Then the chant starts.
“MATT! MATT! MATT!”
Then a live feed flashes to Noelle in her seat with her hands tenting her nose. I can’t imagine how hard this was for her to put together. And the emotions she’s had to relive. She continues to amaze me. Not that long ago, she was a scared, beaten-down young woman in need of comfort and a kiss. Who knew that would turn into fake dating and then to where we are now.
Engaged.
In love.
A baby on the way.
And the strongest woman I’ve ever known. A woman I know is strong enough to weather any storm that comes our way.
I stand there, stunned, lost in thought, as the camera zooms in on me and captures the tears I didn’t even realizewere there. Greyson grips my shoulder. J.D. clears his throat and pretends he’s fine.
The announcer comes on again. “Thank you for sharing your journey, Coach Stricker. Now it’s Dillllooooo time.”
Greyson runs out on the field with the other captains for the coin flip. We win the toss and elect to receive the ball. The roar of the crowd races through my veins. I laugh to myself.
Life is good.
Late in the fourth quarter, we’re down by four. I lean in, heart pounding, and call the play I drew up months ago—back when I wasn’t sure I’d ever stand on this field again.
Greyson and LaRue execute it perfectly. Touchdown.
We win. The crowd jumps and dances, and the guys hoist me on their shoulders when it should be Greyson or LaRue. And the fans refuse to leave, chanting my name. A name they may not have known before my kidney failed and failed again. I stand in the back of the locker room—I really shouldn’t even be in a confined area with all the sweat and germs—but I want to see the celebration in the guys’ eyes. This is why I love football.
Later, Noelle and I celebrate somewhere quiet, away from cameras and noise. She’s glowing, hand on her belly, her eyes bright. We drove out to Andy’s Deli. It’s far away from the city lights and people.
“I want pickles dipped in a chocolate shake,” she announces.
I grimace. “That’s disgusting.”
She arches her brow. “You made me drink almond milk for weeks.”
“That was for the baby.”
“This is for the baby,” she says sweetly, sliding the glass toward me.
Although I’m very strict about what I eat, I’ll do anything for this woman, and this proves it. I take the pickle spear from my plate and dunk it into the thick chocolate. I was right. Disgusting. The two should never be eaten together.
She laughs like she’s won something important.
But I’m the winner of this game. I scored her.
FORTY-SIX
NOELLE - SIX MONTHS LATER
Two things become apparent.
One—our son has lungs like a stadium full of fans on third down.
Two—Matt Stricker isneverright when he questions me. Even when he absolutely thinks he is.
“See?” I say smugly, shifting our sleeping newborn in my arms. “I told you he’d like the noise.”
Rocking the bassinet with his foot, Matt whispers, “He staged a protest for nearly an hour.” He shakes his head, smiling down at our baby. “O’Ryan drama genes.”
