Page 175 of The Coach

I let out a rough chuckle. “Yeah? You got insider knowledge on that?”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “I just know. You always pull through when it matters.”

My throat tightens. I want to tell her she’s the one who matters. That football, for the first time in my life, isn’t the only thing I’m thinking about.

But I don’t.

Instead, I lift a hand, brushing my thumb along her jaw, memorizing the softness of her skin.

“You’ll watch?” I ask.

Her brow furrows. “Of course I’ll watch.”

“I mean all of it. Not just the game. The pregame, the interviews, everything.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, rolling her eyes. “Yes, Jackson. I’ll watch every second.”

It’s stupid, but I needed to hear that. I nod, gripping the door handle, but I don’t move.

She shifts in her seat, searching my face. “What is it?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.” But it’s everything.

Finally, I push the door open. She follows, stepping out into the cold morning air with me. I sling my bag over my shoulder, and before I can second-guess myself, I pull her into me, holding on tight.

Her arms wrap around my waist, her face pressing into my chest. She takes a shaky breath.

“Be safe, okay?” she whispers.

I close my eyes. “Always.”

The train’s whistle sounds in the distance.

I let go. Walk backward toward the platform. Try to burn the image of her into my brain—the way she looks standing there, bathed in early morning light, watching me leave.

She lifts a hand in a small wave, biting her lip.

I turn. Keep walking. Keep moving.

I step onto the train, my bag slung over my shoulder, my heart hammering harder than it ever has before a damn game.

The conductor calls for final boarding.

I find my seat, exhaling sharply, running a hand through my hair.

And then, through the window, I see her.

Ivy.

Standing there on the platform, arms wrapped around herself, the wind teasing at her hair.

She wipes at her cheek.

Is she crying?

Something cracks inside my chest.

What the hell is the matter with me?

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