Page 103 of The Coach

I chuckle. “Right. Forgot. I’m ancient.”

“Basically a fossil. You remember the nineties, was it?”

“Keep talking like that I see what happens,” I smirk, sinking deeper into the couch. Already more relaxed. “We didn’t have iPhones when we were kids. I’m not so screen-addicted like you are.”

“I’m not screen-addicted,” she scoffs.

“Really? How many times today did you check your phone? Read me your screen time.”

She hesitates.

I laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no. Go ahead, tell me. Were you checking to see if I texted you first?”

Silence.

Then—

“God, you’re cocky.”

I grin, dragging a hand over my jaw. “You like it, though.”

She doesn’t deny it.

Instead, she sighs dramatically. “I should’ve known you’d be this irritating over the phone.”

“I’m delightful. Admit it.”

“I’ll admit nothing.”

“You don’t have to.” I take another sip of beer. “Your voice gives you away.”

She huffs. “What does that mean?”

I smirk, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Means you sound happy to hear from me.”

Another pause.

Then, softer now, she says, “And if I am?”

My chest tightens.

This is dangerous.

Because I fucking like talking to her. I like this stupid back-and-forth. I like the way she challenges me, teases me, matches me move for move.

“Then maybe I’ve gained another few yards into enemy territory.”

“You justloveyour sports analogies, don’t you?”

“I am a coach, after all.”

And then, when the conversation shifts—so does my focus.

“So what are you doing right now?” she asks.

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