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Chapter Nineteen

JACKSON

I toss my keys onto the counter, grab a cold beer from the fridge, and sink onto the couch, stretching my legs out in front of me. ESPN is on in the background, but I’m not really watching. My mind is still stuck in the weight room, still replaying film in my head, still forcing myself to lock in.

My phone buzzes.

Ivy: Made it through the day. How’s your night?

I stare at the screen, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. I could text back. I could keep it light, casual.

But fuck that.

Instead, I hit Call.

She picks up on the second ring.

“Oh. Hey,” she says.

“Hey.”

There’s a slight pause, like she wasn’t expecting me to actually call.

“I didn’t think you were a phone call guy,” she teases.

I grin, taking a sip of my beer. “I’m an old-fashioned guy.”

“Oh yeah?” Her voice is playful. “What generation are you again?”

I chuckle. “Right. Forgot. I’m ancient.”

“Basically a fossil. You remember the nineties, was it?”

“Keep talking like that I see what happens,” I smirk, sinking deeper into the couch. Already more relaxed. “We didn’t have iPhones when we were kids. I’m not so screen-addicted like you are.”

“I’m not screen-addicted,” she scoffs.

“Really? How many times today did you check your phone? Read me your screen time.”

She hesitates.

I laugh. “That’s what I thought.”

“Shut up.”

“No, no. Go ahead, tell me. Were you checking to see if I texted you first?”

Silence.

Then—

“God, you’re cocky.”

I grin, dragging a hand over my jaw. “You like it, though.”

She doesn’t deny it.

Instead, she sighs dramatically. “I should’ve known you’d be this irritating over the phone.”

“I’m delightful. Admit it.”

“I’ll admit nothing.”

“You don’t have to.” I take another sip of beer. “Your voice gives you away.”

She huffs. “What does that mean?”

I smirk, leaning forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Means you sound happy to hear from me.”

Another pause.

Then, softer now, she says, “And if I am?”

My chest tightens.

This is dangerous.

Because I fucking like talking to her. I like this stupid back-and-forth. I like the way she challenges me, teases me, matches me move for move.

“Then maybe I’ve gained another few yards into enemy territory.”

“You just love your sports analogies, don’t you?”

“I am a coach, after all.”

And then, when the conversation shifts—so does my focus.

“So what are you doing right now?” she asks.

I glance down at myself—sweatpants, no shirt, still cooling off from my workout, lowkey.

“Drinking a beer.”

“That’s it?”

I smirk. She walked right into that one.

“Well,” I say slowly, voice dipping lower. “I was thinking about you.”

She goes silent.

But I hear it—the sharp inhale, the slight hitch in her breath.

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” I let my head drop back against the couch. Loving the way her voice has shifted, softened. “Want to know what I was thinking?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell me either way.”

I grin. “Damn right.”

And just like that—the air between us thickens.

She knows it. I know it.

Because I can hear her breathing a little harder.

Because my sweatpants are feeling tighter.

Because no matter how much I tell myself to focus on football—this woman is in my fucking head.

And I don’t want her to leave it.

I let the silence stretch, playing with the tension.

I can hear the way her breath changes.

Quieter. Shallower. She’s picturing it just like I am.

“I was thinking about your legs,” I say finally, my voice rougher now. “Wrapped around me.”

I hear the smallest hitch in her breath.

“Oh?”

I smirk, stretching back into the couch. “Yeah.”

Her voice is lighter now. Teasing. “That all?”

Oh, she wants to play?

I drag a hand down my chest, my fingers absently brushing the waistband of my sweatpants.

“No.”

She’s completely silent now. Waiting.

“You want to know what else I was thinking?”

“Maybe.”

I grin. “I was thinking about that little sound you make when I first push inside you.”

She sucks in a breath.

I press my advantage.

“And how fucking tight you were for me. How soft. How goddamn perfect.”

“Jesus.” Her voice is breathy now. Barely a whisper.

But she’s not stopping me.

“You felt like heaven, Ivy,” I whisper. “Like you were made for me.”

She makes a small noise, and I swear to God, I feel it like a punch to the gut.

I grip my thigh hard.

I should stop.

I should cut this off before I say something I can’t take back.

But she sighs softly, and it undoes me.

“Jackson. I can’t talk to you like this when I’m alone in my bed.”

I close my eyes, my pulse hammering. Alone in her bed?

Then, I grin.

“Then maybe you should let me fix that.”

She laughs, flustered, but I can practically hear the arousal in her voice.

“Goodnight, Jackson.”

I chuckle. “Night, Ivy.”

She hangs up.

I sit there, staring at my phone like a dumbass.

Grinning.

Because fuck football.

This is the game I want to play.

And I want to win.