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Chapter Thirty-Two

JACKSON

The sky is barely sparking with light on Monday morning as I slide into the passenger seat of Ivy’s car, my duffel bag tossed in the back. The quiet purr of the engine fills the silence between us as she pulls out of her driveway, navigating the empty streets of Riverbend.

Neither of us speaks at first. There’s too much unspoken. Too much hanging in the air between us.

She’s taking me to the train station before school—before she has to slip back into her normal life, before I have to put on my game face and go back to my own. But this morning, with the world still waking up around us, it feels like we exist in some kind of in-between space.

I glance over at her. Her fingers grip the steering wheel tightly, her jaw set. I can tell she’s holding something back.

“You okay?” I ask, my voice low.

She exhales, keeping her eyes on the road. “Yeah.” Then, after a beat, she adds, “I just…I hate this part.”

I reach over, covering her hand with mine. “Me too.”

The train station comes into view way too soon. My chest tightens. I thought I’d be ready for this. Thought I’d just get on that train, head back to Chicago, lock myself into game mode.

But as she pulls into a parking spot and shifts the car into park, I realize I’m not ready at all.

She turns toward me, finally looking me in the eye. “You’re gonna be great this weekend.”

I let out a rough chuckle. “Yeah? You got insider knowledge on that?”

Her lips curve into a small smile. “I just know. You always pull through when it matters.”

My throat tightens. I want to tell her she’s the one who matters. That football, for the first time in my life, isn’t the only thing I’m thinking about.

But I don’t.

Instead, I lift a hand, brushing my thumb along her jaw, memorizing the softness of her skin.

“You’ll watch?” I ask.

Her brow furrows. “Of course I’ll watch.”

“I mean all of it. Not just the game. The pregame, the interviews, everything.”

She lets out a breathy laugh, rolling her eyes. “Yes, Jackson. I’ll watch every second.”

It’s stupid, but I needed to hear that. I nod, gripping the door handle, but I don’t move.

She shifts in her seat, searching my face. “What is it?”

I shake my head. “Nothing.” But it’s everything.

Finally, I push the door open. She follows, stepping out into the cold morning air with me. I sling my bag over my shoulder, and before I can second-guess myself, I pull her into me, holding on tight.

Her arms wrap around my waist, her face pressing into my chest. She takes a shaky breath.

“Be safe, okay?” she whispers.

I close my eyes. “Always.”

The train’s whistle sounds in the distance.

I let go. Walk backward toward the platform. Try to burn the image of her into my brain—the way she looks standing there, bathed in early morning light, watching me leave.

She lifts a hand in a small wave, biting her lip.

I turn. Keep walking. Keep moving.

I step onto the train, my bag slung over my shoulder, my heart hammering harder than it ever has before a damn game.

The conductor calls for final boarding.

I find my seat, exhaling sharply, running a hand through my hair.

And then, through the window, I see her.

Ivy.

Standing there on the platform, arms wrapped around herself, the wind teasing at her hair.

She wipes at her cheek.

Is she crying?

Something cracks inside my chest.

What the hell is the matter with me?

I shoot up from my seat. “Hey!” I bark at the conductor. “Hold the train.”

The guy looks at me like I’m insane. “Sir, we’re on a schedule. We can’t just?—”

“Yeah? Well, I’m Jackson fucking Knox, and you better stop this train from going.”

The man’s eyes widen. “Wait… Coach Jackson Knox?”

“That’s right. And if you don’t stop this goddamn train, I’ll make sure you’re watching Stallions games from the unemployment line.”

I hate to be an asshole, but sometimes you have to play the coach card.

The guy sighs, mutters something about lovesick athletes , and steps outside, signaling the crew.

The train slows.

And I run .

Out onto the platform.

Straight to her.

Ivy gasps as I grab her, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her in tight.

“Jackson, what are you?—”

I don’t let her finish.

I kiss her.

Hard. Desperate. Like she’s the only thing keeping me breathing.

She melts into me, her hands sliding up to cup my face, fingers threading into my hair.

I pull back, my forehead pressed against hers, breathing her in.

“I can’t believe I haven’t said it yet,” I rasp.

Her eyes flick up to mine, wide, searching. “Said what?”

I grip her jaw, making sure she’s looking right at me.

“I love you, baby,” I whisper, voice thick. “I love you, Ivy. You understand?”

Her breath catches.

Her hands tighten on my collar. She starts to tear up.

And then?

Then, she smiles .

A slow, breathtaking smile that wrecks me.

“I understand,” she whispers back.

The conductor clears his throat. “Uh, Coach? We gotta go.”

I press one last, lingering kiss to her lips.

“I’ll see you soon,” I murmur.

I force myself to step back.

Climb onto the train.

Take my seat.

And as the train pulls away, Ivy stands there, watching me go.

Hand pressed to her lips.

Eyes shining.

And for the first time in my entire life?

I think I’d actually rather be with a woman—with Ivy—than coaching.

“Well, Jackson. What the actual hell are we going to do now?”

Reagan is waiting for me in my office Monday morning when I arrive, arms crossed, shaking her head like a disappointed school teacher.

“You’re supposed to be the example for this team,” she says. “The leader. The one keeping this pack of unruly alpha personalities of men in line. And yet, here we are, with every sports commentator in the country talking about you. And not just you—some small-town woman you ‘knocked up.’”

Welp. The proverbial cat is out of the bag after this weekend.

Way out.

Turns out, taking a romantic stroll through Ivy’s town wasn’t exactly incognito.

Well, the stroll might have been. But attending the Fall fest? Not so much.

Now there’s viral content everywhere. Me throwing a pie. Me taking photos with random school children from Riverbend. Me kissing Ivy Bennett on a train platform.

Hey, what are you gonna do? It’s not like we could hide forever.

I scoff, leaning back in my chair. “It’s not like that. I didn’t knock her up. ” I even throw in air quotes for effect.

Reagan’s eyebrows shoot up. “Oh? Then what is it like, Jackson? Enlighten me. Is she not pregnant? Because I think I see a pretty unmistakable baby bump.” She zooms in on one of the photos someone posted from this weekend and shows it to me, for effect.

“She is pregnant,” I say, sitting forward. “But it’s not some careless fling. I really like her. Hell, I love her. It just… happened in an unorthodox way.”

Reagan pinches the bridge of her nose, exhaling sharply. “‘Unorthodox.’ That’s what we’re going with? That’s your PR spin?”

“If I may,” I say, clearing my throat, doing my best to look diplomatic, “you’d know a thing or two about unorthodox love stories, wouldn’t you? First female GM in NFL history, married to the franchise’s star quarterback. Hey, remind me, what’s H.R.’s policy on upper management sleeping with players?”

She lifts a finger. “This isn’t about me, Jackson. And we’re married.” She flashes her ring.

I nod solemnly. “Right, right. Of course. That makes it totally different. My bad.”

“This is about you ,” she continues, pacing in front of my desk. “Your ability to keep this team on track. We’re under a microscope. Every move you make reflects on all of us. And if the players start to doubt your leadership…”

I flash my best first-place grin. “We’ve got a winning record. We’re leading the division.”

She levels me with a look. “That’s not enough. You know what I want this year. What everyone wants. What the city needs. ”

“A Super Bowl victory,” I say, sighing. “I know .”

She nods. “Then stop giving them reasons to doubt you.”

I rub my jaw, letting that settle.

Then she drops the real bomb.

“Drew’s been in my ear.”

I frown. “About what?”

“He thinks he could do a better job than you.”

I sit up straighter. “Are you serious ?”

She nods. “He’s been chirping , Jackson. Saying you’re ‘distracted.’ That your heart’s not in it .”

My jaw tightens.

I always knew Drew was someone who fought dirty.

But that is not happening.

I lean forward, resting my forearms on my desk.

“Reagan,” I say, my voice even. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’ve got my priorities straight.”

She studies me for a long moment.

Then, with a slight nod, she steps back toward the door.

“I sure as hell hope so, Jackson.”

She leaves, shutting the door behind her.

I exhale, dragging a hand through my hair.

Drew thinks he can do a better job?

Let him try.

I’ve never been more locked in.

The steakhouse is loud, the energy buzzing, but I’m barely paying attention. This dinner was mandatory—team bonding and all that—but I’ve got about a million other things I’d rather be doing. Like calling Ivy. Like catching a flight back to Riverbend and saying fuck it to everything else.

Instead, I’m stuck here, surrounded by a group of guys who are watching me way too closely.

“So, Coach,” Travis Carter says, leaning back in his chair with a cocky grin. “You got a secret family or what?”

The whole table erupts into laughter.

I lift my beer to my lips, taking a slow sip before answering. “You got a death wish, Carter?”

More laughter. More knowing looks.

Dallas Connelly shakes his head. “Come on, man. You gotta know people are talking. First, my boy here”—he claps Travis on the shoulder—“gets blasted for knocking someone up. And now? Our fearless leader’s got a mystery woman showing up in the VIP box?”

Travis leans in. “Kinda takes the heat off me, not gonna lie. Appreciate that, Coach.”

I shoot him a glare. “You can still run sprints at practice tomorrow.”

He holds up his hands, laughing. “Shutting up now.”

Drew, the ever-present pain in my ass, smirks. “So, for real, is she your girl? Or is this just another Stallions PR nightmare?”

I grip my beer a little tighter.

Because that question? It gets under my skin.

Because Ivy is mine. She might not fully realize it yet. But she is.

Instead of answering, I check my phone under the table.

A text from Ivy.

Ivy: Hey. Hope you’re okay. Looks like…ah…we’re blowing up. Sorry.

I let out a slow breath, my body relaxing slightly.

I type back:

Me: Yeah, baby. Just dealing with dumbasses. Don’t be sorry. We have nothing to hide.

I glance up and see Drew watching me.

“Everything good?” he asks, voice casual.

I down the rest of my beer. “Everything’s great.”

And even though I should be focused on my team, on this season, on winning...

I’m already counting down the days until I see her again.