunnel that opened onto the field. “Can we run on it?”
“Not today, bud. The team’s about to warm up. But we can watch.”
I flashed my badge to the security guard and walked us down the ramp. The noise got louder, the kind of low buzz that always settled in my bones before a game. Normally, that sound flipped a switch in my head—go mode. Today, it just felt heavy.
Miles stopped at the edge of the turf, eyes wide. “It’s so green.”
“Yeah. They take good care of it.” I smiled despite the tightness in my chest. “Wanna meet some of the guys?”
He nodded hard enough to knock his cap sideways.
A few teammates jogged past, tossing easy greetings.
I got the usual questions—how’s the kid, you good, you need anything—but I could see the relief in their eyes when I said fine.
Nobody wanted the long version. The only people who barged their way into my life to help were my teammate Oliver James and our team mental health doc, Sloane Mercer.
They helped me watch Miles when life became overwhelming, and I wasn’t sure what I’d do without them.
Miles was shy at first, hiding behind my leg, until our kicker crouched to his height and let him hold a football. Within five minutes he was explaining that he could throw “super far, almost to the moon.” The kicker swore that was probably a team record.
I laughed and checked my watch. The team meeting was in ten minutes. “Hey, we gotta get you to your seat before warmups, champ.”
He groaned but nodded, already clutching the foam finger someone had given him. We walked back toward the stands. I found the family section near the fifty-yard line and knelt to his level.
“You remember the rule?” I asked.
“No running away.”
“Good. Stay right here, and Ivy’ll keep an eye on you until I come back.”
He looked past me, eyes lighting up the same way my sister’s always did. “She’s got snacks!”
“Don’t eat all her snacks,” I warned, standing. I was the one who had to try to get him in bed later. The more sugar he had, the harder the battle was.
Ivy Emerson, our team trainer, gave me a sympathetic smile. She’d been fantastic too. Hell, she was with me the day I got the call and drove me to the hospital. “Go do your thing, Abbott. He’s fine with me.”
I thanked her and jogged back toward the tunnel, rolling my shoulders to shake off the tightness. Game mode. Focus. Helmet. Pads. The whole routine. Except none of it felt normal anymore. The weight hit me in the chest, and I ignored it, which I’d done for two months.
The locker room noise hit in layers: music thumping, guys chirping, the rip of tape.
I moved through the routine on muscle memory.
Checked my stance marks. Glove fit. Thumb spica tight but not numb.
Two quick sets of pass pro footwork in the aisle.
Call sheet in my waistband, protections already running on a loop with Booth’s voice in my head.
I should have felt settled. Clearance in the chart.
Legs under me again. Instead, my brain kept toggling to the other playbook.
Kindergarten waitlists. Background checks for the nanny agency.
Who could cover the Thursday night away game when daycare closed at six.
The team’s family room was solid but not for fourteen-hour days.
Ivy had texted me the names of two sitters the players’ partners trusted.
I had Miles’s inhaler in my backpack, an extra pair of socks, and the emergency contact forms folded into quarters in my wallet next to Nat’s letter.
I jogged up the tunnel with my helmet, and the noise swelled. Habit pulled my eyes to the hashmarks, then the sideline. A flash of matte black caught the light by the promo table. Community relations had a setup going, staff in team gear, new pieces on display.
I almost kept moving until one of them turned.
Em.
She was there with a tablet pressed to her chest, talking a tech through something while a volunteer modeled a new Rampage jacket.
Even from across the field, I could tell it was hers.
It wasn’t the usual team stuff—this one looked sharp, bold, something you’d actually want to wear off the field.
Bright color down the sides, cleaner lines, confidence built right into the fabric.
It screamed her: fearless, a little stubborn, impossible not to notice.
My lungs hit pause.
Two months ago, she’d been right in front of me, sitting on that bench at Navy Pier, fingers shaking over her phone while I was trying to work up the nerve to ask her out.
I’d been seconds away—close enough to taste the words, to imagine what it might be like to finally lean in and kiss her after five years of pretending I didn’t want to.
I could still feel the weight of that night: her head tucked against my chest on the Ferris wheel, the smell of her shampoo, the sound of her laugh when she said “okay, coach.”
And then I blew it. I stayed out late, partying with other alumni, rehashing the past with old teammates, and getting home way too late. I couldn’t call her then.
The next morning, camp started. Pads, install, travel schedule.
I kept thinking I’d text her that night, call her from the hotel, something.
But I got nervous. I wanted to see her. What would I say?
Great seeing you, can’t hang out for a month?
Then we had the trip to the lake house planned, and that was when the call came from Nat’s neighbor, and the ground under me gave out.