Page 17 of Scoring with the Coach's Daughter

Sam hesitates, her eyes quickly glance at me, then she stands topick up our plates.

“We’ll see,” she smiles.

It’s not a yes, but it’s not a no either.

And for now, it’s enough.

6

SAMANTHA

Today isanother day and Jake is still here. He booked into the inn with no checkout date. I wonder how long he’ll stay.

My thoughts are interrupted by Ellie’s voice as it rings out from the front hallway loud enough to echo through the entire bed and breakfast. “Aunt Sam! Jake’s here!”

My stomach does an ungraceful flip at the mention of his name, but before I can respond, Ellie dashes into the sitting room like a whirlwind as I watch her curls fly.

“I need the football!” she announces, her little hands already rummaging through the basket where we keep a few of her toys for guests on rainy days.

Her curls bounce with every determined move as she tosses aside crayons and coloring books in her frantic search. “Got it!” she yells triumphantly, holding up the small leather football she has from one of my father’s visits. Without another word, she sprints back out toward the foyer, leaving me no time to argue.

“Ellie,” I say, setting down the guest ledger I’ve been updating. “What are you?—”

By the time I reach her, she’s already standing in the middleof the entryway, tossing the ball up and catching it with both hands. I hear the rapid thud of little feet against the hardwood floors, and Ellie barrels into the foyer like a hurricane.

“Ellie, slow down,” I say, watching her scatter her belongings everywhere. “What are you doing?”

“I have to show Jake my new throw!” she says, barely glancing at me as she digs deeper into the basket.

“You don’t have to do that now,” I argue, but she’s already pulled the small leather football free, holding it above her head like a trophy.

“Ellie, no,” I say firmly, planting my hands on my hips. “Not in here. Take it outside.”

“But I need to practice for Jake!” she protests, tossing the ball again with an exaggerated spin.

“Ellie,” I warn, my voice sharper this time, “I’m serious. If you want to play, go?—”

The sound of shattering glass cuts me off.

My breath catches as I watch the vase of fresh flowers from the front desk tip over, the delicate stems scattering in a puddle of water, and shards too numerous to count lay on the floor.

Ellie’s eyes are wide, her hands flying to her mouth as she moans, “Uh-oh.” She looks at me with hooded eyes.

I press my fingers to my mouth to refrain from yelling. I know I should be laxer, but it goes against my need to be perfect.

“Ellie,” I snap, but before I can get another word out, I hear shoes on the stairs. I instinctively know it’s Jake. He’s the last person I want to see this mess.

He steps inside, his tall frame somehow making the foyer feel smaller. His dark eyes sweep over the scene—the broken vase, Ellie’s guilty expression, my frazzled stance—and the corner of his mouth twitches in amusement.

“Looks like I missed the party,” he jokes. He kneels and picks up the large pieces of glass, gathering them in his hand.

Ellie wastes no time to join him. “Jake! I didn’t do as Aunt Sam said, and I broke it,” she says, clutching the football. “I’ve been practicing my throw! You missed it.”

“I can see that,” Jake replies, meeting her gaze.

“Ellie,” I say, angrily. “Maybe you can take it outside.”

Ellie nods, “Okay,” she groans with disappointment. But she turns on her heels and she darts to the door with the ball tucked under her arm like a pro.

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