“You could’ve called me before you almost fainted,” he says, grouchy again to hide whatever else that was. “I would’ve told you?—”
“To hydrate and eat protein,” I chorus. “Yes, Dad.”
His mouth twitches. “Your actual dad would make me run entire stadiums for letting you get dehydrated.”
“My dad would make you run stadiums for breathing near me,” I say, and we both grin because it’s true.
His eyes tip to the pillow again, playful now. “So, are you going to fix your, uh, wardrobe malfunction or are we pretending that’s not happening?”
I narrow my eyes and adjust the pillow with exaggerated primness. “I’m maintaining my modesty.”
“Good call. Hotel AC is brutal.”
“You noticed.”
He lifts a shoulder. “I notice… things.”
I swallow. I should steer us back to safe ground now, talk about cover-two looks or airport food, anything that doesn’t feel like standing on a high dive. Instead, I let the softness sit with us. It doesn’t feel like drowning. It feels like floating.
“Hey,” he says after a beat, gentler. “You did great today.”
“Even when I almost face-planted?”
“Especially then. You’re tougher than most guys I coach.” He pauses, looks away like he’s measuring something, then looks back. “You belong there, Noelle. On camera. On that field. You’ve always belonged.”
My throat tightens fast. Tears threaten in the embarrassingly immediate way they always do when someone says exactly the thing I’ve been white-knuckling for. I tilt the phone so he can’t see my whole face in case it betrays me.
“Thanks,” I say, voice a little raw. “That means more than… you know.”
“I know,” he says softly.
We talk about nothing for five more minutes—the motel art that looks like it was painted by an AI that’s only seen football fields, the rookie who slid in his cleats like a cartoon character, the way the rookies smell like a high school summer.
When the yawn finally sneaks up on me, it takes my entire face hostage. I don’t even get to be cute about it.
“Okay,” he says, smiling. “Bed. Now.”
“Bossy.”
“Always,” he says, and his smile shifts into something almost shy. “Text me if you feel off in the night. I’m serious.”
“I will,” I say, and I mean it.
“And eat a real breakfast.”
“Do donuts count?”
A smile slips out as he’s shaking his head. “I will hang up.”
I laugh, and the laugh tips into another yawn. “Night, Coach.”
“Night, Butterfly.”
I end the call and the room goes too quiet too fast. The pillow is still clutched to my chest like a shield. I toss it aside, stare at the ceiling, then slide off the bed and pad into the bathroom to splash cool water on my face. The mirror shows a girl with sun-kissed cheeks, tired eyes, and a gray tank that needs to be retired from video calls.
My stomach rolls once, then settles.
“You’re fine,” I tell the girl. “You’re just tired.”
