She softens instantly, crossing the room and pressing a kiss to my temple. “Rest.”
I lean back, watching her waddle toward me, my hand instinctively finding her belly. “Okay.” I need to be what she needs right now. A month ago, I wasn’t entirely sure I would survive a second transplant. Now I’m planning a future.
When she leaves for work, I lie down and email the jeweler I have designing an engagement ring. I can’t help but smile. It’s perfect, like my girl.
I click the remote from the couch and catch Noelle on the broadcast of our game against the New Orleans Blacksmiths. J.D. and Greyson assured me they would watch out for Noelle. You never know what Brooks will do or say. I just hope the NDA he signed means something and he won’t let anything slip.
The analysts throw it to Noelle at halftime as she asks J.D., “How are you containing the New Orleans offense?”
“We’re taking the long ball away from them. And our G is performing out of this world.”
“Coach, I know who G is, but the audience may not.”
He chuckles. “Sorry, Greyson.”
The third quarter starts, and the New Orleans quarterback throws it to Brooks. He jumps to catch the ball and is hit from both sides by the Armadillo defense. He lies on the ground. Not moving.
I wait in front of the television for Noelle. What’s her reaction? Will she run to his sideline? She’s carrying his baby. Fuck. Finally, they help him off the field and take him into the injury tent. The game continues, and the Blacksmiths punt to us. We take over the ball on the forty-two-yard line.
“Cinderella 42 Black,” I shout at the screen. “Call it. Call it, J.D.!”
Great minds think alike because Greyson throws a low stinger to the running back—which is why it’s calledCinderella, because it’s at the receiver’s shoes;42is for four yards downfield; andBlackmeans we’re making money on this play. The defense is pulled to the left while the running back is going right. He gains ten more yards after the catch for a first down. Greyson drives the field in eight plays for another touchdown.
When New Orleans’s offense takes the field, there’s no Brooks. At the next television timeout, two faces fill the screen: Noelle and Brooks.
“I wanted to give you an update on the injury from Brooks Pendleton from the man himself. What happened out there?” She maintains a steady voice, but I heard the hitch when she used the wordman.
His eyes are trained on her baby bump. All I can think is for him to hold up his end of the NDA.
“A dirty play by the Armadillos, that’s what happened.”
“No doubt the secondary hit you hard, but that’s their job,” Noelle says matter-of-factly. “Are you in concussion protocol?”
His eyes narrow. “No. Broken ribs.”
“How long will you be out?”
“I’m going back in on the next series,” he claims. There’s no way they’ll put him back in when they’re down by twenty-one points nearing the fourth quarter.
Brooks takes a few steps backward. Noelle lifts her shoulders and lets them fall as she says, “That doesn’t seem smart. That’s all from the New Orleans sideline. Armadillos 35,Blacksmiths 14. We’ll have to wait and see if Pendleton gets back into the game.”
Noelle O’Ryan is one hell of a reporter. Knowing Brook’s baby grows inside her, she’s a complete professional. There wasn’t a hint of a flirtatious smile or one that showed she regrets any of the choices she made.
I text her.
Me: That must have been hard to stand beside him, pregnant.
Noelle: He’s a mentally stunted jackass.
Me: He’s regretting not treating you like the woman you are.
Noelle: Honestly, I don’t care. I hope he finds someone to change his ways.
Me: You’re way more forgiving than I am.
Noelle: He doesn’t have someone that loves him like I do.
Me: True. No one could love you more than me.
