Page 30 of The Coach

My grin fades, and I study her carefully. “Did he...?”

“He didn’t hurt me or anything,” she says quickly, sensing my concern. “But he got weird. Kept showing up at my work, calling me all the time, leaving notes on my car. It was a mess.”

My jaw tightens. “Is he still around?”

“I think he moved out of town,” she says, shrugging. “I haven’t seen him in a while.”

I don’t say anything, but the thought of some asshole treating her like that makes my blood boil. I force myself to relax, offering her a small smile. “Well, for the record, he was an idiot.”

She laughs, the tension breaking. “Thanks. What about you? Any crazy exes I should know about?”

I smirk, leaning back in my seat. “Not really. I’ve been married to football most of my life. Relationships don’t exactly fit into that world. I do my best to steer clear of them.”

She makes a soft sound, like she’s considering my words. “Ever think about slowing down? Moving somewhere like this?”

“Like Riverbend, Iowa?” I tease.

“Why not?” she says, glancing at me with a playful smile. “It’s got its charms.”

I chuckle, shaking my head. “It does. But my mom always said, ‘You can’t just like what you do—you have to love it.’ And I love coaching too much to give it up.”

She nods, her smile fading slightly. My words hang in the air, and for a moment, I don’t know how to respond. There’s a wistfulness in her tone that tugs at something inside me, but before I can say anything, she pulls into the grocery store parking lot.

“We need food,” she says, her tone lighter now. “If I’m playing tour guide, you’re helping me cook lunch.”

“Deal,” I say, unbuckling my seatbelt.

Inside the store, we banter as we fill the cart with ingredients, Ivy joking about how “city boys” don’t know their way around a kitchen. But just as we’re rounding the corner to the checkout, I catch sight of a guy standing near the frozen foods, his eyes locked on Ivy.

She freezes beside me, her smile fading. “Oh...great,” she mutters under her breath. “Perfect timing.”

“Who’s that?” I ask, keeping my voice low.

“Kyle,” she says. “Bigfoot guy.”

He doesn’t approach, but his eyes follow us as we check out, and when we leave, I can’t help but glance back to make sure he’s not following.

Chapter Seven

JACKSON

We’re sitting on Ivy’s small balcony, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow over Riverbend. The air is cool, but not cold, and the sounds of birds and distant voices filter through the trees. A half-empty bottle of beer is in my hand, and the leftover plates from our impromptu meal are stacked on the small bistro table between us.

“This is, like, amazing,” she says, leaning back in her chair, the light catching in her hair. Her cheeks are flushed, either from the beer or from the heat we shared earlier, and her smile is soft, almost shy. “And tacos were a good call. I’m going to start calling you ‘Chef’ instead of ‘Coach.’”

I take a sip of my beer, watching her over the rim of the bottle. “Thanks,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “And yeah. It is.”

She glances at me, her expression shifting slightly, like she’s trying to gauge my reaction. “Am I the only one who’s feeling this?”

I set my beer down, leaning forward so my elbows rest on my knees. “No,” I say, meeting her gaze. “I’m feeling it, too.”

Her smile widens, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “So...can I see you again? I mean, I don’t even have your number.”

“You don’t,” I admit, a small smirk tugging at my lips.

She rolls her eyes and stands, disappearing into the apartment. A moment later, she’s back, holding something small in her hand—a vintage, mini postcard, the edges worn and the image faded. She plops back into her seat and picks up a pen from the table, scribbling something on the back of the card before handing it to me.

“There,” she says. “Now you can’t say I didn’t make an effort.”

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