Page 148 of The Coach

With his team.

In his VIP box.

“Oh,” I say, picking at my pancakes. “Cassie, it’s just a lot to process so quickly. I’m doing my best.”

Cassie winks. “Yeah. Oh. Take your time.”

Cassie grins like a lunatic as we make our way past security.

“This is gonna be fun,” she sings.

I’m less convinced.

The stadium is packed with fans, the energy already buzzing. The smell of beer, hot dogs, and cheap nacho cheese fills the air.

And yeah, I’ve been to games before.

But not like this.

Not as Jackson’s...whatever the hell I am. Girlfriend doesn’t seem like the right word, though.

The security guard scans our passes, nods, and we step into the exclusive VIP suite overlooking the field.

Cassie plops down onto a plush leather seat, kicking her feet up. “Ahh. Home sweet home.”

I sink into the seat beside her, my pulse hammering.

Because this is real.

The game. The cameras. The stadium filled with thousands of people.

Jackson’s world.

And now? I’m in it.

No hiding. No turning back.

Well…eventuallyno hiding. Until Jackson and I come up with a plan to make the announcement, we’ll have to stay low key.

Cassie nudges me, smiling. “Hey. You good?”

I swallow, glancing down at the field. Jackson is out there, clipboard in hand, totally locked in. Completely unaware that I’m up here freaking out.

I exhale.

And nod.

“Yeah,” I say, watching him. “I think I am.”

Cassie and I are mid-bite into our overpriced game-day snacks—which, as it turns out, are actually free in the VIP section, which still boggles my mind—when a woman in heels that cost more than my rent strides toward us with the confidence of a queen.

Reagan Connelly.

General Manager of the Stallions. Wife of Dallas Connelly, the star quarterback. Football powerhouse. She’s like if Erin Andrews wasn’t a reporter—but working for an organization. No one has succeeded more in the male dominated world of football management than she has.

She’s sharp as a tack, and judging by the way she sizes me up, curious as hell.

Her gaze flicks to me, assessing. “Cassie,” she greets smoothly before turning my way. “And…I don’t believe we’ve met.”

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