Page 183 of The Coach

Chapter Thirty-Four

JACKSON

The tires eat up the road, the speedometer needle creeping past 90. I should slow down—I know that. But I can’t. Not when she sounded like that on the phone. Not when every instinct in me is screaming to get to her.

I grip the wheel tighter, my pulse pounding as I hit the long stretch of highway cutting through the endless Illinois cornfields. The sky is turning dusky purple, the sun melting into the fields, but I barely see it.

My phone is already ringing through my car’s Bluetooth.

“Hello?” My dad’s voice comes through, gruff and familiar.

I exhale sharply.Why the fuck did I call him?

“Hey, old man.”

A pause. Then, a knowing sigh. “What’s wrong?”

That’s the thing about my dad—he can read me like a damn playbook. He knows about the kid. And about Ivy.

I drag a hand down my face. “Nothin’s wrong, exactly. Just…I don’t know.” I grip the wheel, my jaw ticking. “I think I’m moving to Riverbend.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Shit.”

I bark out a laugh. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Jesus Christ, Jackson. You’ve been in Chicago, what? Five months? You’re just gonna uproot everything?”

“Ivy’s there,” I say simply, like that explains everything. Because it fucking does.

My dad exhales long and slow. “Damn, son. She must be one hell of a woman.”

“She is, Dad. She really fucking is.”

Silence. Then—“Then what the hell are you talking to me for? Go get your girl.”

I nod, gripping the wheel tighter. “That’s the plan.”

And then—flashing red and blue lights in my rearview.

Shit.

“Gotta go, Dad. Good talk.”

I slow, pulling off onto the side of the road, rolling down my window as the officer steps up to my car. He’s mid-twenties, maybe. Clean-cut, with a knowing smirk already on his face.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Jackson Knox, head coach of the Stallions. What brings you tearing ass through my county?”

I sigh, rubbing my jaw. “Urgent business.”

The cop chuckles, shaking his head. “Urgent, huh? You were going 95 in a 65.”

I mutter a curse under my breath. “Look, man, I?—”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”

---