“Are you trying to get rid of me by dropping me off at urgent care for a day?” I deflect.
“Funny,” he says, not smiling. He reaches for my wrist, not to trap—just to anchor. “I’m serious.”
“I know.” I tug free gently and busy my hands with the marker caps, making sure the correct ones are on the markers. “We’ve got Sutton and the baby to worry about. Don’t worry about me.”
He studies me for a beat that feels longer than a beat. “Okay,” he says finally, though I hear the part where he wants to press. He takes the step I was hoping for and the step that disappoints me at the same time—he lets me have my no. “If you’re sick tomorrow…”
“Got it, Coach. I’ll review the play.” I echo, relief and guilt colliding in my ribs.
“Are you staying until they get home? I have an appointment, so I need to bounce.”
“I thought you didn’t have to work for a few weeks.”
“I have an eye appointment. Can’t coach if I can’t see.”
“Oh, you can coach. I could use a little more coaching so I can make you happy.”
Behind me, he sighs as he throws the nails, hammer, and tape into a box and clamps the lid closed. Then he says, “Noelle, the point of coaching you is to make yourself happy. So you know what you like and can tell your future…. Just quit worrying about everyone else.”
He holds up a ridiculous stuffed armadillo that Sutton bought Greyson. It wears a tiny helmet and a scowl matching his own.
Got it. He doesn’t want me snooping in his business even though he’s completely okay with making sure I find out why I’ve been nauseated.
We turn off the lights. We lock the door. We walk out into the muggy afternoon and the sound of hay being baled. His fingertips press against my back, helping me into the truck.
He seems as if he’s in another world.
I’m worried about why he’s driving if he can’t see. And my stomach turns at the thought of what might be happening inside my body.
TWENTY-ONE
MATT
Rookie camp.
The smell of freshly painted white lines and cut grass. The pristine look of the various position rooms. But it’s the sound that gets me. Cleats grinding into turf. Whistles snapping sharp enough to raise the dead. Twenty-two-year-old men trying to prove they belong before anyone can tell them otherwise. It’s football stripped down to its bones. They’re here to show their speed, agility, and ability to learn fast and make decisions even faster.
I love it here.
Which is probably why I don’t love that my head feels like it's concussed.
I blink hard, adjusting my cap as I watch two new rookie quarterbacks cycle through drills. Footwork. Release. Timing. Muscle memory built one rep at a time. I bark a correction, clap my hands once, and force my body to fall back into the rhythm I’ve lived in most of my adult life.
“Again,” I call out. “Quicker feet. You’re late.”
The kid nods like his life depends on it. Because rightnow, it kind of does. These aren’t first-round draft picks. We signed them as free agents to the scout team, where they’ll stay for now unless we need them. Fighting for a spot on the fifty-two-man roster starts today.
Greyson says something to number one, pats his shoulder, and walks toward me.
Shaking my head, I say, “Number one. I hate guys who pick number one. I already know they’ve been coddled from an early age, told they’re the best, just as the number implies.”
“Stricker, he has talent. Give him a chance. I won’t be around forever to make you look good,” he smirks.
“I corrected him, and he did the same damn thing over again.”
“Everyone can’t be me,” Greyson lifts his palms into the air, which makes me glance behind him to the sideline. Sometimes I wonder how he’s my best friend in Austin.
Noelle stands just past the numbers, microphone crooked, notepad tucked under one arm. She’s all business today—neutral clothes, hair pulled back, posture straight like she’s daring the world to underestimate her. She’s talking to a rookie receiver, nodding, smiling, and asking questions that don’t sound like fluff.
