Page 138 of The Coach

“Alright, fine,” Frank, one of the Barstool guys asks. “I’ll help you out, Coach. Baltimore’s new quarterback has been putting up one-hundred plus yards of rushing every game this season. What’s the plan to stop him?”

I exhale, shifting gears. “Finally, a football question,” I say, leaning into the mic. “Thompson is a hell of an athlete. Mobile quarterbacks like him add another layer of challenge for the defense, especially when they can extend plays with their legs. We’ve got to stay disciplined, keep our rush lanes tight, and make sure we’re wrapping up on tackles. No room for missed assignments.”

Frank nods, satisfied, jotting something down in his notebook.

Another reporter jumps in. “So you’ll be putting more pressure on the defensive line this week?”

I smirk. “They’re already feeling the pressure. It’s their job.”

More chuckles from the room.

I answer a few more football-related questions, keeping my focus locked in, but my mind?

It’s on Ivy.

As soon as the conference wraps, I stride out, pulling my phone from my pocket.

Drew falls into step beside me, grinning. “So, what are we thinking for next week? A candlelit dinner with your mystery woman? Maybe a sunset picnic? I can call the press, make sure they get a good shot of you feeding her strawberries.”

“Drew.” My voice is low, warning.

He holds up his hands. “Just saying, might as well go all in.”

I ignore him, clicking into my messages.

Jackson: Hey. Just a heads up—people are talking. A photo of us from last night is making the rounds. Are you okay?

Three dots appear. Then disappear.

Fuck.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, already knowing this is going to be a problem.

Drew whistles. “Damn. You got that serious face on. That bad?”

I don’t answer.

Because I already know?—

This is just the beginning.

Once they find out the truth.

This is going to be one hell of a story.

And I don’t think there’s a way to stop it from coming out.

Chapter Twenty-Five

IVY

I’msupposedto be grading papers.

Really, I’m just distracting myself with my phone on a Saturday night, scrolling mindlessly, when I hear the water shut off in the bathroom.

A few seconds later, the door creaks open. Steam spills out, curling into the room.

And then, Jackson steps into the bedroom.

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