Page 90 of The Coach

I blink at the sudden shift. "What do you mean? I told you."

"You’re smart. Funny. A little bit of a smartass." His smirk is playful. "Could’ve gone anywhere. And I know you told me that first night. But I feel like you left something out of the story."

I twirl my fork between my fingers. I don’t really talk about this.

But Jackson is watching me, really watching me.

"My mom moved here when I was a kid," I finally say. "Met Carl, settled down. I was always the responsible one, helping out, looking after everyone. Yeah, I had that year in L.A., but when I got back, before I knew it, I was grown. Teaching. This just became home."

I shrug like it’s simple, like that’s all there is to it. But Jackson doesn’t buy it. He tilts his head, his gaze steady, his silence expectant.

I swallow. "The truth?" I exhale a quiet laugh, shaking my head. "I don’t know. Maybe I got scared. I always tell myself I stayed because it made sense—because my family was here, because I had a job. But the truth is, I don’t know who I’d be if I left."

I look down at my plate, pressing my lips together before forcing myself to meet his gaze again. "Here, I know what my life is. I know who I am. Out there?" I shake my head. "What if I leave, and I’m nothing?"

The confession hangs between us, heavier than I meant for it to be.

Jackson watches me for a beat, his expression unreadable. Then, he leans forward, resting his forearms on the table, his voice low but sure.

"You wouldn’t be nothing, Ivy."

The way he says it punches at my nerves. Because it’s not just words. He believes it.

And I think, for the first time, I might want to believe it too.

Jackson nods, like he understands something I haven’t even said out loud.

I flip the question back at him. “What about you? Why did you never settle down?”

A flicker of something unreadable crosses his face. He shifts slightly in his chair.

“My job keeps me moving,” he says simply. “Football doesn’t really allow for—” He pauses, lips twisting, like he’s choosing his words carefully. “Doesn’t allow for distractions.”

I feel something stupid clench in my chest at that.

“So, I’m a distraction?”

His eyes snap to mine. They flick over my face, unreadable, before his voice drops lower.

"No." He leans forward slightly, forearms resting on the table. "You’re something else entirely. I don’t think I can put you in any box, Ivy."

Something in the air shifts.

I can’t tell if it’s his voice or the way he’s looking at me, but my whole body goes hot, tight, on edge.

I stand abruptly, grabbing our plates. "I’ll clean up."

"No. Hell no." He’s already standing, taking the plates right out of my hands. "This is the only night I’m here this week. At least have one night where you can forget about the dishes."

I hesitate, my instinct to argue flaring, but he just jerks his chin toward the couch. "Go. Sit. Read or something."

I narrow my eyes at him. "You’re actually going to load the dishwasher?"

"You act like I don’t know how to function in a kitchen." His smirk is pure mischief as he turns toward the sink, sleeves pushed up, already rinsing off a plate. "I’ve got this. Go."

I linger for another second before finally exhaling and stepping away, grabbing my book from the side table. I sink onto the couch, flipping it open to a dog-eared page, but something feels… off.

Relax, Ivy. Just relax.

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