Page 116 of The Coach

I swallow hard.

Because the way he’s looking at me right now?

Like he sees me in a way no one else ever has?

It’s messing me up.

We stand there for a long moment, just inches apart.

“It’s not?”

“No.” His gaze drops to my lips. “I didn’t start coaching until I was twenty-seven. I was a player until then.”

“Oh.” My breath catches.

For a second, I think he’s going to close the distance. That he’s going to kiss me.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Come on. You look hungry. Let’s get some food at this diner on the north side of town. You’ll love it.”

The place is exactly the kind of old-school diner I should’ve expected but totally didn’t. The kind with chrome stools, checkered floors, and a menu that probably hasn’t changed in fifty years. Jackson greets the waitress by name as we slide into a booth near the window.

I shake my head, smirking. “You really are a small-town guy at heart, huh?”

He grins. “Don’t tell anyone. Gotta protect my image of being a wild-at-heart, reckless cowboy of a coach whose heart doesn’t have an ounce of empathy.”

I chuckle. “Oh? Is that how you intimidate the competition?”

He shrugs. “I mean it can’t hurt.”

The waitress pours me a glass of water and Jackson a coffee, and when she leaves, Jackson leans back in his seat, his eyes soft but intent.

“So tell me. How was your week?” He asks.

I blink at him. “Like…my actual week?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I want to know.”

Something warm blooms in my chest. Because…no one’s really asked me that. Not in a way that felt like theygenuinely cared.

So I tell him.

I tell him about the fourth-grade meltdown over a lost pencil, about how one of my kids swore they saw Bigfoot at recess (Jackson chuckles at that one), and how I had to confiscate a makeshift slingshot made of rubber bands and paper clips.

Jackson’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “Sounds like you’ve got a hell of a classroom.”

“You have no idea,” I say, sipping my water.

He nods toward my stomach. “And what about you? What else do you need for the baby? To stay healthy and all that?”

My heart squeezes. The way he asks—so casually, but like he truly wants to know—makes me feel things I’m not ready to name.

“I mean, I’ve been trying to exercise more,” I admit, swirling my straw through the ice in my glass. “Nothing crazy. Just some prenatal yoga, walks, that sort of thing.”

“Good,” he says, his voice softer. “That’s good.” Then he laughs. “I mean what the hell do I know about all this?”

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