Page 20 of Scoring with the Coach's Daughter

“Come on,” Jake presses, his cute grin pulls at my heartstrings. “Why be content when you can have more? Name one thing you want.”

I smile faintly, as a memory bubbles to the surface before I can stop it. “Clam bakes,” I said quietly.

“Clam bakes?” he repeats, his brow arching.

“Yeah,” I say, with a smile adorning my face as I let myself recall the memories I’ve suppressed. “When I was a kid, my family used to do them on the shore every summer. My dad would build this huge fire pit, and we’d pile it with clams, corn, lobster—anything we could find. The beach became our world. It was messy with the butter and the crabs, the sand.” My voice drifts off. “It was chaotic, but it was... perfect.”

Jake’s grin widens. “Now that’s something I didn’t picture. Samantha McAllister, Queen of the Clam Bake.”

I laugh and the sound of it surprises me. “I wasn’t the queen of anything. I just loved being there, surrounded by family. Even my dad, who’s always so…busy. Dad, would crack lobster claws with his bare hands and laugh like a kid.”

“You really loved it, huh?”

I nod, and let my gaze drift toward the horizon. “It was the one time I didn’t feel like I had to be perfect. The sand, the wind, the ocean waves lapping ashore. I love the ambiance of the campfire. The family together without a TV or a cell phone. We were just family…”

Jake is quiet for a moment, and I wonder if I’ve said too much. But when I look at him, his expression isn’t one of pity. It is something else. Perhaps he notices I can be carefree with my windswept hair and how the tendrils have escaped and are now hanging over my face.

“You ever think about doing something like that again?” he asks after a moment.

I shake my head, the warmth of the memory fading. “Not really. It’s something we did together and it’s only the two of us. It’s so much work and I suck at starting a fire if there’s any wind. It’s why I have a gas grill,” I chuckle. “Ellie’s only been to a clam bake with me.” I clam up at the memory of how overwhelmed I was. I stifled a panic attack at the beach that day.

“Well, maybe we should do it together,” Jake’s deep voice infiltrates my thoughts and it’s as if it’s dripping a honey trail for me to follow. I’m excited and oddly, it’s not over the thought of a clam bake.

I look at him, and my heart skips a beat. We’re so close to having a moment and then, it’s gone as Ellie comes bounding up the porch steps, holding a bright yellow flower in her small hands,

“Aunt Sam! Jake! Look at this flower I found!” she exclaims, her cheeks flushedfrom the sun.

“It’s beautiful, Ellie.” I smile as she climbs into my lap. “Where did you find it?”

“By the fence!” she proudly states. Then, turning to Jake, she asks, “Do you like flowers?”

Jake chuckles, and then he leans forward to inspect the bloom and sniffs it. “I do now. That’s a good one, kiddo.”

Ellie beams, and she snuggles into my lap, clutching the flower Jake hands her and she begins to chatter about her adventures in the garden.

I glance at Jake, and my heart explodes as I watch him interact with her so effortlessly. He is good with her—too good. And the thought of him leaving, of her losing that, well, how can I not be sad?

But he isn’t leaving yet. I push the thought aside, leaning back in my chair as Ellie continues to talk, her rhythmic banter making the afternoon perfect. talking, her voice filling the quiet of the afternoon.

Jake is still entertaining Ellie as dinner time approaches. I should invite him to stay. But before I have the opportunity, Ellie strikes again as she carts Jake to my kitchen with her nonstop chatter. I can’t help but feel like my home has been invaded by the all-too-handsome football player. Jake doesn’t seem to mind. He laughs when she tugs at his arm, nodding along as she babbles about flowers, football, and something involving glitter.

“Aunt Sam makes the best chicken parm,” Ellie declares as we settle at the table. She’s practically bouncing in her seat, her curls springing with every excited word. “You’re gonna love it.”

“Ellie,” I say, slightly annoyed, “we don’t just invite people to dinner,” I whisper subtly. If I didn’t know better I’d say she’s playing matchmaker.

“But we do have enough,” she counters—her innocent wide eyes challenging me with her logic.

I shoot Jake a look, but he just shrugs, a teasing grin playing on his lips. “She makes a strong argument,” he says, his voice warm enough to make my stomach flip. “She might become an attorney. I admire her bold moves,” he smirks.

I sigh, focusing on the food as I try to ignore the heat rising to my cheeks. Jake Rivers doesn’t belong in my life. And yet, here he is, sitting across from me, making my daughter laugh like he’s been here forever.

Ellie dominates the dinner conversation, peppering Jake with questions between bites of chicken parm. She twirls her pasta on the fork. She’s mesmerized by Jake. If his presence is an act, he’s doing a hell of a job.

“Do you live in a big house?” “Do you still play football?” she peppers him with questions. “Can you teach me to throw better next time?”

Jake answers every question with the kind of patience I’ve only ever seen in people who work with kids for a living. And every time he laughs, I feel this tug in my chest—and it grips me. This is what it would be like to have an involved father for Ellie.

Am I denying both of us an opportunity to have it all?

---