I make it to the tunnel, flipping from sticky heat to cool shade. I sit against the concrete, and my stomach bubbles and sweat covers my face. I brace my hands on my knees and suck in air through my nose the way Matt told me.
Someone must have called Matt because he is by my side within minutes. He doesn’t ask if I’m okay first. He presses a cold bottle into my hand, pops two stomach-calming tablets into the other, and takes my mic so I can swallow them.
“Talk to me,” he orders, softer than the word sounds. He crouches in front of me, all heat and worry, and I see his mind working overtime.
“I’m okay,” I say, because my mouth is stubborn. “It’s just the heat.”
“You were sick in Oklahoma,” he says carefully. “And then yesterday in the car, you got quiet and breathed weird for twenty miles. And now today you look like the world is a carousel spinning faster than you can handle.”
“It’s not…I’m fine.” My eyes sting, traitors. I blink hard. “He just said something disgusting.”
“What did he say?” The temperature of his voice drops ten degrees.
“That I might be… that I might be pregnant with my ‘old man’s baby.’” I try to put air quotes around it, but my hands shake. I laugh, a brittle little sound, because the alternative is sobbing. “Hilarious, right?”
Matt doesn’t laugh. Something moves behind his eyes that I can’t name. He takes my free hand, his thumb pressing the map of my knuckles.
“We’re not going to let him get in your head,” he says. “You hear me?”
The part I don’t say is the part that explodes quietly in my chest anyway. If I’m pregnant, there’s only one possibility. The one time with Brooks, six weeks ago, when I convinced myself it meant we were fixing things. When I thought scraps counted as dinner. I feel sick for a different reason now.
I shove that thought into a box and hammer nails into the lid. Right now, I have a job. Right now, I will not fall apart on the sidelines for Brooks to enjoy.
“Hey,” Matt says, like he can see the box and the nails and the way I’m holding the hammer too tight. “You want to call it for the morning? I can walk you back.”
I shake my head. “I want to finish. I won’t let him win. I want to be good at this.”
A slow nod. “Okay. Then we finish.” He leans in and touches his forehead to mine for a second, just long enough to transfer the steady from his body to mine. “You’re not alone.”
I breathe him in. “I know.”
I make it through the rest of the morning. I get clean quotes. I take notes that aren’t just about football—tiny things I like to fold into highlights: the punter with the lucky shoelace, the tight end who learned sign language for his sister, and the head trainer who keeps peppermints in her pocket for queasy rookies. She even offers me one. “You’re a rookie reporter, after all.”
“Can you tell?”
She says, “No, but everyone knows the O’Ryan family. And of course, Brooks has told everyone that will listen that he’s going to win you back. Told us you were meant to be.”
“Hah! He had his chance and blew it many times, and I’m happy now.”
“With Coach Stricker?”
It throws me a little, knowing our relationship is a balancing act between fake and real, between my brothers and what I want. “Yeah. He’s… a great guy.”
I can handle my brothers if only I knew Matt’s feelings.
She touches my elbow. “A word of advice from a woman who lives in a man’s world the same as you. Make sure you know their demons. Most every man at this level has some. Heck, maybe us women do, too.”
Demons?Like our mom dying.
What would Matt’s be? Does it have to do with that little monitor? He always seems grumpy or mad when I bring it up. He tries to brush it off, but I see the mask he wears.
I wave to the New Orleans coach, and he gives me a little salute like we’re on the same team. By the look on his face, he’s proud that I pushed through and got back in the game, so to speak.
Brooks stays far away. Good.
Later, my phone lights up with a text from Birdie, then three missed calls, and then another text from J.D. I step into the shade to listen to the voicemail, but J.D. calls back first, breathless and happy and a little terrified. “The baby girl’s coming,” he says. “Sutton is in labor. Greyson’s a mess. I’m pretending not to be. I’m going to be an uncle.”
“You’re already a dad.” Excitement crashes through my body. “Oh my God.”
