Page 48 of The Coach

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. It’s been a long-ass day, and my head is still all over the place.

Just as I reach for a bottle of water from the fridge, my phone rings.

I glance at the screen.

Reagan Connelly. General manager of the Stallions. Also wife to one Dallas Connelly, quarterback. But that’s a whole other story.

I debate letting it go to voicemail, but she’s my boss, so I answer.

“Yeah?”

"Hey, Coach." Reagan’s voice is casual but pointed, which means she’s about to ask for something. “Got a minute?”

I roll my shoulders back, sighing. “What’s up?”

“You know I wouldn't call unless it was important.” A beat. “Or at least...semi-important.”

“Reagan.”

She laughs lightly. “Okay, okay, sorry, I know you don’t like small talk. So don’t bite my head off. But listen—I've got a friend. Really great girl. Smart, funny, gorgeous. And she’s been dying to meet you. What do you say?”

My jaw tightens.

“Not interested.”

“Come on, Knox. You’re thirty-seven, single, and a damn celebrity in this city. You can’t keep avoiding a personal life forever. She’s low maintenance. And gorgeous. I’m telling you…she’s a steal.”

I rub a hand over my face. “I’m not avoiding anything. I just don’t date.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Right,” Reagan finally says. “Because you’remarried to footballanddedicated to the gameand all that bullshit. You’re allowed to have a life outside of this team, you know.”

I lean against the counter, staring out at the skyline.

“I’ve got a game to prep for, Reagan.”

She scoffs. “Unbelievable. No wonder they call you Coach Hardass. Fine. No blind dates. Enjoy your afternoon ofbroodingor whatever the hell you do when you're off the clock.”

“Goodbye, Reagan.”

She hangs up with a huff, and I toss my phone onto the counter.

My shoulders are tense.

Not because of her pushing me to date. I’ve been through this before—people assuming that just because I’msingle,I must bemissing something.

It’s because for the first time, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe they’re right.

The sun is low in the sky that evening, shimmering over the water as I push forward, feet pounding against the pavement.

Running has always been my way of clearing my head—my way of focusing, of locking in. It’s simple. Rhythmic. Predictable.

Unlike my goddamn thoughts.

I pump my arms harder, my heartbeat matching the tempo of the music in my earbuds. I should be thinking about the game tomorrow. But instead, my mind is still back in Riverbend, stuck in the past.

And then?—