Page 34 of The Coach

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I just need a minute.”

Tony doesn’t press, and I hang up, staring at the empty street ahead of me. The idea of letting Ivy go feels impossible, but for the first time, I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. If God’s timing is funny, then maybe He’s got one hell of a sense of humor.

I start the car and drive, leaving Riverbend behind. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m leaving a piece of myself behind, too.

I pass her apartment one more time, my grip tightening on the wheel. Then, almost without thinking, I swing by her dream house.

It looks different in the daylight.

The soft glow of the porch light is gone, replaced by the crisp, unforgiving brightness of the afternoon sun. The paint isn’t as pristine as it seemed that night. The yard looks a little overgrown. The shutters could use a fresh coat.

But somehow, it only makes the place feel more real.

Less like a fantasy. More like a reality. One that wouldn’t be easy, but that would be worth the work you put into it.

More like a home.

Like a place where something lasting could grow.

The bartender’s words echo in my mind.

God’s Timing.

Screw that.

I win championships for a reason.

And that reason is that I make things happen. I don’t wait for some special moment to make my move—a moment that inevitably never comes.

As I’ve told my players, there are the waiters, and there are the takers. We take what’s ours on the field.

But this is one that I guess I’m just going to let go.

If she doesn’t want me to find her, then I guess there’s nothing I can do.

But as I pull onto the highway that evening, I can’t stop the feeling of dread that keeps creeping up in my gut. Ivy—figment of my imagination or not—is a tough one to let go.

Chapter Eight

IVY

Four Months Later

I stare at the front door of my parents’ house, my stomach twisted in knots.

I can’t believe I’m here. That I’m about to do this. But I’ve got to tell them.

My phone buzzes in my pocket. I pull it out and see Lauren’s name flashing across the screen. It’s like she has a sixth sense about when I’m feeling anxious.

I swipe to answer, pressing the phone to my ear.

“Hey,” I say, my voice shaky.

Lauren’s tone is instantly soft. “How are you holding up?”

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Not great.” My throat feels thick, clogged with emotions I can’t quite push down.

“What’s up? Is it something with the baby?”

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