Page 36 of The Coach

“Yeah, you say that every year,” I reply, dropping my bag on the chair and sitting down on the couch.

He doesn’t take his eyes off the TV. “I know, but this time I’m serious. This guy, he’s got something. I can feel it. Would you like a beer, honey?”

“No, thanks.”

I watch the talking heads absently, my mind wandering as I see my mom move around the kitchen. She whistles under her breath, cutting vegetables, glancing back at the screen every few seconds. I can’t help but feel the weight of the secret pressing down on me harder than ever.

I pull my phone out again, text Lauren.

Ivy: All they seem to want to talk about is the new coach. I can’t do this. What if they hate me for not telling them sooner?

Lauren: I promise, they’re going to be excited. You just need to say the words. You’ve got this.

I bite my lip and put the phone face down on the table, watching as my mom sets the food down and takes a seat across from me.

“Everything okay?” she asks, looking at me carefully. “You’re awfully quiet.”

I open my mouth to answer, but the words stick in my throat. I need to say something. I need to tell them, but I can’t get the words out. I try again, but nothing comes. My hands are shaking slightly, and I know they can see it. I remind myself that I’m twenty-seven years old, and I’m entitled to live my own life. But still, I’m nervous.

I take a slow breath. “Mom, there’s something I need to tell you.”

She raises an eyebrow, but Carl is still distracted with the game, muttering about the Stallions’ new coach, and my mom’s too busy adjusting her drink. It’s the perfect moment. I just need to get it out, but it feels like the words are stuck.

“Ivy?” she asks again, concern creeping into her voice. “Sweetheart, what is it?”

I open my mouth, but nothing comes out. My eyes flick to the TV, where they’re zooming in on a tall figure at the edge of the field—the head coach.

He’s not in a sharp suit, not like I stupidly pictured in my head for some reason. No, he’s dressed exactly how a football coach should be—a team-issued quarter-zip, a headset snug over his ears, and a cap pulled low over his eyes. He’s pacing the sideline with commanding intensity, his jaw tight with a neatly trimmed beard, his focus sharp as he barks something at one of his players.

And then, for one brief second, he turns toward the camera.

The flash of recognition slams into me like a punch to the chest.

I know that face.

I know that man.

It is unmistakably, undeniably, Jackson.

MyJackson.

I choke back a breath, my stomach turning over. “Oh my God,” I whisper to myself, more to my racing thoughts than to anyone in particular.

“Yeah, right?” Carl comments. “The man justlooksfocused out there. See, that’s what I’msaying. We’ve finally got an alpha coach. Apparently he got to training camp this July angrier than hell, and hasn’t let up one bit. Maybe he’s a little rough, but I think that’s what a team like ours needs. That old school touch of discipline. Like Ditka back in the day. I just hope he’s worth the damn hundred million dollar contract they gave him.”

Suddenly, everything in the room feels like it's spinning.

“I’m sorry Carl. Did you just say a one-hundred million dollar contract?”

“Yeah.”

I reach for my water, but it’s no use. The room tips and tilts, my stomach twisting, and before I can stop myself, I stumble to my feet, my head spinning.

That’s just the father of my child who I gave my number to, and he never called me back. No big deal.

“I’m…gonna go to the bathroom,” I mutter, racing out of the room.

I barely make it to the bathroom in time. At the sink, I’m retching, my stomach emptying as I try to breathe through the nausea. I clutch the counter, my mind reeling, trying to keep it together. This is it. This is the moment I can’t avoid anymore. It’s real. All of it.

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