Page 24

Chapter Twenty-Four

JACKSON

The soft morning light shines through the penthouse windows, casting a warm glow over Ivy’s bare shoulders. She’s still half-asleep, her body curled against mine, one leg draped over my thigh. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

I run my fingers through her hair, letting myself just feel this moment.

She stirs, blinking up at me, a lazy, sleepy smile on her lips. “You’re staring,” she says, her voice raspy from sleep.

“Yeah,” I admit. “Can’t help it.”

She laughs softly, her fingers tracing absent patterns on my chest. “What’s going on in that coach brain of yours?”

I take a deep breath, staring up at the ceiling for a second before looking back at her.

“I don’t want to do this half-assed, Ivy,” I say. “I don’t want to be the guy who shows up every other weekend and calls it parenting. I want more. I want you.”

She freezes, her lips parting slightly. “Jackson. There’s just so many details we need to?—”

But before she can say anything, my phone buzzes obnoxiously on the nightstand.

I groan, squeezing my eyes shut. “Fucking hell.”

Ivy smirks. “Coach life.”

I grab the phone, Drew’s name flashing on the screen. I roll my eyes and answer, throwing Drew on speakerphone. “This better be good.”

Drew doesn’t even bother with pleasantries. He’s already laughing.

“Oh, it’s fucking gold, Coach.”

I sit up, immediately on edge. “What happened?”

“You seen ESPN this morning?”

“No, Drew, I’ve been sleeping like a normal goddamn human.”

“Well, wake the fuck up, because Travis Carter just got himself into a hell of a mess.”

I feel Ivy watching me and listening along as Drew keeps going. Travis is our top receiver this year. Bit of a head case, but super talented. “Yeah? What happened?”

“Some Instagram model dropped a whole-ass pregnancy scandal on him. Screenshots, text receipts, even a fucking ultrasound picture. She says he knocked her up, and now the media’s feasting on it.”

I scrub a hand down my face. “Are you shitting me?”

“Wish I was. It’s everywhere, man. SportsCenter, TMZ, Twitter. Hell, even Good Morning America ran a segment.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. Goddamn it.

“What’s Carter saying?”

“Oh, he’s playing dumb,” Drew says, snorting. “Claiming he ‘barely knew the chick’ and ‘isn’t sure if it’s real.’ But the PR team is scrambling. They need you to do damage control. Press conference is at noon.”

I exhale sharply, my pulse hammering. I don’t have time for this bullshit.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll be there.”

I hang up, tossing my phone onto the bed, and look over at Ivy. She’s biting her lip, a crease forming between her brows.

I shake my head, running a hand through my hair.

“So one of your wide receivers knocked up a girl on a one-night stand?” She asks, reiterating what she just heard.

I nod. “Now the media’s having a field day with it.”

I sigh. Fuck. This hits way too close to home for both of us.

“Ivy,” I start, reaching for her, but she shakes her head, forcing a small smile. “I didn’t want to leave you here all day. Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” she says. “You should go deal with it.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure?”

She nods, but her eyes flick toward the window, like she’s already overthinking.

I cup her chin, tilting her face back toward mine. “Hey.”

She meets my gaze.

"This is different," I rasp. "You're different."

She swallows. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I press a slow, deep kiss to her lips. “And when I get back? We’re finishing this conversation.”

Her breath catches, but she nods.

I stand, already mentally shifting into crisis mode.

But as I pull on my clothes, grab my keys, and head for the door, I can’t shake the feeling that this isn’t just a PR nightmare.

This is a wake-up call.

For both of us.

Before I leave, I glance back at Ivy, who’s still sitting up in bed, watching me.

“So what are you gonna do today?” I ask, trying to keep my voice light. “To stay busy while I’m out handling this PR nightmare.”

She stretches her arms over her head, the sheet slipping just a little. Fucking hell. I need to get out of here before I get distracted again.

“I don’t know,” she says, biting her lip in thought. “I might walk around, get some fresh air. Maybe check out that little bookshop I saw yesterday and grade some math tests.”

I smirk. “Of course you found a bookstore.”

She grins. “Obviously.”

I nod, slipping my watch onto my wrist. “You wanna grab a late lunch later?”

She hesitates, tucking her hair behind her ear. Something’s on her mind that she’s not saying out loud.

“Yeah,” she says softly. “I’d like that.”

I step closer, brushing a kiss to her forehead. “Good. I’ll text you when I’m free.”

And then, before I can get completely sidetracked by the way she looks in my bed, I turn and head out the door.

But as I step into the elevator, I can’t shake the feeling that she’s thinking about something she’s not saying.

And I have a feeling I know exactly what it is.

Because if some dumbass wide receiver making a baby with a one-night stand is a PR disaster, then what the hell is my situation?

And how long before the world finds out?

I stride into the facility, my mind still back in the penthouse with Ivy, wrapped in the warmth of her sleepy voice telling me she’d find ways to stay busy while I was at the press conference.

And I was good until I step into the film room and see Drew standing there, arms crossed, smirking like an asshole.

“So Reagan’s on the warpath. Wants you to talk to Travis.”

“Oh, really.”

“That’s right.” Drew grins. "Because you’re the boss, Coach. The pinnacle of moral character on this team.”

I shoot him a look. "Don’t start."

Drew raises his hands in surrender, but the smirk stays. "Hey, I’m just saying. You’re the one who has to set a pristine example for everyone.”

I glare at him, but before I can respond, my phone buzzes.

Reagan’s calling.

Perfect.

I answer, putting her on speaker on my office phone, already bracing myself. "Yeah?"

"Where the hell are you?" she snaps.

"Just got here."

"Good. Because Travis is about to be the biggest distraction of the season, and we need you to handle it. Get his head in the game, and for the love of God, keep your own personal life out of the headlines, Jackson."

My jaw ticks. "It’s not in the headlines."

"Yet. What’s with you asking Gabi about flights to Davenport?”

Jesus. Drew gives me a smug look.

I run a hand through my hair. "I’ll talk to him."

"See that you do," she says, then hangs up.

I exhale hard, then turn back to Drew, who’s watching me like I’m the most entertaining thing he’s ever seen.

"Don’t say it," I warn.

He grins. "Oh, I wasn’t gonna say anything. Davenport, eh? What’s going on out there? That’s…random.”

Shit. Rookie move. Never put anyone on speakerphone when Drew is around. I just didn’t think my own team was supposed to be my enemy. I grab my coffee and head for the door.

“Drew, you’re supposed to be fucking helpful. Not whatever this is.”

“Whatever, dude. Press conference is in five. What kind of coach jiu-jitsu are you going to pull to get out of this one?”

“You just let me handle that. And maybe spend more time watching film next weekend.” I walk down the hall, my grip tightening around my coffee cup.

What kind of ‘Coach jiu-jitsu’ am I going to pull?

Fuck if I know.

I push open the door to the locker room, where Travis Carter is slumped on a bench, staring at his phone like it personally betrayed him. He looks up when I step in, his jaw tightening.

"Coach," he mutters.

I shut the door behind me. "Alright, kid. You wanna tell me what the fuck is going on?"

He exhales sharply, rubbing a hand down his face. "It’s bullshit, man. I don’t even know if the kid’s mine. She just went to the press first. Didn’t even come to me."

I cross my arms. "And yet, you’re sitting here acting like a deer in headlights instead of getting ahead of this. Why haven’t you put out a statement?"

His shoulders tense. "Because I don’t know what to say. I don’t wanna be out there saying ‘I didn’t do it’ just to look like an asshole if it turns out I did. Yes, we had a…a thing. It was months ago! When I thought I was going to be playing for Miami! I mean, Coach, I used a condom and everything. I was responsible.”

“Birth control is never 100%, buddy.” Don’t I know it?

“Well yeah. I know that now . But still…how do I know what to say?”

I study him for a second. "So what do you want to do?"

He hesitates. "I don’t know."

I exhale, pinching the bridge of my nose. "Look, I don’t give a shit about the media circus. What I care about is your head being in the fucking game. You’re a distraction right now, and we’ve got a tough matchup this week. If you can’t focus, I need to know."

He stiffens. "I’m focused."

"Then act like it." My voice sharpens. "Step up. Handle your shit like a man. Get the test done. Put out a statement saying you’ll take responsibility if it’s yours. And for the love of God, stop looking at your phone like it’s gonna solve this for you. Maybe stay off social media for a while.”

Travis exhales, looking away. "Yeah. Alright. That’s actually a good idea.”

"Good." I clap a hand on his shoulder. "Now get your ass ready for practice."

I turn to leave, but before I step out, he speaks up.

"Coach?"

I glance back.

His brow furrows. "You ever been in this kind of mess?"

A strange, knowing feeling settles in my chest.

I don’t hesitate. “This isn’t about me, buddy. I’m the coach.”

Then I walk out, already bracing myself for whatever PR hell awaits in the press room.

The press room is already buzzing when I step inside. Cameras flashing, reporters talking, everyone smelling blood in the water.

Drew slides up beside me, his smirk barely contained. “Ready to tap dance?”

“Fuck off.” I grab the mic, adjusting it as I settle into my seat. “Alright. Let’s get this over with.”

Kara—the same reporter who was prying into my personal life last time—leans forward, ready to pounce. “Coach Knox, what’s your response to the breaking news about Travis Carter?”

I keep my face unreadable. “Travis is handling the situation privately. We’re focused on football.”

“Come on, Coach,” another reporter presses. “This isn’t just a minor distraction. This is a paternity scandal, and it’s taking over sports media. Are you worried about how it’ll affect the team?”

I level him with a look. “You think one player’s personal life is going to derail this team? We’re professionals. We do our jobs. Buddy, how would you feel if every situation in your early twenties was put through a microscope. Ey?”

That makes him shut up, but Kara doesn’t let up. “What about team culture? Travis is young, impressionable. Are you concerned about the example being set for the future rookies on the Stallions?”

I resist the urge to grind my teeth. “The example being set is that when life throws you shit, you handle it. Travis is stepping up. That’s all I’ll say on the matter. Do you have any questions about next week’s game?”

Another reporter chimes in, shifting the focus. “Coach, is there any truth to the rumors that ownership is frustrated with the negative press?”

I exhale slowly, keeping my temper in check. “Ownership wants what’s best for the team. So do I. And that’s making sure we win games.”

Kara smirks. “So no concern at all?”

I fix her with a steady look. “Concern? No. Annoyance? Yeah. Because instead of talking about our upcoming game, I’m sitting here addressing a player’s personal business. I’m done answering questions about it. Next.”

A few chuckles spread through the room, but Kara’s not done.

Her eyes gleam with something sharper.

“What about the photo of you and the mystery girl? Any comment on that?”

I blink, my grip on the mic tightening.

A photo?

Fuck.

Drew shifts beside me, barely hiding his amusement. I can feel his eyes on me, waiting to see how I handle this.

I clear my throat. “I have dinner all the time. I eat food. Not exactly breaking news.”

Kara smirks. “Sure. But this wasn’t just any dinner, was it? You were spotted looking… cozy. That’s the word they used. Cozy with a brunette. Who was in a dress.”

My jaw tics. I glance at Drew, whose smirk deepens.

“Cozy,” I repeat flatly. “Great journalism. Real hard-hitting stuff.”

A few reporters chuckle, but Kara doesn’t let up.

“So, was it a date? Just asking. The photo is making the rounds on social media and everyone wants to know.”

I pause, my mind running a mile a minute. I could shut this down. Give them nothing. But the problem is, this won’t go away. The more I deny, the harder they’ll push.

I settle on a smirk. “Like I said, I eat food. Maybe next time, I’ll invite the press so you all can analyze my meal choices too.”

A wave of laughter rolls through the room.

Kara leans back, satisfied for now. “Alright, Coach. We’ll let you off the hook—for now.”

I nod. “Appreciate it. Next question.”

But inside?

I’m already pulling out my phone.

Because if a fan saw me with Ivy…

That means she’s on their radar now.

And that?

That fucking worries me.

I can handle the limelight. But she didn’t ask for this.

“Alright, fine,” Frank, one of the Barstool guys asks. “I’ll help you out, Coach. Baltimore’s new quarterback has been putting up one-hundred plus yards of rushing every game this season. What’s the plan to stop him?”

I exhale, shifting gears. “Finally, a football question,” I say, leaning into the mic. “Thompson is a hell of an athlete. Mobile quarterbacks like him add another layer of challenge for the defense, especially when they can extend plays with their legs. We’ve got to stay disciplined, keep our rush lanes tight, and make sure we’re wrapping up on tackles. No room for missed assignments.”

Frank nods, satisfied, jotting something down in his notebook.

Another reporter jumps in. “So you’ll be putting more pressure on the defensive line this week?”

I smirk. “They’re already feeling the pressure. It’s their job.”

More chuckles from the room.

I answer a few more football-related questions, keeping my focus locked in, but my mind?

It’s on Ivy.

As soon as the conference wraps, I stride out, pulling my phone from my pocket.

Drew falls into step beside me, grinning. “So, what are we thinking for next week? A candlelit dinner with your mystery woman? Maybe a sunset picnic? I can call the press, make sure they get a good shot of you feeding her strawberries.”

“Drew.” My voice is low, warning.

He holds up his hands. “Just saying, might as well go all in.”

I ignore him, clicking into my messages.

Jackson: Hey. Just a heads up—people are talking. A photo of us from last night is making the rounds. Are you okay?

Three dots appear. Then disappear.

Fuck.

I scrub a hand over my jaw, already knowing this is going to be a problem.

Drew whistles. “Damn. You got that serious face on. That bad?”

I don’t answer.

Because I already know?—

This is just the beginning.

Once they find out the truth.

This is going to be one hell of a story.

And I don’t think there’s a way to stop it from coming out.