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“When I first started with you, you couldn’t get through those drills, and now look at you. I told you then, you’re stronger than you think,” he says, his gaze sweeping over the group. “And guess what? You’re still stronger than you think. I see it in each of you. I see talent. Possibility. But strength? Strength comes from digging deep. From pushing through when it’s hard, when you want to quit. It’s not about being perfect, it’s about giving more than you thought you could. And not just for yourself, but for everyone who needs it.”

His voice is rich with conviction, and I feel it in my chest, his words resonating far beyond the girls on the field. He’s not just talking to them—he’s talking to himself. To me. To anyone willing to listen.

“It’s a bright, wild world out there,” he continues, his expression softening. “The more you challenge yourself, the more you’ll get to play in it. And I can’t wait to see what you do next.”

The girls nod, their eyes wide and attentive. Even the moms seem captivated, their chatter replaced with quiet reflection.

I press a hand to my chest, my heart swelling as I watch him. He’s not just healing—he’s growing. And as I sit there, the weight of his words lingering in the air, I know one thing for sure; Nick Hutton isn’t just teaching those girls how to play soccer.

He’s teaching all of us how to live.

THIRTY-SIX

Nick

Having Charlie in the bleachers feels like having a secret weapon. Every time I glance her way, she’s there, radiating warmth with that easy, sunlit smile of hers. Her hair is pulled back into one of those messy buns that women somehow manage to make look effortlessly beautiful, a few strands framing her face in just the right way. The sun catches the freckles dusted across her nose and cheeks, and my chest tightens in that bittersweet, too-good-to-be-true kind of way. She’s holding my phone steady, filming practice, but her eyes—those deep, soulful brown eyes—follow me as much as the camera does.

It’s distracting in the best way possible.

Practice wraps up, and the girls are flushed and sweaty, their laughter ringing across the field. They swarm around me, chattering about who scored the most goals in the scrimmage, who tripped who (by accident, they swear), and who’s going to win the next game. Their energy is contagious.

As the last girl jogs off toward her mom, I turn back to Charlie. She’s standing now, brushing crumbs of something off her floral shorts. Her tank top clings to her in the humidity, and her hair is starting to escape its bun, little curls sticking to her temples. She looks…

God, she looks like every dream I’ve ever dared to have.

“You’re good with them,” she says as I approach, her voice soft but brimming with admiration. “It’s like you were made for this.”

I huff a laugh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Right. All that time in boot camp, the Marine Corps, and college ROTC… all building up to the moment I could coach a bunch of preteens in shin guards.”

Charlie rolls her eyes and punches my arm, light and playful, but the jolt of her touch sends a current through my skin. “You know what I mean. Not everyone’s built to lead, Nick. You are. Those girls look at you like you hung the moon.”

I glance down at her, and for a moment, I forget how to breathe. She’s so close, so effortlessly radiant. The scent of her shampoo—something citrusy with a hint of lavender—floats up, grounding me and intoxicating me all at once.

Her gaze locks onto mine, and I feel like a puzzle piece snapping into place.

“See, this is the point where I’d normally ask you to dinner,” she says, breaking the moment, her tone light and teasing. “You cooked for me on our first date, and I’d like to return the favor. But considering I don’t actually have a place of my own yet, and as much as I love Angela, Garrett, and Elise, a double date with them isn’t high on my list.”

She leans closer, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Too many naughty things I want to do to you.”

My brain short-circuits. “Like what?” I counter, my voice low.

Before she can answer, one of the moms makes her way over, and I straighten reflexively, biting back the grin threatening to split my face. Charlie gives me a look that promises I’ll get my answer later.

“Thank you for what you said to the girls,” the mom says, her voice tinged with nervousness. “Flora’s really blossomed since you started coaching. And not just on the field. She did so well on her science project, quoting your advice the whole way, that she’s been asked to enter it into the district science fair.”

I rub a hand over the back of my neck, warmth creeping up my cheeks. “She’s a smart kid. You’ve done well with her,” I say, and Flora’s mom blushes, stammers a thank you, and hurries off to collect her daughter.

Charlie waits until she’s out of earshot before nudging me with her elbow. “See? You make a difference.”

“About tonight,” I say, steering us back to the moment. “I’ll happily take you up on your offer.”

“Which one?” She looks confused. “The one where I invite you to the place I don’t have to cook for you in my imaginary kitchen? Or the one where we have an awkward double date with my brother, your cousin, and a baby with a vendetta against sleep?”

“I was thinking more like the one where we go shopping for ingredients, cook together at my house, and then you can tell me all about the naughty things you want to do to me… and then… you know… we do them.”

Charlie looks up at me with those damn eyes and something inside me just melts. “You have yourself a deal.”

I pause again, searching the moment for discomfort and there just isn’t any. Charlie is easy. And wonderful.

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