Page 89 of The Coach

She props a hand on her hip. “Alright, Gordon Ramsay. Show me what you got.”

I pull out chicken, veggies, and pasta, rolling up my sleeves like I actually know what the hell I’m doing.

We move easily around each other—her slicing tomatoes, me handling the chicken. It’s too natural, too comfortable, but I don’t hate it.

For a few minutes, it’s just the quiet sounds of cooking. The soft scrape of a knife against the cutting board. The hiss of oil in the pan. The occasional bump of our arms.

And then, before I can stop myself, I say it.

“So…uh…how was your day?”

She gives me a funny look.

I groan. “Sorry. I don’t know how to do this.”

She smirks, shaking her head. “You mean…normal conversation?”

“Yeah.” I rub a hand over the back of my neck. “This isn’t usually how my nights go.”

Her expression softens slightly. “Me either.”

“So is this like…what couples do? We just hang out, eat, and chat?”

She laughs, and then there’s a beat of silence. Then, she nudges me with her hip. “Well, since you asked—my day was fine. A little long. I have a tough class this year so my weekdays are pretty draining.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Tough how?”

She sighs, stirring the sauce. “Couple of rowdy kids. A lot of energy. I think I finally figured out how to get them to chill out, though.”

“Yeah?”

“Bribery.” She grins. “They’ll do anything for extra recess.”

I chuckle. “Smart.”

Something in my chest settles.

This is easy. Too easy.

And for the first time all day, I don’t feel like I’m losing control.

Chapter Seventeen

IVY

I’m still recovering from the shock of seeing Jackson standing in my kitchen, casually chopping vegetables like we do this all the time.

Like he’s not some big-time coach. Like we didn’t have a wildly reckless night together that changed both of our lives.

And yet, here we are.

Dinner that night is nice. I hate that I don’t have a bigger table—my tiny two-seater is barely enough, and Jackson looks ridiculous sitting in my modest little kitchen, all broad shoulders and intensity.

He eats like he’s starving, like he actually enjoys my little pantry meal.

When we finish, he leans back in his chair, sipping a glass of water.

"So, Riverbend," he says, watching me. "Really, why’d you stay?"

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