Back in bed, I pull the covers to my chin and reach for my phone one more time. A text lands before I can type.
Matt: Proud of you. For today. For everything.
I breathe out and feel something in my ribs unclench.
Me: Miss you. But in a professional, ESPN-approved way.
Matt: There’s no form for that.
Me: I’ll make one.
Three dots. Then:
Matt: Sleep. Hydrate. And maybe… find a thicker tank ;)
I grin into the dark like a fool and toss the phone to the nightstand. The AC hums me toward sleep. Somewhere between the last conscious thought and the first dream, I realize I am not thinking about the heat anymore, or the mic in my hand, or even the way my name sat under the ESPNlogo and made my heart stutter. I’m thinking about a grumpy quarterback coach who notices things, and how dangerous it is that I like that he does.
FOURTEEN
MATT
The drive to New Orleans is supposed to be easy.
But Noelle O’Ryan has a way of turning a four-to-five-houreasydrive into provoking me at every turn. She’s got her bare feet propped on my dashboard, toenails painted the color of cotton candy, humming along to some pop station. The guy singing sounds like a little girl who sings about three octaves higher than any human should be able to.
I shouldn’t look at her legs, but I do. They’re stretched out, tan and smooth, and every time she shifts, my focus goes straight to wondering about what’s under her skirt, how soft her skin is between her legs, and arguing with myself about keeping physical distance between us.
“Feet off the dash, Butterfly,” I say, giving her a side-eye. “You’re leaving prints all over my windshield.”
She smirks. “I’ll leave them everywhere if you don’t start driving like someone born after 1950.”
I snort. “The truck's older than you. Show some respect.”
“It also rattles when you hit sixty,” shefires back, grinning. “You sure it’s gonna make it to Louisiana? We should’ve driven your Corvette.”
“Don’t insult the truck. She’s sensitive.”
“She?” she says, drawing the word out like it’s a dirty secret. “You named this old thing? What’s her name? I bet it’s Betty.”
“Holly. My dad bought her used for my Christmas present when I was in high school,” I say, reminiscing. “She can do one hundred miles per hour. Dare me.”
She cackles. “You’re kidding, right? We’ll end up splattered on the road.”
“And here I thought you were adventurous.”
“Are you daring me? Sure. I knowHollycan’t go that fast.”
“Holly has a V8 engine, not some turbocharged four-cylinder that’s made now.” We’re on a straight stretch of the interstate, so I press pedal to the metal, literally, and the truck stutters for a half-second, then picks up speed—seventy, eighty, ninety.
Noelle rolls down the window, screaming, hair whipping in the wind. I’ve never seen anything so pure and happy. It’s breathtaking. I can’t take my eyes off her when I hear a prolonged honk from the vehicle in the other lane as I drift dangerously close to it. I swerve quickly, and Noelle slides across the bench seat against me. Not going to lie, I love the way her body molds into mine.
“Okay, okay. Slow down.”
“Apologize to Holly for doubting her.” I keep my foot on the gas.
“You want me to say sorry to a truck?”
“Yep.”
