Greyson watches me like he’s trying to read something I’m not saying. “Good.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I just don’t want her hurt,” he says simply. “She’s been through enough.”
I think about Noelle in that bathroom stall. On my couch. In my arms. About the way she looks at me like I’m something solid she can lean on.
I think about dialysis rooms and transplant lists and the math I do in my head when I can’t sleep.
“Me neither,” I say quietly.
Greyson claps my shoulder once, firm. “All right. Let’s survive rookie camp without anyone tearing an ACL.” He heads back toward the field, barking orders, already shifting gears.
I stay where I am for a second longer, watching Noelle scribble something down, completely unaware of the way my life feels like it’s narrowing to a single point.
Fake-dating should be over.
That’s what we agreed on.
But standing here, with the Texas sun blazing and theclock ticking louder in my head than any whistle, all I can think is how much I want one more day. One more conversation. One more chance to pretend that timelines don’t matter.
I adjust my cap, force my focus back to the quarterbacks and wide receivers who are anxiously waiting to show me their mad skills, and blow the whistle.
“Blue 42, Cinderella,” I call out. “You ladies did read up on the playbook, right?”
Because if there’s one thing football taught me, it’s how to keep playing even when you know the hit is coming.
TWENTY-TWO
NOELLE
This isn’t the kind of meeting that happens in a cramped office with a dusty window.
This one takes place in a glass conference room overlooking downtown, my name printed neatly on an agenda that feels far too official for someone who still triple-checks her mascara in the rearview mirror. Three producers. One executive. Coffee cups lined up like witnesses. Danishes in the center of the table, untouched, like they know this isn’t a social call. I think about how long it’s been since Matt had one.
I’m jarred from my thoughts when my boss leans back in his chair and says, “Your name got you in the door. But your skills? Those will make you a star on this network.”
A star. Me? Relief travels through me. Not just relief. Validation. I don’t have to be anyone’s sister or daughter to belong on the sidelines or at this table.
“We’re getting more texts and emails than ever about Noelle O’Ryan, the gorgeous reporter who knows her football. You’re our rookie sensation.” He pauses,fiddling with the agenda. “Rookie camps are over, so training camp begins, and you’ll make the same rounds as before.”
“When?”
“Starting this weekend.”
I was planning on taking a pregnancy test since I’m still sick to my stomach every morning, and I worry if all the pink tablets I’m taking will affect the baby, if there is one.
“Thank you, sir, but can someone else go to New Orleans? I know it’s horrible of me to ask since I haven’t been working here that long.”
The producers hold their breath like I’m asking for a month-long, all-expenses-paid trip to Greece.
My boss taps his fingers against the black lacquered table. “Noelle. This is your career, and even though I’ve been told about how your ex acted during rookie camp, you need to do this not just for us but for yourself.”
“Yes, sir.” I smile, nod, and thank them like a professional, but I dread seeing Brooks again, especially if I’m pregnant. “I’ll be there.”
By the time I hit the sidewalk, the Texas heat wraps around me, feeling like someone squeezing me too hard or too long.
My phone buzzes with a calendar reminder about the Canadian league championship game I just covered. The assignment was last-minute. The reporter originally scheduled for it landed in the hospital with the flu. It was a great distraction from the two things on my mind: pregnancy and Matt Stricker.
