Which means I can’t help Noelle the way I want to.
She’s getting bigger every week, the curve of her belly unmistakable now. Watching her struggle to bend over while I stand uselessly beside her might be the hardest part of recovery. My body is healing, but protecting the people I love is an instinct, and sometimes I do normal things that set me back.
My mom’s in her late fifties and can bend over much easier than Noelle or me. She’s been staying with us since the surgery, moving through the house like she’s always belonged here. Cooking. Folding laundry. Sitting with Noelle, getting to know the woman I love when I need to rest as they video-call with Shelley. Mom doesn’t hover—she never has—but she watches me with a quiet awareness that reminds me she’s been here before. Hospitals. Waiting rooms. Fear dressed up as patience.
“She’s glowing,” Mom says one afternoon, nodding toward Noelle as she shuffles past with a basket of laundry.
Noelle scoffs. “That’s sweat.”
Mom stops and smiles. “No matter. You’re still glowing.”
“She’s in love with you, you know,” I say as I saunter toward her, wanting so much to show her how much I love her but knowing I can’t. It doesn’t stop her from flashing me her boobs. Talk about incentive to recover quickly. Her ta-tas are the best medicine.
“Not as much as you love these.” Smirking, she dares me to touch her while my mom is in the other room. I waste no time, squeezing her mango-sized boobs. I kiss the space above her chest. “I can’t wait to be inside you again. Mom is going out to dinner tonight. Evidently, she met a friend at the café down the street, so we can have some alone time.”
“A guy? Did she meet a guy or a girl?”
“She put on makeup and jewelry, so I think it’s a man.”
“Could be a woman. But probably a man. I’m so excited. She shouldn’t have to go through life alone. She’s too fun. Like the mother I didn’t have.”
Gingerly, I tuck her under my arm. “She’s happy to play any role you want her to.”
She presses to her toes and places a sweet, slow peck on my lips.
Each day I’m getting better but also bored. Noelle works and travels. Greyson gives me the idea to run Zoom calls with the quarterbacks, receivers, and tight ends. We review film of their footwork, timing. Greyson stops by daily, either before practice or after, bringing updates and pretending he’s not checking my color, my energy, the steadiness of my hands.
Life is moving forward.
“So, I think I’ll be ready to go back to the facility in a few weeks,” I say, testing her reaction.
Fear sits like a veil over her face. “It’s too soon. Too many people,” she says, putting her hands on her hips like it’s settled. “You’re not risking it yet.”
“Not on the field or the sideline. Meetings first, in person. I’m not risking anything,” I argue. “I’m easing back in.”
Noelle hates that plan.
She gives methat look. “We were given a second chance. You almost died.”
“I didn’t.”
“You wereclose enough.”
I shut up after that. It’s a month away, so we can decide then. No sense in arguing over something so far down the road.
Her baby shower is next Monday. Mom leaves afterward—she insists she doesn’t want to overstay her welcome. And Noelle and I need time alone. We’re both desperate for some intimacy, even if it’s just kissing. I don’t want her thinking she’s no longer desired because she’s pregnant. In fact, it’s the opposite. If I wasn’t recuperating, she would be begging me to leave her alone.
I’m mid-Zoom call when Noelle appears in the doorway, arms crossed.
“Are you working again?”
“I’m coaching.”
“You’re tired.”
I am.
The kind of tired that settles deep in the bones. The kind that doesn’t show up until you stop moving. I close my laptop. “Okay.”
