Page 21 of The Coach

Chapter Twenty-One

IVY

The rhythmic grinding of the train wheels glides through the quiet car, the faint noise of conversations and the occasional rustling of newspapers filling the space around me. Outside the window, the late-September landscape blurs past in streaks of gold and deep green—cornfields stretching endlessly, trees just starting to hint at the reds and oranges of fall.

I rest a hand on my belly, absently rubbing the small but growing curve.

It still feels surreal.

Four months ago, I was just…me. Ivy Bennett, fourth-grade teacher, Riverbend resident. Single, content, completely unaware that my life was about to flip upside down in the most unexpected way.

And now?

I glance down at my lap, where a well-loved copy of 'A Tree Grows in Brooklyn' rests open. I haven’t turned a page in ten minutes, too lost in my thoughts.

Maybe I should be scared.

Maybe I should be worried about how Jackson and I will navigate this.

Or panicking about the fact that we live in two different worlds—his, a fast-paced, high-pressure football empire; mine, a quiet, small-town life.

But instead…

I smile softly.

I’m happy.

No matter what happens, no matter how this plays out, I’m happy.

Because for the first time in a long time, I’m choosing to embrace the unknown.

My phone buzzes in my lap, pulling me back to the present.

I glance down at the screen and feel my nerves buzz.

Jackson: I can’t fucking wait to see you.

Jackson: You excited for tonight? Because I am.

Jackson: And I have a surprise for you tonight.

I exhale slowly, my pulse skipping.

A surprise?

My fingers hover over the keyboard before I finally type back.

Me: Should I be worried?

Jackson: Nope. Just be ready when I pick you up from the train

Me: Not a problem.

Jackson: And wear something…fashionable.

Me: Fashionable?

Jackson: Yes. You always look pretty, but something fashionable.

A thrill runs through me, warm and giddy and impossible to ignore.

I stare out the window, the skyline of Chicago starting to emerge in the distance.

This man. This life.

What the hell am I doing?

I don’t know.

But for once?

I don’t need to.

All I know is I can’t wait to see him, too.

I pull out the dress I brought and head to the train bathroom to put it on.

The train slows as it pulls into Union Station, the steady rhythm of travel giving way to the bustle of passengers shifting in their seats, gathering their belongings. I smooth down the soft fabric of my dress, a deep sapphire blue that hugs my bump just enough to be noticeable but still makes me feel good.

Excitement builds under my skin as I grab my bag and step onto the platform.

And there he is.

Jackson Knox, standing tall by the entrance, leaning casually against a sleek black SUV, his arms crossed over his broad chest.

The city lights catch in his dark, tousled hair, and the crisp suit coat over his fitted dress shirt makes him look like he just walked out of a damn magazine.

And then—he spots me. His entire face changes.

The cool, collected expression shifts into something softer, something completely unreadable but entirely captivating.

I swallow hard. Jesus, this man is dangerous.

Before I can overthink it, I step forward, dragging my suitcase behind me.

Jackson pushes off the car immediately, striding toward me like there’s nothing else in the world he’d rather be doing.

“Hey, beautiful.” His voice is low, rough.

My pulse kicks up, nerves buzzing under my skin.

I roll my eyes, pretending to be unbothered, but I know my face is betraying me. “Flattery? Already?”

He grins. That panty-melting, cocky-as-hell grin.

“Just stating facts.” He reaches for my suitcase, effortlessly grabbing it. “Let me get that.”

I let him.

It’s small—him taking my bag, him guiding me toward the car with a light touch on my lower back—but it makes something deep inside me unravel.

When we reach the SUV, he opens the passenger door for me.

Like a full-blown gentleman.

My heart trips.

“You’re really leaning into this whole charming thing, huh?” I tease as I slide inside.

Jackson just smirks, shutting the door before rounding the car and sliding into the driver’s seat beside me.

“Buckle up, Emerald Girl,” he drawls, his voice dripping with something unspoken, something electric. “Although blue looks good on you, too.”

“I thought it was a good change of pace from my usual.”

“You’ll always be Emerald to me.”

As he pulls away from the curb, the city stretching wide before us, I get the feeling that tonight is going to be something else.

And I’m so damn ready.

I watch as Jackson weaves through the city streets, his hands firm on the wheel, the glow of Chicago’s skyline flashing against the windshield.

"Where are we going?" I ask, stealing a glance at him.

He just smirks, eyes on the road. "You'll see."

"But it’s already late. What could possibly be open? Let me guess. A new restaurant?”

He flicks on the turn signal, effortlessly maneuvering through traffic. “No, not a restaurant. But I called in a favor."

I gape at him. "Called in a favor?"

He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Coach benefits. As long as we keep our winning record, at least. Which we will.”

Two security guards are already waiting at the doors of the Chicago Art Institute when we pull up. The entire museum is closed to the public at this hour. The streets outside are quiet, only the hum of late-night traffic in the distance.

"Wait…" I shake my head as we step out of the car. "You got us into the Art Institute? At night?"

Jackson just grins, looking so damn cocky in his suit. "Figured you’d like it."

He tosses the keys to his car to the other security guard, while another one lets walks us up the steps, keys rattling.

I stare up at the grand entrance, my heart doing weird, fluttery things.

"I mentioned this once," I whisper.

He looks at me, something softer in his expression now. “Guess I remembered.”

Inside, the museum is silent, except for the faint echo of our footsteps. The lights are dim, the famous paintings illuminated in soft pools of light.

I take a slow breath, overwhelmed in the best way possible. I’m alone in one of my favorite places, with Jackson.

"You know," I whisper, "this is, like…unbelievably romantic."

Jackson smirks. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"Good. That was the point."

We stroll past the Impressionists first. Monet, Renoir, Degas.

"Do you have a favorite?" Jackson asks.

I bite my lip, glancing at him. "You actually care?"

His gaze flicks to mine, his expression unreadable. "Of course."

I exhale, turning back to the paintings. "Monet. The way he plays with light—it always feels like you’re looking at a memory. Like something just out of reach, you know?"

Jackson nods. "I get that."

I raise an eyebrow. "Do you actually get that?"

He chuckles. "Hey, I know art."

"Oh yeah?" I cross my arms. "What’s your favorite painting?"

He doesn’t hesitate. "That one." He nods toward George Seurat’s 'A Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte.'

I blink. "The pointillism one?"

He grins. "Yeah. Look at it. From far away, it’s all put together. But up close? It’s just dots. A million tiny, imperfect dots. It’s kinda like life, right?"

“That was unexpectedly deep.”

He chuckles, shrugging it off. “Honestly I just think dots are cool.”

I smile as we move through the museum, the air between us shifting.

In one of the quieter halls, we pause in front of a massive oil painting—romantic, dramatic, swirling colors.

I don’t even realize Jackson is watching me until he speaks.

"You always loved art growing up?"

I nod. "Yeah. I used to take photographs all the time. I thought maybe I’d be a professional. But life happens, and… you know how it goes."

He’s quiet for a beat.

“You ever think about picking it back up?"

I blink up at him.

No one’s ever asked me that before.

"I don’t know," I admit. "I take a few photos here and there. I just figured I’d left it behind."

Jackson’s voice is low. “It’s not too late, you know.”

I swallow hard.

Because the way he’s looking at me right now?

Like he sees me in a way no one else ever has?

It’s messing me up.

We stand there for a long moment, just inches apart.

“It’s not?”

“No.” His gaze drops to my lips. “I didn’t start coaching until I was twenty-seven. I was a player until then.”

“Oh.” My breath catches.

For a second, I think he’s going to close the distance. That he’s going to kiss me.

But he doesn’t.

Instead, he reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear.

"Come on. You look hungry. Let’s get some food at this diner on the north side of town. You’ll love it.”

The place is exactly the kind of old-school diner I should’ve expected but totally didn’t. The kind with chrome stools, checkered floors, and a menu that probably hasn’t changed in fifty years. Jackson greets the waitress by name as we slide into a booth near the window.

I shake my head, smirking. “You really are a small-town guy at heart, huh?”

He grins. “Don’t tell anyone. Gotta protect my image of being a wild-at-heart, reckless cowboy of a coach whose heart doesn’t have an ounce of empathy.”

I chuckle. “Oh? Is that how you intimidate the competition?”

He shrugs. “I mean it can’t hurt.”

The waitress pours me a glass of water and Jackson a coffee, and when she leaves, Jackson leans back in his seat, his eyes soft but intent.

“So tell me. How was your week?” He asks.

I blink at him. “Like…my actual week?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “I want to know.”

Something warm blooms in my chest. Because…no one’s really asked me that. Not in a way that felt like they genuinely cared.

So I tell him.

I tell him about the fourth-grade meltdown over a lost pencil, about how one of my kids swore they saw Bigfoot at recess (Jackson chuckles at that one), and how I had to confiscate a makeshift slingshot made of rubber bands and paper clips.

Jackson’s eyes crinkle as he laughs. “Sounds like you’ve got a hell of a classroom.”

“You have no idea,” I say, sipping my water.

He nods toward my stomach. “And what about you? What else do you need for the baby? To stay healthy and all that?”

My heart squeezes. The way he asks—so casually, but like he truly wants to know—makes me feel things I’m not ready to name.

“I mean, I’ve been trying to exercise more,” I admit, swirling my straw through the ice in my glass. “Nothing crazy. Just some prenatal yoga, walks, that sort of thing.”

“Good,” he says, his voice softer. “That’s good.” Then he laughs. “I mean what the hell do I know about all this?”

His laugh is contagious, spreading to me, just like the warmth in my chest.

But just then, a hush moves through the diner.

A couple of people near the counter glance over. A double take. A few whispers.

Shit.

Jackson doesn’t notice at first, too focused on me, but I feel the shift. I see the recognition creeping across people’s faces.

And then?—

A man in his late twenties slides out of his booth and heads straight for us.

“Excuse me,” he says, his voice polite but eager. “You’re Jackson Knox, right?”

Jackson tenses, and just like that, the ease between us vanishes.

He exhales through his nose, then plasters on his public persona. “Yeah, that’s me.”

“I’m a huge Stallions fan. Man, that game last week was unreal.” He grins, glancing at me for half a second before turning his full attention back to Jackson. “You think we got a real shot at the playoffs?”

Jackson nods, his entire body language shifting. “That’s the plan.”

“Hell yeah.” The guy glances back at his friends, as if looking for their approval, before turning back. “Would you mind taking a picture?”

Jackson hesitates. Just for a second.

But then his jaw tightens, and he forces a small smile. “Yeah, sure.”

He slides out of the booth, and I watch as he poses with the guy, who grins like he just won the lottery.

I shouldn’t care.

I shouldn’t.

But the moment feels…off.

Because for the first time since I stepped off that train, I feel like I don’t belong.

Like I’m just someone sitting across from him. A woman who doesn’t fit into this part of his life.

And that realization?

It stings.

“Thanks, Coach,” the fan says, and then shoots me a weird look as he walks off.