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Chapter Eighteen

JACKSON

That morning, the road stretches long and empty ahead of me, golden fields rolling past in waves under the morning sun. It’s peaceful out here, a stark contrast to the noise of Chicago.

I grip the wheel, drumming my fingers against it, my mind a million miles away.

I should be thinking about the game next Sunday. Minnesota’s team is no joke this year, and I need to be focused, already planning the next round of adjustments and scouting reports.

But instead?

I’m thinking about her.

I ease off the highway, slowing as I spot it—the house Ivy told me about that first night.

Her dream house.

It’s the kind of place that stands out in a town like this—big, sprawling, too many windows to count. A wraparound porch with white columns, a front yard big enough for kids to run around in. A deep blue door that just looks welcoming.

And the inside? I can picture it. A cozy kitchen with a massive dining table, soft golden light in the mornings, walls lined with bookshelves.

A house meant for a family.

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’s Traveller .

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 about love 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.

I glance down at the screen.

Gabi.

My new admin assistant.

I tap the Bluetooth. “Hey.”

“Hey, Coach. Just a heads up—your meeting with the sponsorship team got pushed to tomorrow. But I booked you for that charity dinner Wednesday night. So you’ll have to cut the sponsorship thing short. Also, I saw your note about flights?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, changing lanes. “Can you get me a list of all the direct flights from Chicago to Davenport.”

There’s a pause. “Davenport? That’s…random.”

I sigh. “Yeah. And then see what rental cars are available there. Just in case.”

Gabi is silent for a second.

Then she says, “What’s going on in Davenport?”

“Official coach business.”

“Okay, okay. It’s private. I’ll send you options.”

I shake my head, fighting a smirk as I hang up. If only Drew could learn from her and mind his own damn business.

By the time I pull into Chicago around noon, my mind is still a mess.

I tell myself to let it go.

To just focus on the season.

But then my phone buzzes.

Ivy: Made it through the morning. Hope you had a good drive.

I don’t even hesitate before responding.

Me: Yeah. I’ll call you later.

And even though I’ve got a million things to focus on…

I know exactly what I’m looking forward to the most.

I press play on the film again.

Minnesota’s offense flashes across the screen. Their QB is sharp, their O-line solid, their defense ranked top five in the league.

I need to be locked in.

This is my job. My life.

But I’m barely seeing the plays.

All I can see is her.

Ivy.

Her laugh in the kitchen.

The way she fit against me when we fell asleep on her couch.

The way she looked up at me this morning when she asked, When will I see you again?

Fuck. Focus.

I rub a hand over my face and try again. First down. Minnesota’s offense is lined up in a shotgun formation. The ball snaps. The QB reads the defense, steps up?—

“Coach.”

I grit my teeth.

I don’t even have to look up to know who’s standing in the doorway.

Drew.

That nosy motherfucker.

I sigh. “What do you want, Drew?”

He steps inside like he owns the damn place. “You tell me. You were off the grid all Monday. No calls, no texts. All summer you never missed a single day in the film room. You give the guys the day off, but it was seven days a week for you. So where’d you go?”

I don’t take my eyes off the screen. “Nowhere.”

Drew snorts. “Bullshit.”

I exhale, pausing the film. “What do you need?”

He crosses his arms, smirking. “Just making sure my boss isn’t losing his mind this early in the season. We might have won our first three games but it’s a marathon, not a spring as we all know.”

I lean back in my chair. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah? Because you’ve been watching the same play for five minutes, and I don’t think you’ve actually seen it once.”

I stare at him. He’s been watching me through the glass. Spying.

He grins. “You’re different, man. When this season started, you’ve been sharp. Locked in. No distractions. And now?” He tilts his head. “You disappear for two days, come back looking like you found Jesus, and suddenly, you can’t watch film without zoning out?”

I roll my shoulders, keeping my voice even. “What’s your point?”

“My point, Coach, is that I know you. And I know when something—or someone —has you off your game.”

I lock my jaw.

I cannot let this be a distraction.

Not for the team. Not for the season.

At work, I need to be all business.

I stand up, facing him. “Drew, let me make something very clear.”

He raises an eyebrow.

“My personal life is my business. And it’s not going to interfere with this team.”

He studies me for a long moment.

Then—he smirks. “So there is something personal.”

I clench my fists.

“If it were relevant, you would know. You’re not a friend. You’re a colleague. So stop acting all weird.”

“Alright, alright.” He lifts his hands in surrender, backing toward the door. “But if you start slipping up in games? I’m coming right back to dig.”

“Get out.”

He chuckles as he leaves.

I sit back down, pressing play on the film.

I force myself to focus.

To see the field. The plays. The game.

I can’t afford to be distracted.

I can’t afford to let this thing with Ivy—whatever the hell it is—pull me away from my job.

At work, I’m locked in.

But when I get home?

When I finally let my guard down?

That’s a different story.

The players are already in their seats, laughing, shooting the shit, too damn comfortable.

Not on my watch.

I slap a remote onto the table. The room goes silent.

Dallas Connelly raises an eyebrow from the front row, arms crossed, watching me.

I don’t say anything. Just press play.

On the screen are the ugliest plays from our last game. The missed tackles. The blown coverages. The lazy secondary routes.

I let it play for a full thirty seconds.

Then, I turn to face them, voice sharp, cutting.

“You think you’ve arrived, gentlemen?”

Silence.

I scan the room, looking each of them dead in the eye.

“You think you’re hot shit because we won our first three games?”

A few guys shift in their seats.

“I don’t care what the scoreboard said. That was a sloppy fucking victory. Sloppy football doesn’t win championships. It might work on a second-tier team, but in the playoffs, sloppy football gets you embarrassed. And if we play like that in Minnesota?”

I pause. Let it sink in.

“They will run us into the fucking ground.”

The mood changes.

Guys straighten up.

The tension in the room is exactly what I want.

I click to the next play. A busted third-down conversion.

“Explain this to me.” I point at the screen. “Why the fuck are we running secondary routes like we don’t give a damn? You think this is high school? Do you, Travis, think that the play might not break? Are you a damn fortune teller now?”

Silence.

I turn to Dallas.

“What’s our third-down conversion rate?”

He doesn’t even look at his notes. “Thirty-eight percent.”

I nod. “Thirty-eight percent.” I look back at the players. “That’s garbage. Our defense bailed us out with those interceptions. And we can’t depend on that.”

No one moves.

I continue, “You better be ready to work. Because I don’t give a shit what the scoreboard says—we’re not good enough yet.”

I grab my coffee. Meeting over.

I should let it go.

But I don’t.

I push my players harder than usual.

Louder. Sharper.

I don’t let up. Not for a second.

And when practice ends?

I stay behind.

I hit the weight room alone, forcing myself through an extra set of deadlifts, sweat dripping, muscles screaming.

I need to burn this off.

The frustration. The restlessness. The thoughts that won’t leave me alone. Ivy.

I can do both, right?

Be locked in. Be focused. Keep my job first.

But why the fuck does it feel like I’m already losing control?

I’m mid-set, lifting heavy as hell, when I hear someone behind me.

Drew.

This motherfucker.

“Jesus, Coach,” he whistles, leaning against the squat rack. “Trying to bench press your problems away?”

I rack the weight, breathing hard. Not in the mood.

“For fucks’ sake, Drew. Get a life.”

“Oh, I have one. You know I’m a very observant guy.” He grins. “And I couldn’t help but notice you tore into the team like Bobby Knight on a bad day.”

I grab a towel, wipe my face. “They needed it.”

“Sure.” He shrugs. “But let’s be honest—this about the game? Or about whatever the hell you left in Riverbend?”

I glare. “You done?”

Drew grins wider. “For now.”

I hit the shower, letting the hot water burn the tension away.

I can’t let this get to me.

I can’t let her get to me.

This job is everything I worked for.

I won’t let it slip.

At work? I’m locked in.

I leave zero room for distractions.

I won’t let them see the cracks.