Page 40

Chapter Forty

IVY

I step out of the hotel, sunglasses shielding my tired eyes, my dress swishing around my legs in the Miami heat.

Jackson left hours ago for pre-game meetings, but not before kissing me breathless and making me promise to have fun today.

Fun? With my entire life being dissected on national television?

Yeah. Right.

I spot Cassie and Reagan at a swanky rooftop brunch spot, perched at a table with an incredible ocean view.

Cassie is aggressively stirring her mimosa.

Reagan, cool as ever, is sipping hers like nothing phases her.

As soon as I sit down, Cassie levels me with a look.

“Well?” she demands.

I blink. “Well, what?”

She gestures wildly. “Are you ready to be America’s Most Talked About Baby Mama?”

I groan, grabbing my orange juice and downing half of it.

Reagan raises a brow. “So, did you and Jackson actually have a plan for when this got out of control? Or were you just gonna wing it?”

I shrink in my seat. “I mean…winging it was kind of the plan.”

Cassie chokes on her drink. “Jesus Christ, Ivy.”

Reagan sighs, setting down her glass. “Alright, damage control. We need to get ahead of the story.”

“Or,” Cassie interjects, “Jackson could just say ‘fuck it’ and own it.”

Reagan side-eyes her. “I’d like to see that press conference.”

Cassie grins. “Oh, you know he’d be hot as hell shutting everyone down.”

I blush, biting my lip. Because yeah.

He really would.

Reagan leans forward. “So, what’s the move, Ivy?”

I chew my lip, staring down at my untouched croissant.

What is the move?

Because Jackson and I?

We’re not just some scandal.

We’re real. And the media is running wild with our story, treating us like we’re some modern day Scarlet Letter.

I exhale sharply.

“I need to talk to Jackson first.”

Reagan nods. “Good. But make it quick. This thing is snowballing.”

Cassie smirks. “Either way, I hope you’re ready, babe. Because by tonight?”

She leans back, sipping her mimosa.

“Everyone in America is gonna know exactly who you are.”

I thought I was prepared for today.

I really did.

But as I sit in the VIP suite, Cassie and Reagan on either side of me, sipping on sparkling water while cameras zoom in on Jackson down on the field…

I feel every single person’s eyes on me.

I swallow hard, trying to focus on the game.

Jackson is locked in—headset on, pacing the sidelines, calling plays with his usual intensity.

But the tension around me? Suffocating.

The whispers. The side glances. The fact that Reagan, who is usually unshakable, has her jaw tight and shoulders squared.

Something is coming.

And then?

A sharply dressed woman—blonde bob, red lipstick, designer suit that probably costs more than my rent—steps into the suite and makes a beeline for Reagan.

Cassie nudges me. “Uh-oh.”

Reagan turns, her expression unreadable. “Margo.”

Margo. As in Margo Stratton, the Stallions’ head of public relations.

She barely acknowledges Cassie or me, instead focusing on Reagan.

“We need to talk.”

Reagan sips her champagne, unfazed. “We’re talking now.”

Margo glances at me, then back at Reagan.

“In private.”

Cassie leans forward. “Oh, hell no. If this is about Ivy, you can say it in front of us.”

Margo tightens her lips, clearly annoyed. But she sighs and lowers her voice.

“Reagan, we have a situation. The story about Jackson and his… relationship ”—her gaze flicks toward me—“has officially gone national to a degree which, well, it’s becoming a nationwide issue. Sports networks, tabloids, social media—everyone’s talking. And league ownership is concerned about the distraction this is causing.”

Reagan raises an unimpressed brow. “Oh. Ownership ?”

Reagan’s family is the majority owner of the team.

“It’s not just your family, Rea,” she says.

“Okay. And?”

Margo exhales sharply. “And they want to get ahead of it. We need to be strategic. We can’t have another scandal this season.”

I shift in my seat, my stomach twisting. I hate that she’s talking about me like I’m not even there. “I’m not a scandal. ”

Margo finally looks at me. “No offense, Ivy, but this isn’t just about you. It’s about optics. About the Stallions’ brand.”

Cassie scoffs. “Oh, give me a break.”

Margo continues, ignoring her. “We need a statement. An official one. Preferably before the post-game press conference.”

Reagan sets her glass down. “And you think I’m going to tell Jackson to do that?”

Margo folds her arms. “You’re his boss, Reagan.”

Reagan leans back, unbothered. “I’m also married to his quarterback.”

Margo narrows her eyes. “And that worked out great for you, huh?”

Cassie gasps. “Oh, you know what? Bless your heart, Margo. Why are you being so combative?”

Reagan’s expression doesn’t change. But there’s something deadly in her gaze.

“Margo, let me make something very clear,” Reagan says. “Jackson Knox is leading this team to a winning record. He has the full support of the front office. And unless ownership would like to lose their head coach over something as stupid as telling him how to manage his personal life, I’d suggest backing the hell off.”

Margo’s jaw tightens.

“Fine,” she snaps. “But if this blows up worse than it already has? It’s on him. Not on me.”

She turns on her heel and stalks out.

I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.

Cassie grabs my hand. “You okay?”

I nod slowly. “Yeah. But I don’t want to be a distraction to him, Cassie.”

Reagan scoffs. “You’re not. The media is. And Margo’s just trying to cover her own ass. But guess what? She’s on the wrong side here. It’s clear as day that you two are the real deal. And Jackson hates making media statements about his personal life to set the record straight. But you two are going to have to suck it up and be proactive on this one.”

I look back down at the field. At Jackson.

He’s still locked in. Still focused.

But if I know him?

If he sees what’s being said?

This isn’t over.