“Jesus, do you have a death wish?”
Maybe I do. “From Brooks? No. You know he’s a real douchebag.”
“I was thinking more about Greyson and J.D.,” he says, raising both his eyebrows.
“They weren’t happy at first. Still probably aren’t, but they’re supportive.”
Across the field, I spot her—head tilted back, laughing at something. Brooks Pendleton stands beside her, helmet under his arm, his hand brushing a piece of her hair away from her face. He’s grinning that same smirk I used to see on rookies right before they throw an interception.
Something sharp lodges in my chest.
She’s smiling back. Not the big, unfiltered Noelle smile—the polite one. The one she uses when she’s trying too hard. My hope is she’s just trying to get through the day without punching him. She values her new job and wants to be the best at it.
Apples don’t fall far from the tree, and there’s no doubt she’s just as competitive as the rest of the O’Ryans.
Still, when he touches her hair, I feel my jaw lock.
A staffer beside me whistles low. “Seems like Brooks is already working his charm again.”
“Yeah,” I say, tight. “That’s his favorite play. Draw her back to convince her he means it this time. But I have faith she knows his game plan too well now to fall for his lies again.”
Brooks says something else, and then he jogs back towardthe huddle, glancing at me over his shoulder. The bastardwinks.
At me.
I swallow a curse, shoving my hands into my pockets. “Let’s go to the field,” the offensive coordinator says, but I don’t hear a damn word after that. I’m scanning for Noelle and the cameraman. They set up on the sidelines.
When she’s finished with a couple of interviews, I grab a water from the huge cooler and stride over to the ESPN sideline reporter. “Hey, you promised you would hydrate.” I hand it to her and rub her back. Her lips curve, a quiet smile filled with thanks, the kind that speaks louder than words ever could.
After getting lost in her eyes, Brooks runs over, tunneling his fingers through his golden mane.
“I’m ready.”
My body stiffens as Noelle shifts and says, “Okay.” She turns to me. “I’ll be done in a few hours. I’ll just meet you at the hotel.” Her expression unfolds like she’s letting a secret slip out, making sure Brooks understands that she and I are still dating.
“Senior citizens sleep in separate beds, right?” Brooks asks with a deep belly laugh.
“Hah. Not us. We have too much fun sleeping together. Knock 'em dead. I have a video meeting with the Armadillos staff. Can’t wait for tonight.” I lean down and give her a lingering kiss. Gotta make him believe, right?
The look on Brooks’s face is priceless. His jaw drops. His eyebrows hit his hairline. If she wanted to make him believe we’re in a true relationship, he seems convinced right now.
There. I did my job.
But there is one problem: I want everything I just insinuated. Want her lips on mine.
Dinner that night is at some trendy spot near the hotel—dim lighting, candles, jazz bleeding through the walls. She’s glowing from the day, still in work mode, talking about the interviews she nailed and how the head coach complimented her prep notes.
I want to be proud. Iamproud.
But every time I picture Brooks’s hand in her hair, I want to put my fist through something.
She notices. Of course, she does. “You’ve said maybe four words since we sat down,” she says, leaning forward. “You planning to keep glaring at your gumbo, or do you want to tell me what’s eating you?”
“Nothing.”
She grins, but it fades quickly when I don’t bite. “Matt, come on. You’ve been weird since the facility. Did something happen?”
I push my spoon away, staring at the table. “Not worth talking about.”
