Page 164 of The Coach

My stomach sinks. “I don’t know.” I swallow. “Yet.”

That afternoon, we pull up to the cornfield where the festival takes place.

Kids run around with sticky caramel apples. Hayrides rattle past. A country band plays on a wooden stage. Vendors sell handcrafted goods and seasonal treats.

But none of that matters.

Because Jackson Knox is in Riverbend. And people notice.

“Oh my God,” a group of teenage boys whispers, gawking. “That’s him. That’s Coach Knox.”

A group of elderly women eyes him up like they’re assessing cattle at the county fair.

A random dad nudges his son. “Son, shake this man’s hand. He’s a legend.”

I stifle a laugh as Jackson humbly plays it off, shaking hands and smiling, but I can see the tension in his jaw. He hates this kind of attention.

“This is worse than I thought,” I whisper to Mom.

She smirks. “Welcome to small-town celebrity status, honey.”

And then, I see him.

Kyle.

Great.

Standing near the pumpkin patch, his arms crossed, watching.

Jackson notices immediately.

His jaw tightens. His stance shifts.

“There he is again,” Jackson mutters, voice low. “Ivy, I know you like to the best of people. But this is getting creepy.”

I nod, my stomach twisting. “I won’t argue with you.”

Kyle doesn’t approach. He just stands there, watching.

Jackson exhales sharply. “If he so much as looks at you wrong, I’ll handle it.”

I grab his hand, squeezing. “Don’t. He’s not worth it.”

But Jackson doesn’t look convinced.

“That dude is toeing the line. And if I have to knock him out, I will.”

“Jackson, no. You can’t. What would the press say?”

He turns to me, voice firm. “Ivy. If you think I give a damn what the press says when it comes to protecting you, you don’t know me at all.”

Chills run down my spine.

And for the rest of the day? He never lets me out of his sight.

Despite the small-town hysteria—and Kyle being weird as hell—there are moments that make me forget all of it. Moments that remind me why I’m falling for him.

At some point, Jackson gets roped into judging the town’s pie-baking contest, much to his surprise and my amusement. He takes the job dead serious, sampling each slice with the concentration of a man reviewing game film. After one particularly delicious bite, he nods approvingly. “This is a damn good pie, Miss June.”

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