Page 47 of The Coach

Like I left something—someone—behind.

“Alright, that’s it,” my assistant coach, O’Hara, finally calls, checking his watch. “Wrap it up.”

The guys let out a collective exhale, stretching, hydrating, heading toward the locker room.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. Shoving Ivy out of my mind.

But just as I’m about to turn toward the tunnel, a reporter from the sidelines calls out.

“Coach Knox! Just a quick question before you go?”

I glance over, irritated, but I nod.

A woman I vaguely recognize from a Chicago sports network steps forward, microphone in hand, smirking. “So, Jackson, you’re the youngest head coach in the league, and a lot of people are wondering—how does a guy withthismuch responsibility balance a personal life?”

I lift a brow. “That’s your question?”

She grins. “I mean,Chicagowants to know. Are you a football-obsessed lone wolf or does Coach Knox have a secret romantic side?”

Dallas, standing behind me, snorts loudly.

I shoot him a look before facing the reporter again. I force a smirk, leaning into my usual answer.

“Footballismy personal life,” I say. “It’s what I signed up for.”

She nods, smiling. “Right, right. But don’t you get lonely?”

I flex my jaw, staying silent.

“If there wasone thingthat could pull you away from it, what would it be?”

The question shouldn’t hit me the way it does.

It shouldn’t make my chest tighten.

But for some reason, my mind flashes back to a warm night in May. To fireflies in the trees. To a girl in an emerald dress, laughing at something I said.

I shove it away, clenching my fist.

I smirk, giving the easy answer. “I’m here to win a championship for this city. That’s the goal. No more questions.”

The reporter laughs, and I take the out, turning toward the locker room.

But as I walk away, my chest still feels tight.

Like maybe that wasn’t the truth at all.

Like maybe, if I’d had the choice, I never would have left Riverbend in the first place.

And maybe, just maybe—I would have found a way back.

The elevator glides up to the top floor, smooth and silent, before opening into my penthouse.

I step inside, toe off my shoes, and toss my keys onto the kitchen counter.

Everything is exactly as I left it. Impeccably designed. Modern. Sharp lines and neutral tones. Not a single thing out of place.

And yet, for some reason, it doesn’t feel like home.

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