J.D. shrugs, and Sutton, who is also the general manager of the team, puts on her professional voice. “Matt needs a few extra weeks. He’s been coaching since he was twenty-four. Matt has earned some freedom.” He takes a deep breath. “Technically, he’s still working. He blows up my phone hourly with schemes and ideas.”
Greyson and J.D. share a quick glance—they know—but the rest of us are still staring, open-mouthed.
Witt’s voice cuts through the confusion, quiet but sure. “It’s about time some things changed around here. Dad says we’re supposed to be open and honest.”
All our eyes go wide. “So, are you going to tell everyone about your pen pal?” I ask. “Today I got the mail, and there was a letter to Witt in a girl’s handwriting.”
“That was an invitation to an in-person tournament later in the year,” he says, shaking his head at how stupid I could be.
Dinner resumes with baby talk and how Greyson’s tennis courts are now being used by a foundation that helps kids who are struggling growing up in a single-parent household.But my head’s spinning. When the leftovers are boxed and everyone drifts away, I slip outside into the Texas twilight, phone in hand.
I dial Matt. When his voice clicks on, I don’t even say hi. “I’m the new official sideline reporter for ESPN. I’ll be doing rookie days, all over the region.”
There’s a beat where I swear I hear his smile even through the phone. And for a second, all the nervous energy dissolves in the warm Texas night.
TWELVE
MATT
My phone buzzes on the coffee table, cutting through the heavy quiet. When I swipe to answer, her voice, bright and electric, chases away the depressing thoughts filling my night.
“I’m the new official sideline reporter for ESPN!” she blurts out, exuding sheer happiness. No hello, just breathless pride. “I’ll be doing Rookie Days, all over the region.”
For a hot minute, I’m grinning like an idiot, even though nobody’s around to see. “No kidding?” I say, finding myself sitting up straighter, invested in anything she says. “Proud of you. You’re a big leaguer now.”
“Don’t say it like I’m a baby. Well,” she admits, “It’s a start. I get to cover the camps, the new guys. And, you know… New Orleans.”
The name lands with a thud in my chest. New Orleans. Where Brooks is. No doubt she’ll be around him, interviewing him. I’ve known many guys just like Brooks—they want a girl only so no one else can have her, not because they’re in love.
I drag a hand over my face, searching for the right words—any words that don’t sound like a jealous, washed-up old man. “That’s… a hell of a gig. I’m sure you’ll impress the coaches right away. Congrats.”
She laughs, a little softer now. “Have I impressed you?”
Do I speak my truth?
You’ve had me hooked since the first time I heard you laugh. Hell yes, I’m impressed.
Nope, can’t say that, so instead, I say, “Everyone who knows you understands that you can do anything you put your mind to.”
“Thanks, I hope I can handle it. Even with seeing Brooks, I can do it.”
My voice hardens before I can help it. I wish I could blame the tone on sugar levels, but it has nothing to do with diabetes and everything to do with the ache in my bones when I picture her anywhere near that guy. “Have you spoken to him since your party?”
“He’s left a few voicemails and texts.”
The realization hits as hard as a punch to the temple. I’m not just being protective; I’m fucking jealous that she hasn’t blocked his calls. “And have you returned them?”
I can almost hear her shaking her head, like her hair is brushing against the phone.
“I haven’t. Don’t worry, I made sure he believes we’re a couple. He’s upset that I’m dating someone so old who has nothing to offer me in the future. His words, not mine.”
Fuck. Maybe he’s right. What do I have to offer Noelle?
“You shouldn’t have to deal with him alone.”
There’s a beat of quiet—something shifting between us. “That’s what I wanted to ask.” She’s playing it cool, but I know her too well; excitement is tangled up with nerves. “J.D. said it was fine if you came along. To New Orleans. And, you know, the other stops if you want. For appearances.”
“Appearances,” I echo, half-annoyed that maybe she is only thinking of this as platonic. Half of me wants to scream,“I want more,”but that’s not fair to either of us, or to J.D. and Greyson.
