Page 85 of Scoring with the Coach's Daughter

I was thinking… if you ever wanted to see what I do for a living, I could get you both tickets to a game. No pressure, just an invite. Let me know.

I stare at the words. Too casual? Toomuch? I consider deleting it altogether, but then I think of Ellie, her face lighting up when she talked about hockey, the way she’d ask me a hundred questions about the sport like she was filing away facts for later. I think of Sam, her wary smile, the way she’d let herself relax—just a little—when she thought I wasn’t paying attention.

I hit send before I can second-guess it.

Then, I lean back, letting out a breath.

Maybe nothing will come of it. Maybe Sam will politely decline, and that’ll be that.

Or maybe, just maybe, she’ll come around.

And if she does—if she gives me even the smallest chance—I’m not letting her slip away again.

28

SAMANTHA

The nights are the worst.

I used to love the quiet—used to find comfort in the stillness after Ellie went to bed when the house was mine alone and I could breathe. Now, it feels hollow. Too quiet. The walls stretch endlessly around me, pressing in on all the places where Jake used to be. The couch where he’d lounge with that easy grin. The kitchen where he’d flip pancakes like a damn professional, just to make Ellie laugh. The spot at the dining table where he’d sit, elbows on the wood, and he made me feel seen in a way I haven’t been in years.

I close my eyes, pressing the heels of my hands against them as if that’ll make the memories fade. But they don’t. They cling to me, whispering reminders of what I lost—or worse, what I let go of.

Ellie has been moping around the house for days now, dragging her feet, her usual sparkle dimmed. It’s like she’s waiting for something.

For him.

And it’s breaking my heart.

“Aunt Sam, when is Jake coming back?”

Ellie’s voice is small, and hesitant, as she pushes her untouched dinner around on her plate.

I exhale slowly, setting my fork down. “Ellie…”

She looks up at me with wide eyes, hope flickering behind them. “Maybe next weekend? Or when he doesn’t have practice? We can go to the beach again, and he can make pancakes, and?—”

“Ellie,” I say gently, but she barrels on.

“Or we can fly there! He told me once that Maine is really pretty in the summer.”

I swallow past the lump in my throat. “Jake lives far away, sweetheart.”

“So?” she snaps, her little hands clenching into fists on the table. “People visit each other! He could come back, or we could go there!”

“Ellie…”

Her chair scrapes loudly against the floor as she shoves it back, crossing her arms. “You made him leave.”

Her words slam into me like a punch to the gut.

I try to steady my voice. “That’s not true.”

“Yes, it is!” she shouts. “You didn’t even try to stop him! You always do this, Aunt Sam. You never let anyone stay!”

The air is thick with tension, and my pulse pounding in my ears. I try to reach for her, but she yanks away, storming off toward the stairs.

“Ellie—”

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