When I step into the conference room, the panel waits: two senior producers, a guy from talent management who looks barely older than me, and—because the universe finds it hilarious—a framed photo on the wall of my brotherGreyson, grinning mid-photo-op. The wall is full of photos, but there are three larger than the rest, and he’s one of them.
The first half of the interview is questions about my time as a reporter for the campus station, the sports I covered, my cheerleading career, and how I balanced college with being an athlete. I hit all the talking points.
The producer raises my resume, which mainly consists of grades and sports, with no mention of me being kin to any of the talented O’Ryan men. Then his eyes flick between my name and the photo on the wall.
“And you’re Greyson O’Ryan’s little sister, right?” one of the producers asks, her tone not quite neutral.
The guy from talent management leans in. “Everyone in this town knows your family. You must have some stories from the inside, huh? What’s it like having two brothers in pro sports and a college coach for a father?”
It’s the question I always get, and the one I hate the most. “My brothers are loud, competitive, and stubborn,” I say with a well-worn smile. “I’ve never known a life without them being on top. I was young when they were in high school, but I wouldn’t trade a moment of being dragged to their games when maybe I should have been at sleepovers with girlfriends. And my dad is just my dad.”
His eyes gleam. “Would you be comfortable interviewing your own family? The public loves that stuff—personal perspective, and you could get us angles no one else can.”
“I thought this job was for a sideline reporter. Of course, I would interview them if I’m covering an Armadillos game or my dad if I’m assigned to a LaGrange game.” My voice comes out a little softer than I want. “I just want to tellstories that haven't already been told at my dinner table. I want to know what’s happening now.”
“You do realize that in a job, you don’t get to cherry-pick what you cover.” The female producer glares at me. Why do women always look at me as if they hate me?Do I have a resting bitch face?
“Yes, ma’am. I just want to make it on my own. My brothers made it on their talent, and I would like a chance to prove mine.”
There’s an awkward beat—a hum of respect or irritation, I can’t tell. The questions move on, but I feel like I’ve shut a window I was supposed to leap through.
Afterward, one of the producers walks me out. “Thank you for your honesty, Noelle. We’ll be in touch soon.”
Soon.
As I step outside, sunlight bounces off the chrome bumpers in the station parking lot. My shoulders sag. I dial my dad. Voicemail. Sutton—voicemail. Parker—voicemail. Even Birdie, who answers texts in the middle of workouts, lets it ring. Not Greyson or John David either. Weird. Everyone’s usually eager for information.
I tap out a message to Matt, my thumb hovering as I search for something breezy.
Me: Obviously you haven’t had a girlfriend in a long time. I haven’t seen you since my party. Want to meet up for milkshakes after my ego recovers?
I stare at the screen. Three dots appear, vanish, reappear.
Matt: Milkshakes? Sorry, can’t.
Me: Matt, please. No one’s returning my calls or texts.
Matt: Did your family take off without telling you? I’m out of town until tomorrow.
Me: Oh, okay.
Even my fingers typing on my phone sound sad. Am I sad because he’s out of town? Or because my family isn’t responding?
The dancing dots remind me of a handheld game I used to play in the stands of football games where it’s filled with water and you push the button and try to get the cherries in a basket. Just up and down.
When I’m about to typewhere are you, he finally sends another message.
Matt: I don’t like milkshakes. I have a better idea.
Me: If you say a protein shake, I’m blocking your number.
Matt: I’ll meet you at Sprouts tomorrow night. Their wheatgrass shots are sweet.
Me: Wow. If I wanted to drink salad, I’d just gnaw my way through Sutton’s garden. And I’m not sweet; I’m more of a spicy pickle.
Matt: (laughing emoji)
Me: What? I am.
