Page 227 of The Coach

“Wait,” the young woman murmurs, slowing to a stop. She tugs her boyfriend toward the old wooden bench beneath the oak tree, weathered but still sturdy after all these years.

He glances at her, confused. “What is it?”

She gestures toward the brass plaque on the back of the bench. “I just—look.”

He steps closer, reading the engraving out loud.In honor of Evelyn and George Carter. Fifty-seven years of love, laughter, and a life well lived together.

There’s a pause, then his voice softens as he continues reading the next part.

This land was set to be sold, but in 2060, Jackson and Ivy Knox refused to let it go. They saved this place, believing love like Evelyn and George’s deserved to be remembered. In dedication to all the great loves—the ones that stand the test of time. Enjoy your walk in the woods :)

The young woman exhales slowly, her fingers brushing over the metal letters. “Wow.”

Her boyfriend smiles, shaking his head. “Ivy and Jackson Knox. Iknowthat name—he was the head coach of the Stallions forever ago, wasn’t he? And then he coached the local college team, like forever?”

She nods. “Yeah, but more than that…they were justone of thosecouples, you know? Everyone in town knew their story. They were together for decades. Like—real love.” She tilts her head, reading over the words again. “It’s kind of incredible. They must have really believed in this place. And in love like this.”

He studies her for a moment, then sits down on the bench, tugging her hand so she follows. “Think that kind of love still exists?” he asks, his tone teasing, but there’s something more there. Something unspoken. “It seems like finding it is so hard these days.”

She huffs a laugh, shaking her head. “I don’t know. I’d like to believe it does. But maybe itisrare.”

He leans back, glancing up at the sky as the setting sun casts a warm glow over the field. “I mean, if it’s real, it’s probably worth waiting for, right?”

She glances at him, her heart catching on something in his words. Something big. Something terrifying.

And something shewants.

“Yeah,” she whispers, squeezing his hand. “I think it is.”

A breeze rustles the leaves overhead, the old oak tree swaying gently, standing as it has for over a century. The sun dips lower, painting the sky in hues of amber and pink, just like it always has.

And beneath it, the bench sits, watching.

Holding stories.

Remembering love.

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