Page 72 of The Coach

He looks so at ease, so unbothered, like this is the most natural suggestion in the world. But something about the way his jaw tightens just slightly tells me he actually cares whether I say yes.

I take a deep breath. “Okay.”

A slow grin spreads across his face. “Yeah?”

I nod, my pulse skipping a little. “Yeah.”

“I’ll bring you to your hotel to pick up your things, and then you can come back to my place.”

Jackson’s car is exactly what I should have expected.

Sleek. Expensive. Subtly intimidating.

The drive to my hotel is comfortable, the buzz of the city palpable around us. He helps me grab my stuff, then loads it into his trunk like it’s the most normal thing in the world.

And then, before I can second-guess myself, we’re pulling into an underground parking garage beneath a high-rise that looks like something out of a movie.

His penthouse is breathtaking.

I drop my bag inside the door, my eyes sweeping across the space. “This is not at all what I expected.”

Jackson smirks, tossing his keys onto the counter. “What, did you think I lived in a frat house?”

“Honestly? I thought you were like…a high school coach or something. Not that youcouldn’thave been an NFL coach. It’s justrare.”

He chuckles, walking past me, gesturing around. “Come on, I’ll give you the tour.”

And just like that, I follow him into his world.

His penthouse is exactly what I expected—and nothing like I expected at all.

It’s huge, opulent, breathtakingly modern—with the kind of view that makes you pause mid-step.

The Chicago skyline stretches out before us, glittering in the night, the city pulsing with life below. Floor-to-ceiling windows wrap around the entire space, making it feel almost untouchable—like a life that exists on another level.

But the place itself?

It doesn’t feel lived in.

It’s pristine. Too clean. Like someone who hasn’t had time to actually make it home.

I glance at the untouched bookshelves, the sleek-but-bare countertops, the perfectly arranged furniture that looks like a showroom.

He’s not here much.

“Wow,” I say, turning in a slow circle. “This is…”

Jackson smirks, leaning against the counter, arms crossed. “Over-the-top? Obnoxious?”

I shoot him a look. “I was going to say ‘insane,’ but sure, let’s go with that.”

He chuckles, pushing off the counter. “Yeah, it’s a little much. But I didn’t exactly pick it out—my agent lined it up when I got the job. I’ve barely had time to settle in.”

That part, I believe.

He’s been too busy building a new team, adjusting to a new life.

Too busy to even try to find me.

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