Page 163 of The Coach

I’m on my feet and out the door before she can ask any more questions.

As I head back toward my classroom, my phone buzzes with a text.

Jackson: Morning, baby. Counting down the days…

A smile tugs at my lips.

Yeah.

Me too.

Chapter Thirty

IVY

The weekend can’t come soon enough.

We have it all planned out. The Fall Festival is Saturday afternoon, which is perfect. Jackson’s first time meeting my parents doesn’t have to be some awkward, stationary family dinner where everyone stares at him like an animal in a zoo. Instead, we’ll be out in the crisp autumn air, surrounded by hayrides, pumpkin patches, cider stands, and live music.

It feels safer this way.

At least, that’s what I tell myself.

Saturday morning arrives, and Jackson steps out of his sleek Uber XL—Jackson flew into Davenport this morning—in front of my parents' house, with his duffel bag. He looks ridiculously, effortlessly hot—jeans, a fitted Henley, a Stallions cap pulled low. His sharp gaze sweeps over the small-town setting, taking it all in.

And just like that, my nerves hit me like a freight train.

“Holy shit,” Carl mutters under his breath as Jackson walks up. “You’re Coach Jackson.”

Carl turns to me, eyes wide. “Thisis the father?”

I offer a shrug, trying to hide my amusement at Carl’s response.

Carl goes on. “You said he worked in sports! Ivy, that might be the biggest undersell of the century. Damn!”

Jackson extends a hand, offering my stepdad a firm, confident handshake. “Nice to finally meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you. Thank you for being there for Ivy during this time.”

Carl narrows his eyes like he’s studying him. Then, in the most Carl move ever—he tests him.

Carl grins, slaps Jackson on the back, and immediately launches into football talk. “Alright, Coach. What the hell happened with the defense last week? You let New York’s quarterback run all over you like it was a damn track meet.”

Jackson smirks, completely unfazed. “We’re making some adjustments. You’ll see.”

Carl scoffs, shooting Jackson a look. “I better.”

Mom nudges me. “Well, at least he didn’t threaten to run him over with his truck. You know how he is—always giving people hell about the Stallions. But he loves that damn team. Swears he could run the defense better himself.”

I let out a nervous laugh as Carl and Jackson walk ahead, already deep in football talk. I love how they don’t even talk about the baby.Classic guy talk.

Mom squeezes my hand, giving me a knowing look. “He’s handsome,” she says, eyes twinkling. “Tall, too.”

I nod. “I know.”

She leans in, voice softer. “And, honey…he’s looking at you like you hung the damn moon.”

“Yeah.”

“So what’s going to happen between you two from here?”

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