Page 177 of The Coach

“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’tknock 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.

“Sheispregnant,” 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 ittotallydifferent. My bad.”

“This is aboutyou,” 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 onallof 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. Youknowwhat I want this year. What everyone wants. What the cityneeds.”

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

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

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