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Chapter Thirty-Four

JACKSON

The tires eat up the road, the speedometer needle creeping past 90. I should slow down—I know that. But I can’t. Not when she sounded like that on the phone. Not when every instinct in me is screaming to get to her.

I grip the wheel tighter, my pulse pounding as I hit the long stretch of highway cutting through the endless Illinois cornfields. The sky is turning dusky purple, the sun melting into the fields, but I barely see it.

My phone is already ringing through my car’s Bluetooth.

“Hello?” My dad’s voice comes through, gruff and familiar.

I exhale sharply. Why the fuck did I call him?

“Hey, old man.”

A pause. Then, a knowing sigh. “What’s wrong?”

That’s the thing about my dad—he can read me like a damn playbook. He knows about the kid. And about Ivy.

I drag a hand down my face. “Nothin’s wrong, exactly. Just…I don’t know.” I grip the wheel, my jaw ticking. “I think I’m moving to Riverbend.”

A beat of silence. Then, “Shit.”

I bark out a laugh. “Yeah. That about sums it up.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

“Jesus Christ, Jackson. You’ve been in Chicago, what? Five months? You’re just gonna uproot everything?”

“Ivy’s there,” I say simply, like that explains everything. Because it fucking does.

My dad exhales long and slow. “Damn, son. She must be one hell of a woman.”

“She is, Dad. She really fucking is.”

Silence. Then—“Then what the hell are you talking to me for? Go get your girl.”

I nod, gripping the wheel tighter. “That’s the plan.”

And then—flashing red and blue lights in my rearview.

Shit.

“Gotta go, Dad. Good talk.”

I slow, pulling off onto the side of the road, rolling down my window as the officer steps up to my car. He’s mid-twenties, maybe. Clean-cut, with a knowing smirk already on his face.

“Well, well,” he drawls. “Jackson Knox, head coach of the Stallions. What brings you tearing ass through my county?”

I sigh, rubbing my jaw. “Urgent business.”

The cop chuckles, shaking his head. “Urgent, huh? You were going 95 in a 65.”

I mutter a curse under my breath. “Look, man, I?—”

He holds up a hand, cutting me off. “License, registration, and proof of insurance, please.”

I pull my wallet from the center console, flipping it open and handing over my license while reaching for the glove box. My registration and insurance slip out in a crumpled mess, and I smooth them before passing them over.

The officer studies them, then walks back to his cruiser. I watch in my mirror as he punches my details into his computer. A few long minutes later, he returns, holding a notepad.

“Here’s what we’re gonna do,” he says, jotting something down. “I’m giving you a ticket.” He rips off the slip and hands it to me.

I glance at the court date.

February 12th.

I frown. “This is for?—”

The cop smirks. “If you win the Super Bowl this year, you can rip it up and not report.”

“You’re serious?”

“Dead serious.”

I blink. Then, despite myself, I laugh. “And if I don’t?”

“Then you show up to court and pay the damn fine and whatever else comes your way. And please slow the fuck down the rest of the way to Riverbend.”

I shake my head, tucking the ticket into my visor. “Fair enough.”

The cop steps back, a grin slowly crossing his face. “You can’t win the game if you crash before you get there.”

I nod. “Appreciate it.”

But before I’m about to pull back onto the road, an idea strikes me.

Because I need a better plan.

What is my plan, exactly, anyway? Ask Ivy if I could move into her tiny apartment with her and our baby?

With a quick Zillow search, I find a certain house that’s still on the market.

May might be last spring at this point, but I remember that night like it was yesterday.

Walking past that huge house with Ivy.

Her saying she wanted to have four kids and fill out her dream house.

You know what?

I like Ivy’s dream.

And I think it might be my dream, too, if we can get past this PR nightmare that’s currently happening.

The real estate agent’s phone number rings on the bluetooth as pull back onto the road—driving a little slower as some rain drops hit my windshield—I can’t help but smile.

Because the only thing better than winning the Super Bowl?

Winning her.