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CHAPTER SIXTEEN-KOA

She walked away from me.

Why the fuck did she do that?

It’s been on replay in my head like a goddamn highlight reel I didn’t ask for.

Every second since. The way her face shifted. One moment soft and glowing—mine—and the next?

Gone.

Shut down.

Eyes guarded.

Smile fake.

Something cold crept in, distant and unreachable, like a wall slamming down between us.

And then— poof —she just left.

Said something about Carolina.

Some bullshit excuse with her phone held up to her ear like a shield.

Voice too bright.

Eyes too wet.

Fuck.

It took me an hour and twenty-five minutes to get away from the fans that night— smiling, signing, posing like I didn’t feel like I was bleeding from the inside out.

Only to get back and find her not in the RV like I expected.

Finley wasn’t there.

Carolina had no idea where she’d gone.

Just shrugged and said, “She needed space.”

Space?

She already has my space .

She has my fucking heart wrapped around that sharp tongue of hers, and now she wants space?

I know it’s fast. Soon for me to feel this way. But when I know what I want, I get it.

Like when I walk into a restaurant, if I can’t decide in two minutes, I’m out. Same for shopping.

It doesn’t take me long to decide. And when I do decide, I stick with it.

And I am sticking with her.

Even though she’s trying to deny us.

I glimpsed her the next morning outside the media tent, phone in one hand, camera in the other, her hair up in that messy bun that drives me insane.

She saw me.

And she ran.

Again.

Mumbled something about work and disappeared.

I let it go.

Barely.

Only because I had two-a-day practices, and Coach Dane breathing down my neck.

Besides, he assured me she was still sleeping in the RV at night.

Not with me, but still.

Close enough that I could pretend. Just a little.

But the final day in NOLA has been nothing but press conferences, photoshoots, sponsor meetings—and Finley.

Always nearby. Always moving. Always avoiding.

It’s driving me mad.

Every time I try to get close, she throws up another wall.

Sometimes literally.

A door.

A camera.

A laptop slammed shut in my face.

It’s fucking maddening.

And I’ve had it.

We’re leaving for Consequence tonight.

It’s something like a ten-hour drive.

Everyone crammed onto that goddamn sweaty team bus like sardines.

Tank snoring in one ear, rookies shouting in the other.

No space. No privacy. No Finley.

And I know I can’t do it. I won’t make it.

Not with the way I want her.

Not with how I need her.

So yeah. I went and did a thing.

But not before Coach Dane handed me my ass with a side of what-the-fuck-are-you-doing.

He cornered me after our last practice, sweat still dripping down my back, my boots barely off, and his arms crossed like he was waiting to deliver divine judgment.

“Alright, Jackson,” he said, tone sharp, “I’m only telling you this because between her sobbing?—”

I straightened like he’d punched me in the gut. “She’s been sobbing?”

He leveled me with a look. “Don’t interrupt. I’m on a roll.”

I shut my mouth. Barely.

“Between her falling apart in the RV and the confounded editing tent,” he continued, “and you running drills like someone swapped out your brain with a potato, something has got to give.”

I stared at him, heart thudding. “Coach, seriously, Finley cried?”

“Yes, Einstein. Actual tears. Not the dainty movie kind either—the ugly, red-nosed, hiccupy kind. Carolina had to give her chocolate and a five-minute pep talk. You happy now?”

“Fuck.”

Coach threw up his hands. “You think I care about your love life? I don’t. But I do care about my Number eight playing like he’s concussed when he’s not.”

I dropped my head into my hands. “Jesus.”

He clapped a hand on my shoulder. Hard.

The kind of slap that says I’ve broken bones smaller than you.

They didn’t call him Great Dane for nothing.

“So here’s what’s going to happen,” he said, voice dropping into that dangerous, father-figure growl. “You’re going to get your head out of your ass. You’re going to find your girl. You’re going to talk to her like a human man with working vocal cords, not a cryptid that grunts and broods. And then, if you’re very lucky, she’ll forgive you for whatever dumbass thing you did.”

I blinked.

Coach pointed a finger in my face.

“Then— and only then —will we have a snowball’s chance in hell of winning this goddamn season. Because I don’t need my best forward playing like a kicked puppy.”

I opened my mouth.

He cut me off. “And if you’re about to say something stupid like ‘I’m trying to give her space,’ I swear to God I’ll bench you just for the principle of it.”

I closed my mouth.

Coach stepped back, crossed his arms again, and nodded like he’d solved all the world’s problems.

“Go get your friggin’ woman, Jackson. Now.”

So yeah.

That’s what I plan to do.

And I rented a damn SUV just for the purpose.

Not just any car. A top-tier luxury SUV.

Leather seats.

Tinted windows.

Bluetooth, touchscreen, the works.

Comfortable.

Sleek.

And most importantly?

It’s private.

We have some things we need to discuss, Finley and me.

And I’m done playing games.

She’s not getting in that RV tonight.

Oh no.

Not without giving me a chance. Not until she hears me out.

Not until I look her in the eye and remind her that I’m not going anywhere—and neither is she.