Page 10

Chapter Ten

JACKSON

The sun is relentless, beating down on the practice field as I pace the sideline, arms crossed, jaw tight, pulse slightly off-rhythm.

I shouldn’t feel like this.

I should be locked in, focused on nothing but tomorrow’s home opener—the biggest game of my career so far. Instead, my mind is restless, unsettled, off its game.

“Run the play again,” I bark, watching as Dallas Connelly, our star quarterback, calls out the play. “That was sloppy. That’s not going to cut it on Sunday.”

Dallas steps back into the pocket, fluid and controlled, scanning the field before launching the ball with that golden arm of his. It cuts through the air, a perfect spiral, right into the hands of our rookie wide receiver.

Dallas jogs toward the sideline, grinning that cocky, all-American smile that makes him a media favorite. “That was clean,” he says, tugging off his helmet. “You good with the timing?”

I nod, but I know I’m not completely here. Something’s off. I feel it deep in my bones.

Dallas squints at me. “You sure? ‘Cause you’ve been weird all practice, Coach.”

I exhale sharply. “ I’m fine. ”

Dallas grins, unfazed. “Uh-huh. You look like a man who’s got something on his mind. Or some one .”

I give him a flat stare. “I look like a man who’s getting tired of his quarterback running his mouth.”

Dallas laughs, hands up in surrender. “Noted.”

I turn back to the field, forcing my focus onto the drills, the plays, the rhythm of the team. The defense lines up, waiting for my signal.

“Again,” I call out.

Dallas groans. “Jesus, man, we’ve run this like ten times. I know you like being a disciplinarian, but Coach?—”

I don’t budge. “And we’ll run it ten more if it’s not perfect. We need to be able to execute late in games, when we’re tired. Or would you prefer to just leave it up to fate? Hope the other team misses a field goal? Come on, Dallas. You’re better than that. Now do it again . Or are you tired out already? Because it’s fucking week two of the season.”

He sighs, but jogs back out anyway, obediently. I watch him drop into position, running through the motion like the pro that he is. But my head is still somewhere else.

Somewhere back in May.

I grit my teeth and shove the thought down.

Focus, Jackson.

I’m not the guy who looks back. I don’t obsess over the past. I don’t spend my off time thinking about a woman I spent one weekend with.

Except, apparently, I do now.

Because no matter how hard I try to lock in, no matter how much I bury myself in football, something in my gut feels unfinished.

Like I left something— someone —behind.

“Alright, that’s it,” my assistant coach, O’Hara, finally calls, checking his watch. “Wrap it up.”

The guys let out a collective exhale, stretching, hydrating, heading toward the locker room.

I run a hand through my hair, exhaling slowly. Shoving Ivy out of my mind.

But just as I’m about to turn toward the tunnel, a reporter from the sidelines calls out.

“Coach Knox! Just a quick question before you go?”

I glance over, irritated, but I nod.

A woman I vaguely recognize from a Chicago sports network steps forward, microphone in hand, smirking. “So, Jackson, you’re the youngest head coach in the league, and a lot of people are wondering—how does a guy with this much responsibility balance a personal life?”

I lift a brow. “That’s your question?”

She grins. “I mean, Chicago wants to know. Are you a football-obsessed lone wolf or does Coach Knox have a secret romantic side?”

Dallas, standing behind me, snorts loudly.

I shoot him a look before facing the reporter again. I force a smirk, leaning into my usual answer.

“Football is my personal life,” I say. “It’s what I signed up for.”

She nods, smiling. “Right, right. But don’t you get lonely?”

I flex my jaw, staying silent.

“If there was one thing that could pull you away from it, what would it be?”

The question shouldn’t hit me the way it does.

It shouldn’t make my chest tighten.

But for some reason, my mind flashes back to a warm night in May. To fireflies in the trees. To a girl in an emerald dress, laughing at something I said.

I shove it away, clenching my fist.

I smirk, giving the easy answer. “I’m here to win a championship for this city. That’s the goal. No more questions.”

The reporter laughs, and I take the out, turning toward the locker room.

But as I walk away, my chest still feels tight.

Like maybe that wasn’t the truth at all.

Like maybe, if I’d had the choice, I never would have left Riverbend in the first place.

And maybe, just maybe—I would have found a way back.

The elevator glides up to the top floor, smooth and silent, before opening into my penthouse.

I step inside, toe off my shoes, and toss my keys onto the kitchen counter.

Everything is exactly as I left it. Impeccably designed. Modern. Sharp lines and neutral tones. Not a single thing out of place.

And yet, for some reason, it doesn’t feel like home.

I drag a hand through my hair, exhaling hard. It’s been a long-ass day, and my head is still all over the place.

Just as I reach for a bottle of water from the fridge, my phone rings.

I glance at the screen.

Reagan Connelly. General manager of the Stallions. Also wife to one Dallas Connelly, quarterback. But that’s a whole other story.

I debate letting it go to voicemail, but she’s my boss, so I answer.

“Yeah?”

"Hey, Coach." Reagan’s voice is casual but pointed, which means she’s about to ask for something. “Got a minute?”

I roll my shoulders back, sighing. “What’s up?”

“You know I wouldn't call unless it was important.” A beat. “Or at least...semi-important.”

“Reagan.”

She laughs lightly. “Okay, okay, sorry, I know you don’t like small talk. So don’t bite my head off. But listen—I've got a friend. Really great girl. Smart, funny, gorgeous. And she’s been dying to meet you. What do you say?”

My jaw tightens.

“Not interested.”

“Come on, Knox. You’re thirty-seven, single, and a damn celebrity in this city. You can’t keep avoiding a personal life forever. She’s low maintenance. And gorgeous. I’m telling you…she’s a steal.”

I rub a hand over my face. “I’m not avoiding anything. I just don’t date.”

There’s a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Right,” Reagan finally says. “Because you’re married to football and dedicated to the game and all that bullshit. You’re allowed to have a life outside of this team, you know.”

I lean against the counter, staring out at the skyline.

“I’ve got a game to prep for, Reagan.”

She scoffs. “Unbelievable. No wonder they call you Coach Hardass. Fine. No blind dates. Enjoy your afternoon of brooding or whatever the hell you do when you're off the clock.”

“Goodbye, Reagan.”

She hangs up with a huff, and I toss my phone onto the counter.

My shoulders are tense.

Not because of her pushing me to date. I’ve been through this before—people assuming that just because I’m single, I must be missing something.

It’s because for the first time, I can’t shake the feeling that maybe they’re right.

The sun is low in the sky that evening, shimmering over the water as I push forward, feet pounding against the pavement.

Running has always been my way of clearing my head—my way of focusing, of locking in. It’s simple. Rhythmic. Predictable.

Unlike my goddamn thoughts.

I pump my arms harder, my heartbeat matching the tempo of the music in my earbuds. I should be thinking about the game tomorrow. But instead, my mind is still back in Riverbend, stuck in the past.

And then?—

I see her.

Or at least, I think I do.

A woman—tall, long brunette hair falling down her back. She’s walking just ahead of me, dressed in leggings and a loose tank top, earbuds in.

My chest tightens.

The air vanishes from my lungs.

No way.

I slow my pace, my body acting before my brain can process it.

I shouldn’t.

This is stupid.

But my feet keep moving forward.

When I’m finally close enough, I say, "Excuse me?—”

She turns.

My stomach drops.

It’s not her.

Not even close.

She’s pretty, sure—and has the same thick brown hair—but she’s not Ivy.

She gives me a confused look, pulling out one earbud. “Sorry?”

I shake my head immediately, running a hand through my damp hair. “Nothing. I—uh, sorry. Thought you were someone else.”

She smiles politely, then continues walking.

I stand there for a second, breathing hard, trying to get my damn pulse under control.

Jesus.

What the hell am I doing?

I need to get my head out of the past.

I need to focus.

I need to move on.

Because Ivy, the girl from some small town, months ago?

She’s gone. Long gone.

And there are a million women in the world. I shouldn’t be caught up on one.

Time to focus on tomorrow’s game, anyway.