Page 86 of Scoring with the Coach's Daughter

“I hate it here,” she throws over her shoulder before disappearing into her room, slamming the door shut behind her.

I close my eyes, inhaling sharply.

She doesn’t mean it. She’s hurting. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

Later that night, I pass by her room and hear the soft buzz of her voice and I know she’s on her iPad. My heart clenches because I already know who she’s talking to.

Jake.

I hover in the hallway, my fingers brushing against the doorframe as I listen.

“You’re really coming to all my games, right?” Ellie’s voice is thick with emotion.

My heart lurches. Jake’s voice is warm and steady as he says, “Of course, kiddo. I wouldn’t miss them.”

Silence. Then, softly I hear Ellie say, “I miss you.”

A pause, then his voice, just as quiet, “I miss you too, Peanut.”

I grip the wall, my chest tightening so much I can’t breathe.

“Aunt Sam doesn’t want to come visit you,” Ellie blurts. “She won’t say it, but I know.”

I hear Jake sigh. “Hey, that’s not fair. Your Aunt is just figuring things out. Grown-ups are complicated.”

Ellie sniffles. “It’s not complicated. She’s just scared.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

Jake doesn’t answer right away. When he does, his voice is softer than I’ve ever heard it. “Yeah, maybe. But you just have to be patient with her, okay?”

Ellie huffs. “I guess.”

“In the meantime, you and me? We’ll have our own secret FaceTime club. Deal?”

I hear the smile in her voice when she says, “Deal.”

Tears sting my eyes as I step away from the door, retreating to my room. I don’t even know what I’m crying for anymore. For Ellie? For myself? For all the things I wish I’d said when I had the chance?

The next morning, I shelvethe pancake mix.

I can’t do it. Neither can Ellie. It feels wrong. Instead, I pull out the waffle iron, grabbing the ingredients for Belgian waffles.

Ellie eyes me skeptically. “What are you doing?”

“Making breakfast,” I say, forcing brightness into my voice. “Want to help?”

She shrugs, dragging a stool to the counter. She cracks the eggs without enthusiasm, whisking the batter like it’s a chore. Even when I let her pour in extra vanilla, she doesn’t smile.

We sit at the table in silence, eating waffles that taste like nothing.

It’s not the same.

Nothing is the same.

Maggie shows up that afternoon, letting herself in like she always does, carrying a cup of coffee for me and an expression that says she already knows.

She doesn’t waste time. “You look like hell.”

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