Page 97 of The Coach

I shake my head.

Jesus, what am I doing?

I barely know Ivy. We had one night. Then four months apart.

Now, I’ve spent one weekend with her, and I’m out here imagining a life in Riverbend?

Fuck.

I press my foot to the gas and get back on the highway.

I flip through my phone and settle on an album that always clears my head.

Chris Stapleton’sTraveller.

The first notes of “Nobody to Blame” pour through the speakers, the familiar rasp of Stapleton’s voice grounding me.

I need to get out of my head and it feels good.

After that, I throw on some podcast that YouTube suggests for me.

It’s all aboutlove addiction. Love bombing. Attachment theory. Avoidant attachment. Fucking hell.

Lately, all I see is psychobabble about relationships, like love is something you can break down into neat categories, explain away with a couple of buzzwords.

But love is love.

You know it when you feel it.

And right now?

Right now, I feel like I’m standing on the edge of something huge.

Something that could change everything.

And it scares the absolute shit out of me.

I grip the wheel tighter. No. No getting ahead of myself.

I need to be locked in. Dialed into the season.

Minnesota’s defense is tough. Their QB? Even tougher. I need to be watching tape, running through adjustments, planning for every damn scenario.

Not imagining what Ivy would look like in that big-ass kitchen, hair all messed up from morning sex, cooking breakfast for a bunch of kids.

Oh, hell.

I’ll cook the breakfast for all of us.

I just need her.

It’s not the same without her warmth.

Being around her does something to me.

I exhale sharply, forcing the image out of my head. I need to focus.

My phone buzzes on the passenger seat.

---