Page 133 of The Coach

JACKSON

The soft morning light shines through the penthouse windows, casting a warm glow over Ivy’s bare shoulders. She’s still half-asleep, her body curled against mine, one leg draped over my thigh. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I run my fingers through her hair, letting myself just feel this moment.

She stirs, blinking up at me, a lazy, sleepy smile on her lips. “You’re staring,” she says, her voice raspy from sleep.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Can’t help it.”

She laughs softly, her fingers tracing absent patterns on my chest. “What’s going on in that coach brain of yours?”

I take a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling for a second before looking back at her.

“I don’t want to do this half-assed, Ivy,” I say. “I don’t want to be the guy who shows up every other weekend and calls it parenting. I want more. I want you.”

She freezes, her lips parting slightly. “Jackson. There’s just so many details we need to?—”

But before she can say anything, my phone buzzes obnoxiously on the nightstand.

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. “Fucking hell.”

Ivy smirks. “Coach life.”

I grab the phone, Drew’s name flashing on the screen. I roll my eyes and answer, throwing Drew on speakerphone. “This better be good.”

Drew doesn’t even bother with pleasantries. He’s already laughing.

“Oh, it’s fucking gold, Coach.”

I sit up, immediately on edge. “What happened?”

“You seen ESPN this morning?”

“No, Drew, I’ve been sleeping like a normal goddamn human.”

“Well, wake the fuck up, because Travis Carter just got himself into a hell of a mess.”

I feel Ivy watching me and listening along as Drew keeps going. Travis is our top receiver this year. Bit of a head case, but super talented. “Yeah? What happened?”

“Some Instagram model dropped a whole-ass pregnancy scandal on him. Screenshots, text receipts, even a fucking ultrasound picture. She says he knocked her up, and now the media’s feasting on it.”

I scrub a hand down my face. “Are you shitting me?”

“Wish I was. It’s everywhere, man. SportsCenter, TMZ, Twitter. Hell, even Good Morning America ran a segment.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Goddamn it.

“What’s Carter saying?”

“Oh, he’s playing dumb,” Drew says, snorting. “Claiming he ‘barely knew the chick’ and ‘isn’t sure if it’s real.’ But the PR team is scrambling. They need you to do damage control. Press conference is at noon.”

I exhale sharply, my pulse hammering. I don’t have time for this bullshit.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

I hang up, tossing my phone onto the bed, and look over at Ivy. She’s biting her lip, a crease forming between her brows.

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair.

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