NOELLE
The Oklahoma sun has no mercy.
By nine in the morning, my ESPN polo sticks to me in places I haven’t felt since cheerleading. The turf has fuzzy steam rippling from it like a mirage. I steady my mic, breathe from my belly the way Birdie taught me (it’s always good to have a professional singer in the family), and lock my eyes on the camera’s red tally light.
“Good morning from Oklahoma City,” I say, bright but not bouncy, the way I practiced. “I’m Noelle O’Ryan with ESPN at rookie minicamp, where coaches are getting their first in-depth look at this draft class. Can they bump this five-win team from last year into a contender for a division championship?”
The producer’s voice crackles in my ear. “Clean. Keep rolling. Two more takes for safety.”
I nod, close my mouth, and wet my whistle. I think about how my mom used to say that. I’m not sure if I remember her saying it or if I’m recalling things J.D. and Greyson say. Taking an inward breath, I repeat the sound bite. The wordscome out smoother the second time, then the third, and my shoulders drop a half-inch, relieved.
This isn’t the first time I’ve been on a sideline with a mic, but it’s the first time for a football game. I’ve always been cheering. My experience has been with baseball and soccer for the most part. Coach Laramie jogs over and explains today’s schedule. “You have complete access, just don’t distract them during instruction.”
“Yes, sir. Is there anything unique or secret that you’ll be covering that you don’t want us to show?” I ask.
“Great question, O’Ryan. Not today. Maybe tomorrow. I’ll let you know.”
O’Ryan.No one has ever called me O’Ryan like I’m one of the guys. Like I’m just as important as J.D. or Greyson. I like it.
This is my job. My shot, and I’m ready. Trying to cool off, I pull at my shirt three or four times, fanning myself. It’s no wonder he called me O’Ryan, considering I’m almost as sweaty as the players.
I pivot off-camera, walking down the sideline to catch the rookie receivers working on drills, and I see Josiah Dream, who played for my college team. When the coach blows the whistle for a water break, he runs over to me, giving me a big hug. “Wow, I didn’t expect to see you here. I heard about you and Brooks. I’m sorry he’s such an ass.”
“Thanks, now I have two people’s sweat on me,” I joke as he squeezes me. “I’m so excited to start my career, so show me some skills today, and I’ll make you front-page news on the midnight broadcast.”
“You got it, Noelle. You’ll be the face of the network in no time. I better get back.”
“Thanks, Josiah. Good luck.”
A playlist hisses out of a portable speaker, all bass and bravado.
“Ma’am, are you waiting on eighty-seven?” a staffer asks, dragging a tall, dimpled wideout toward me.
“‘Ma’am’ makes me feel forty,” I tease, lifting the mic. “But yes—Devonte?”
He grins like he’s never had a bad day. “Yes, ma’am.”
“Devonte it is,” I say, swallowing a laugh. We angle so the team logo is visible behind us. My producer gives me a thumbs-up. “Okay, Devonte—first day with the big boys. What’s the speed like out here?”
“It’s fast,” he says, eyes bright. “But I’m faster.”
I grin. “Bold.”
“Gotta be.”
Smiling, because I feel the exact same way. If we don’t believe in ourselves, who will?
We trade a few more questions—footwork, routes, who’s mentoring him in the room. He slips once and calls me “ma’am” again, then apologizes like I’m the person who can make or break his career. Believe me, I’m not nearly that important. I let him off the hook with a nod.
His confidence is contagious. When we wrap, he asks if he can shout out his mom. He does. The camera guy chuckles. I pretend I’m not melting from his love for his mom and the heat.
Segment, B-roll, segment. My day becomes a loop of light and shadow, flashes of helmets and white towels, and the slow drip of my own sweat down my spine. I sip warm water between takes and send a quick text when my hands aren’t full.
Me: First interview done. No fainting, no mic drops, no profanity.
I watch the typing bubble blink and vanish, blink and vanish, and then:
Matt: Proud of you, Butterfly.
