Matt: Noelle.
Me: I know him. I’m not a savage.
Matt: Hydrate. Eat. And stop collecting rookie DNA.
I bite down on a smile that’s too big for my face and tuck the phone against my chest. The window of the producer’s car vibrates against my temple. The world streaks past in tan, green, and heat.
By the time I reach the hotel, the nausea has settled into a slow wave. I ride the elevator with two kickers and a box of delivered salads and try to breathe through my mouth. My room key sticks, then relents.
I drop my bag and peel my polo off like it’s a sticker, then stand in front of the vent blowing out some much-needed cool air in my sports bra until my goosebumps hurt. I pull on my softest thing—an old, thin, gray Armadillos tank Matt once handed me when I spilled iced coffee on myself while watching Parker practice with the team last year. He gave me the look of a man trying to decide between sighing and strangling me, then threw me his tank that was strewn over his shoulder. He tossed it with a gruff, “Cover the crime scene.” I never gave it back. Sorry, not sorry.
I flop on the bed and scroll through the photos the cameraman took of me for promotions—the one where my hair blows just right, the one where I look too serious, the one where I’m laughing with my whole face. I pick two and text them.
Me: Your fake girlfriend is officially ESPN material.
Matt: You look like you were born on that sideline.
Me: I only tripped once. Maybe twice.
Matt: I’ll need to review the film.
Me: Nerd.
Matt: Accurate.
The nausea swells, then fades. I chug hotel water, grimace, and reach for the mini pretzels because I hear Matt’s voice in my head: Protein, Sunshine. And salt. I nibble, stare at the ceiling for a beat, then thumb out another message.
Me: A rookie called me ma’am like eight times.
Matt: He’s polite. I like him.
Me: Of course you do.
Matt: Did he look at you?
Me: I mean… I was holding a microphone.
Matt: Noelle.
Me: Don’t worry, Coach. I told him my fake boyfriend is very scary and hates germs.
My phone buzzes without the courtesy of the three waiting dots. Incoming FaceTime.
I hesitate just long enough to swipe my hair into a lazyknot and adjust the tank so it doesn’t swallow me whole, then accept the call.
Matt’s face fills my screen—too close at first, beard shadow darker than usual, eyes soft. He looks tired.
“Hey, Butterfly,” he says, and the gravel in his voice reaches me all the way here. “You didn’t pass out on live TV. I’m impressed.”
“Low bar,” I say, smiling. “How’s Austin?”
He leans back; I catch a sliver of the QB room—whiteboard graffiti, a blinking projector, a coffee mug that’s probably been refilled a dozen times.
“Hot, loud, and one of the rookies thinks ‘progression’ is a type of protein shake.”
I groan. “Tell me you didn’t yell.”
“I used my ‘firm teaching voice that your brothers love.’”
