Page 19 of Scoring with the Coach's Daughter

As we step outside together, the weight in my chest feels a little lighter, and I can’t help but wonder if maybe—just maybe—he is right.

I walk the porch, overseeing Ellie in the yard, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with exaggeratedflair. She spots us as we step onto the porch, her face lighting up like a summer sunrise.

“Jake! Watch me” she yells, throwing the ball with all her might. It wobbles slightly in the air but lands squarely in Jake’s hands.

“Nice throw, kiddo,” he says, joining her as he dives for her terrible short toss and gently tossing it back to her with an easy flick of his wrist.

Ellie squeals with delight, running to catch it.

I lean against the porch railing, watching as Jake and Ellie toss the ball back and forth. There’s an ease between them that I can’t help but envy—a natural rhythm that I’ve never quite managed to find.

“She’s really good,” Jake says, glancing over his shoulder at me.

“She’s determined,” I reply, a smile tugging at my lips.

“She gets that from you,” he says, and there’s something in his tone—something warm and genuine—that makes my chest tighten.

For a moment, I let myself imagine what it would be like if this were normal. If Jake were part of our lives, throwing the ball with Ellie on lazy Sunday afternoons, sharing quiet conversations on the porch while she played in the yard.

But that’s not reality. Jake isn’t part of our lives. He’s just... passing through.

“Thanks for helping with the vase,” I say, changing the subject. “Will you keep an eye on her? I have to check on the restaurant.”

“Sure,” he replies, turning back to Ellie. “Throw it long,” he coaches.

He’s great with Ellie.

I wonder how long he plans to stay.

The afternoon sun pours over the Dragonfly Inn, bathingeverything in a golden warmth that should’ve calmed me. But it didn’t. Not with Jake sitting across from me on the porch, looking entirely too comfortable, like he’d always belonged here. He’s a man who can fit into a room, and any elaborate fundraiser seamlessly. He wears well as the day has been filled with constant engagement and conversations from my little Peanut, a nickname I gave Ellie when she was born.

I sip my iced tea, watching Ellie dart around the yard, her curls bouncing as she chases something only she can see. I love watching her play, and how her little laugh floats on the breeze like music. But today, the sound twists something in my chest.

Jake leans back in the chair across from me, his long legs stretched out, his shirt—pulled taut over his chest. He rubbed his knee absently, the faintest wince crossing his face before he caught me staring.

“You okay?” I ask, nodding toward his leg.

He shrugs, flashing me that easy grin that comes so naturally to him. “Better. Physical therapy’s helping.”

“That’s good,” I said quickly, looking away before my thoughts could spiral into the dangerous sexual ones that have plagued my thoughts since he arrived. It’s as if his presence reminds me of the things I’ve given up. His voice commands my presence, and his body and his looks stroke my libido.

“Dr. Reid’s got me on a solid plan—stretching, low-impact work, lots of strengthening exercises. It’s boring as hell, but it’s working.” He flexes his knee a little, as if testing it. “If everything keeps going this way, I’ll be back with the team soon.”

The words hit me harder than I expected— like someone had taken the chair out from under me. He’ll be back with the team. Soon. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. Of course, he’ll leave. Jake Rivers doesn’t belong in Cherry Point, not long-term, anyway. I’m a realist and even though he fits into any situation, I can’t picture him heresettling down here.

I nod, forcing a smile. “That’s great. You must be looking forward to it.”

“I am,” he says, his grin widening. “I’ve missed it—the guys, the game. It’s been weird not having football in my daily life, you know?”

No, I didn’t know, but I nod. And the fact that I am suddenly envious of a game—agame—makes my stomach twist. I sip my tea to cover the silence, hoping he won’t notice the faint tightness in my voice.

“What about you?” he asks, leaning forward. “You’ve got the inn and the restaurant, Ellie... but what about you? What do you want, Sam?”

I blink at him as he catches me off guard. “What do I want?” No one’s asked me that—ever. It makes me pause.

“Yeah,” he says, tilting his head.

“I don’t know,” I admit, as my fingers trace the condensation on my glass. “I haven’t thought about that in a long time. I’m content.”

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