Noelle huffs. “Sorry,Holly.”
I grin. She grins as she rolls up the window, but I catch the little tilt of her head when she watches the scenery pass by, the nervousness hiding behind all that sass. She pulls her backpack with her ESPN badge clipped to it, into her lap like it’s a security blanket.
I soften a little. “You’re gonna kill it, you know.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t believe it yet. “You think so?”
“I know so,” I say simply. “You were the star of late night on the network last week with Oklahoma City.”
“In whose mind?”
Mine. I recorded it and watched it on a repeating loop.
“The viewers'. Didn’t you see the ratings?”
“Umm… was that when I was sweating so much that my ta-tas were showing?”
Ta-tas. God, I love her.
“Noelle, the segment with you was the highest rating of the hour. And I didn’t notice the ta-tas.” That last part, a complete lie. I notice everything about Noelle O’Ryan. Expelling a big breath, I lay my hand on her knee. “Are you freaked out about seeing Brooks? You know we don’t have to fake all of this if he’s really what you want.”
Her lips twitch, and for a second, the tension drops. Then she plops her backpack on the floor and starts fiddling with the radio, landing on some old '90s country song. “I guess I’m more loyal than I should be.”
Fuck, that’s a shiv to the ego. She’s still hung up on him after all he did to her.
“Loyalty is in your family’s DNA. It’s a good quality.”
“This is torture.”
“Seeing Brooks?”
“I can handle Brooks. No, these songs on the radio. Whydidn’t we drive your Corvette? Now that would have been fun.”
She laughs, a real one this time—and for the next few miles, we let the highway fill the silence.
By the time we roll into New Orleans, the air’s thick enough to chew. The facility’s got that new turf smell—fresh paint, sweat, and ambition. I can already hear the rookies running drills before I even park.
Noelle hops out of the truck, slipping on her sunglasses and pressing her badge to her lanyard like it’s armor. “You good?” I ask.
“I’m fine,” she says, too quick. “You go do your coach-y thing. I’ll go be professional.”
“Professional,” I echo, smirking. “Try not to trip over any microphones this time.”
She swats my arm and walks off, hips swaying just enough to make me regret talking.
Inside, I find a few familiar faces—some of the same staff from when I coached in Louisville. They’re running rookie drills, trying to make sense of raw potential.
“Stricker!” one of them calls. “Slumming it with us today?”
“Guess I missed the gumbo,” I joke, shaking hands. “Just here to watch, not to interfere.”
They trade looks. “We’re just doing basics today,” one says, lowering his voice. “But tomorrow we’ll have to keep you off the field. Team rules. Rookie Media Day.”
“Understood.” I keep my voice neutral, even though it feels like a kick. I came here to help Noelle, to make sure she doesn’t get swallowed up by the chaos. But rules are rules.
“So, are the rumors true? You’re dating a recent college grad and the head coach’s sister?”
“Yeah, she’s one of a kind.” I hate lying to my friends and colleagues, but I need to make sure they believe it, and I hope they ride the hell out of Brooks.
