Page 184 of The Coach

I pull my wallet from the center console, flipping it open and handing over my license while reaching for the glove box. My registration and insurance slip out in a crumpled mess, and I smooth them before passing them over.

The officer studies them, then walks back to his cruiser. I watch in my mirror as he punches my details into his computer. A few long minutes later, he returns, holding a notepad.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he says, jotting something down. “I’m giving you a ticket.” He rips off the slip and hands it to me.

I glance at the court date.

February 12th.

I frown. “This is for?—”

The cop smirks. “If you win the Super Bowl this year, you can rip it up and not report.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

I blink. Then, despite myself, I laugh. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you show up to court and pay the damn fine and whatever else comes your way. And please slow the fuck down the rest of the way to Riverbend.”

I shake my head, tucking the ticket into my visor. “Fair enough.”

The cop steps back, a grin slowly crossing his face. “You can’t win the game if you crash before you get there.”

I nod. “Appreciate it.”

But before I’m about to pull back onto the road, an idea strikes me.

Because I need a better plan.

Whatismy plan, exactly, anyway? Ask Ivy if I could move into her tiny apartment with her and our baby?

With a quick Zillow search, I find a certain house that’s still on the market.

May might be last spring at this point, but I remember that night like it was yesterday.

Walking past that huge house with Ivy.

Her saying she wanted to have four kids and fill out her dream house.

You know what?

I like Ivy’s dream.

And I think it might be my dream, too, if we can get past this PR nightmare that’s currently happening.

The real estate agent’s phone number rings on the bluetooth as pull back onto the road—drivinga littleslower as some rain drops hit my windshield—I can’t help but smile.

Because the only thing better than winning the Super Bowl?

Winningher.

Chapter Thirty-Five

IVY

Monday evening, Jackson arrives and pushes the door open without hesitation, stepping inside like he owns the place.

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