“We can just overnight the documents to him,” I offer, already thinking ten steps ahead. Distance is safer. Cleaner. Less room for manipulation.
She shakes her head. “Coach… this is Brooks’s baby. He has a right to change his mind. I don’t want him to, but…”
Her voice trails off, and I hear the conflict in it—the part of her that still wants to be fair even to someone who never was.
I turn to her then, needing her to understand. “Not your coach.” I wink. “Your boyfriend.”
The word feels dangerous in my mouth. Powerful. True.
“And he’d be crazy to give up this baby,” I admit, even though every selfish part of me hopes he will. “But I still hope he does.”
Because loving her means wanting to protect everything that belongs to her—even the parts that terrify me.
Then she presses a hand to her stomach. “I need deviled eggs.”
“What?” I blink, my mouth falling open. I don’t think I’ve ever heard that phrase uttered. Maybe on Thanksgiving. Maybe.
“Right now. I need deviled eggs.” She nods firmly. “If I don’t get deviled eggs, I might cry.”
“Drama must run in the O’Ryan genes.”
“This baby is dramatic,” she says. “You stressed it out with legal talk.”
I laugh. “Your baby is eight weeks old.”
“And already very emotionally complex.”
So, we head to her house instead of mine because she needs eggs like a desert needs water. Ten minutes later we’re in her kitchen, boiling eggs like it’s a crisis response. She’s in my hoodie, hair up, pacing like she’s waiting on lab results.
“How many eggs do you think is appropriate?” I ask.
“All of them.”
I peel shells while she mixes yolks with mayo and mustard, focused as if this is the most important recipe of her life. Some of the filling ends up on her cheek.
“You’ve got—” I reach out, wiping it away, my thumb lingering longer than it should.
She looks at me the way she always does when things go quiet—like she’s taking a snapshot she doesn’t want to forget.
“Thank you,” she says softly. Not for the eggs. For everything.
We eat deviled eggs straight off the counter, laughing when the filling falls out and lands on the floor. She adds pickle relish to the top, and I can’t think of anything more disgusting. But at this moment, she’s the cutest thing in Texas. She lights up my world, one that has been hiding depression for too long.
And for the first time all night, I stop worrying that I crossed a line. Because no matter how long I have on this earth, I plan to protect Noelle and the baby with everything I have. And all that I am.
THIRTY-TWO
NOELLE
Three weeks later, everything feels different.
Not easy. Not settled. Just… steadier. Like the ground stopped shifting quite so violently beneath my feet.
I’m beginning to show, my belly popping out ever so slightly.
I come straight from seeing Brooks. Sutton had the Armadillo Team plane take me to New Orleans so I wouldn’t have to spend the night. My nerves are still zipping when I pull into the parking lot of Matt’s high-rise. The papers are signed. The NDA. The relinquishment of rights. Black ink on white pages that somehow made everything both safer and scarier.
Matt opens the door before I can knock. “Well?” he asks, his eyes searching my face.
