Page 7

Chapter Seven

JACKSON

We’re sitting on Ivy’s small balcony, the late afternoon sun casting a golden glow over Riverbend. The air is cool, but not cold, and the sounds of birds and distant voices filter through the trees. A half-empty bottle of beer is in my hand, and the leftover plates from our impromptu meal are stacked on the small bistro table between us.

“This is, like, amazing,” she says, leaning back in her chair, the light catching in her hair. Her cheeks are flushed, either from the beer or from the heat we shared earlier, and her smile is soft, almost shy. “And tacos were a good call. I’m going to start calling you ‘Chef’ instead of ‘Coach.’”

I take a sip of my beer, watching her over the rim of the bottle. “Thanks,” I say, my voice quieter than I mean it to be. “And yeah. It is.”

She glances at me, her expression shifting slightly, like she’s trying to gauge my reaction. “Am I the only one who’s feeling this?”

I set my beer down, leaning forward so my elbows rest on my knees. “No,” I say, meeting her gaze. “I’m feeling it, too.”

Her smile widens, but there’s a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. “So...can I see you again? I mean, I don’t even have your number.”

“You don’t,” I admit, a small smirk tugging at my lips.

She rolls her eyes and stands, disappearing into the apartment. A moment later, she’s back, holding something small in her hand—a vintage, mini postcard, the edges worn and the image faded. She plops back into her seat and picks up a pen from the table, scribbling something on the back of the card before handing it to me.

“There,” she says. “Now you can’t say I didn’t make an effort.”

I glance down at the postcard. It’s a photo of Riverbend’s main street, probably from the ’60s. Ivy’s number is scrawled in the corner in looping handwriting, with a small doodle of a smiley face beside it.

“This is perfect,” I say, tucking the card into my wallet. “Thanks.”

She grins, shaking her head. “I figured you wouldn’t accept anything boring like a scrap of paper. Or me typing it directly into your phone. That’d be so lame.”

“Oh yeah, it would.”

I lean across the table, brushing her hair back as I kiss her softly. Her lips part slightly, and for a moment, it’s just her—the scent of her, the taste of her, the way her hands curl around my shirt. When I pull back, her eyes are wide, her cheeks flushed again.

“I’m going to see you again, Ivy,” I say, my voice steady. “It’s not a matter of if . It’s just a question of when .”

Her lips twitch, but she bites the corner of her mouth, trying to suppress her smile. “So…when, then?”

I hesitate, my mind already running through the packed schedule waiting for me. “I’ve got a busy May,” I admit. “But I’ll figure it out.”

She exhales a laugh, shaking her head. “This is crazy. Right?”

I nod, but there’s a grin on my face now. “Completely.”

She drops me off at the station just before five. The platform is nearly empty, the late-afternoon sun casting long shadows across the tracks. She parks the car and gets out with me, and we stand together as the train pulls in, its brakes hissing and groaning.

I don’t want to leave. Not yet. Am I crazy for thinking this is anything more than a stolen day in a quiet town with a woman who’s made me feel more in twenty-four hours than most people do in years?

“Thanks for the ride,” I say, leaning against the car for a moment longer than necessary.

“Thanks for everything,” she replies, her voice softer now. The smile on her face is huge. Her hands fidget at her sides before she steps closer, pulling me into a kiss. It’s deeper this time, slower, and when we finally pull apart, I can see the question in her eyes. She wants to know when we’ll see each other again. I don’t have the answer yet. But I know it’s soon.

I glance back one last time as the doors slide closed, and Ivy waves, her smile equal parts hopeful and resigned.

The train ride back to Chicago feels longer than it should.

I lean my head against the window, watching the countryside blur past as I replay the weekend over and over in my head. Ivy’s laughter, the way she looked at me, the way she felt in my arms—every single second is burned into my memory.

The thought of leaving her behind again makes my chest feel tight.

What is this? What are these feelings I’m having? It was just a weekend. Not even. One night. Less than twenty-four hours. Right?

Maybe I’ve pushed any feelings like this down for too long. Or maybe it just took someone like Ivy blowing my world open for me to realize what I’ve been missing.

After falling asleep against the window for a while, I rub a hand down my face, exhaling hard, a realization hitting me. Geez. I don’t even know her last name. How wild is that?

I’ll see her soon. And then I’ll get to know her last name, and many other things about her, too.

As I come to from my nap, the train slows as we approach the station, the city skyline coming into view. I shift in my seat, grabbing my bag, checking my phone. My fingers brush my pocket, muscle memory reaching for my wallet?—

And come up empty.

I freeze.

Pat my pocket again. Then the other one. My bag. My jacket.

Nothing.

“Shit,” I mutter, my pulse spiking. I drop back into my seat, checking under it, around it. My stomach churns. My goddamn wallet is gone.

I sit up straight, my heart pounding. The postcard. Her number.

Fuck.

My breath comes short and sharp as I scan the car, my mind racing. When the hell did I lose it? It must’ve been during one of the stops, when people got on and off. A pickpocket? A mistake? Doesn’t fucking matter—I need it back.

The train screeches to a halt, the doors sliding open. I bolt up, pushing through the crowd, breaking into a sprint toward the front.

"Hey!" I call to the nearest conductor. "My wallet—I think I lost it on the train."

The man barely glances at me as he checks his watch. "Sorry, sir. We’re on a tight schedule. You’ll need to file a report."

I grit my teeth. “Just let me?—”

The doors beep. Then, right in front of me, they slam shut.

“No, no, no?—”

The train starts moving.

I pound a fist against the glass, fury and frustration coiling tight in my chest.

Goddamn it.

I watch helplessly as it pulls away. At this point, it’s anyone’s guess where that number ended up, anyway.

A growl rumbles low in my throat as I run a hand through my hair, gripping tight. This isn’t happening.

I pivot on my heel, my entire body thrumming with anger, only to see Tony standing just outside the station, leaning against the SUV like he hasn’t got a care in the world.

“Hey, Coach,” he says, tossing me a water bottle as I slide into the passenger seat. “How was Riverbend?”

I groan, running a hand through my hair. “Don’t ask.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “That good, huh?”

“No, it was...amazing.” I sigh, leaning back in the seat. “But my wallet’s gone.”

Tony lets out a low whistle as he merges into traffic. “Ouch. Cards, cash...everything?”

“Yeah,” I say, staring out the window. “Including something I can’t replace.”

He glances at me, his expression curious but knowing better than to pry. “You want to cancel your cards before we head to the airport?”

“Yeah,” I mutter, pulling out my phone. But even as I dial, my mind isn’t on the stolen cards or the inconvenience of it all. It’s on her. Ivy. And the postcard with her number, now lost somewhere between Riverbend and Chicago.

I lean my head back against the seat, a sinking feeling settling in my chest. I’d told her I’d see her again. And I will. But it just got a little more difficult.

My stomach is heavy. I feel like a quarterback who just played the game of his life, then blew it by throwing a silly interception in the fourth quarter when we should have been running the ball.

Fucking idiot.

It’s a couple of weeks later when I’m able to make the drive back to Riverbend. In some ways, it feels like chasing a ghost.

I don’t even know what I’m expecting or how I’ll even track her down. I just know that I can’t sit in Chicago like everything’s fine, when I know I might’ve blown the chance to see her again. The memory of her, the way she looked at me on that balcony, the way we connected in a way I’d never experienced before—it all keeps circling in my head, louder than any voice of reason telling me to let it go.

When I pull into her apartment complex, it’s late afternoon. The place looks exactly as I remember—modest, a little worn, but cozy. I knock on the door I think was hers, my heart pounding, but there’s no answer. After a few minutes, I hear footsteps behind me.

“You lost?” a voice grumbles.

I turn to find an older man, graying and stocky, with a clipboard tucked under his arm. He looks at me like I’m some kind of stray.

“No,” I say, clearing my throat. “I’m looking for Ivy. She lives here. Fourth floor, end unit.”

The man raises an eyebrow. “Ivy who?”

I blink, caught off guard. Shit. I still can’t believe I didn’t get her last name.

“Uh... just Ivy,” I say, realizing how ridiculous I sound. “Long dark hair, green eyes... she’s, uh, in her twenties? Voluptuous and very gorgeous.”

The man frowns. “Look, man, I don’t know anyone by that name. I’ve been managing this place for twenty years, and there’s no Ivy living here.”

My stomach drops. “Are you sure? She told me this was her apartment.”

The man shakes his head, frowning deeper now. “Look, son, I don’t know what kind of prank someone’s pulling on you, but I’ve got no tenant by that name. If you’re creeping around here, I’m gonna have to ask you to leave.”

“I’m not creeping,” I snap, trying to keep my frustration in check. “I’m just—I was here and…we—look, forget it. Sorry for the trouble.”

I turn back toward my car, my chest tight with confusion. None of this makes sense. Maybe I remembered it wrong. Maybe.

But I feel like I’m living in some Twilight Zone episode. No one else was around to witness that weekend. That night . Hell, was Ivy even real?

At this point, she has me questioning if she was just a figment of my imagination.

The Tipsy Cactus is my last stop after the grocery store, the coffee shop, and a long walk at the Whispering Pines. By the time I walk in, I’m feeling the weight of the day pressing down on me.

It’s quieter now, the Cinco de Mayo decorations long gone, just a couple of regulars nursing beers at the bar. With college out of session, the place has a completely different vibe—more laid-back, almost sleepy.

Behind the counter, an older man polishes a glass with slow, practiced movements. His thick, weathered hands make easy work of the rag, moving in rhythmic circles.

His face is lined, creased at the corners of his eyes in a way that suggests a lifetime of laughter—but also hard-earned wisdom. A well-groomed, salt-and-pepper beard frames his strong jaw, and his eyes—a sharp, assessing blue—flick up as I approach.

“Can I help you?” he asks, his voice a low, easy rumble, touched with the rasp of someone who’s spent years talking over bar noise.

“I’m looking for someone,” I say, glancing around like she might just magically appear. “Her name is Ivy. She came in here on Cinco de Mayo. We met that night.”

The man squints at me, his brow furrowing. “Ivy? Don’t think I know anyone by that name.”

“She’s local,” I say, my voice tightening. “Long dark hair, light green eyes, about this tall—” I hold my hand up. “She came in with her friend.”

He shakes his head, setting the glass down. “Son, I’ve lived here my whole life. If there’s an Ivy running around Riverbend, I’d know about it.”

I stare at him, the words not quite sinking in. “You’re sure?”

He gives me a sympathetic look, leaning on the counter. “You really fell for this girl, didn’t you?”

The question catches me off guard. I blink, swallowing hard. “Yeah,” I admit quietly. “I did.”

The old man chuckles softly, shaking his head. “Well, sometimes, you’ve got to let something go, Son. God’s timing is funny. If something’s meant to be, it’ll be.”

I nod, but his words settle uneasily in my chest. I can’t just let it go. Not like this. Ivy is real. I know she is. And yet, every step I’ve taken today feels like I’m chasing smoke.

Back in the car, I sit for a moment, gripping the wheel, trying to piece it all together. Did she lie to me? Was I just some fling to her? Or is there something else going on here—something I don’t understand?

The buzz of my phone pulls me out of my thoughts. It’s Tony.

“Coach, you good?” he asks. “You’re supposed to call the GM back about the Chicago Stallions’ offer.”

Right. The offer. Head coach of the Chicago Stallions—a dream job, the culmination of everything I’ve worked for. But right now, it feels hollow, like an echo bouncing off the walls of my mind. I want to be excited. I should be excited. All I can think about is her. This is so wild. This isn’t me . I’m married to football anyway.

“Yeah,” I say, my voice flat. “I’ll call her.” Reagan Connelly, the Stallions general manager, has been courting me for months about this position so it’s not exactly a surprise that she just offered it to me.

“You sure? You don’t sound so sure.”

I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “I just need a minute.”

Tony doesn’t press, and I hang up, staring at the empty street ahead of me. The idea of letting Ivy go feels impossible, but for the first time, I wonder if I’ll ever see her again. If God’s timing is funny, then maybe He’s got one hell of a sense of humor.

I start the car and drive, leaving Riverbend behind. But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m leaving a piece of myself behind, too.

I pass her apartment one more time, my grip tightening on the wheel. Then, almost without thinking, I swing by her dream house.

It looks different in the daylight.

The soft glow of the porch light is gone, replaced by the crisp, unforgiving brightness of the afternoon sun. The paint isn’t as pristine as it seemed that night. The yard looks a little overgrown. The shutters could use a fresh coat.

But somehow, it only makes the place feel more real.

Less like a fantasy. More like a reality. One that wouldn’t be easy, but that would be worth the work you put into it.

More like a home.

Like a place where something lasting could grow.

The bartender’s words echo in my mind.

God’s Timing.

Screw that.

I win championships for a reason.

And that reason is that I make things happen. I don’t wait for some special moment to make my move—a moment that inevitably never comes.

As I’ve told my players, there are the waiters, and there are the takers. We take what’s ours on the field.

But this is one that I guess I’m just going to let go.

If she doesn’t want me to find her, then I guess there’s nothing I can do.

But as I pull onto the highway that evening, I can’t stop the feeling of dread that keeps creeping up in my gut. Ivy—figment of my imagination or not—is a tough one to let go.