Page 45 of The Perfect Pass
“No doubt,” Jackson said, and the kindness in his eyes nearly made her weep. “But that’s their problem, not yours. You didn’t do anything wrong, Calla.”
She reached for his hand and threaded her fingers through his. She didn’t care who saw them together. Maybe tomorrow she’d change her mind, but right now, protecting her job was the last thing she cared about. “And neither did you.”
The lines in Jackson’s brow grew deeper. Clearly he wasn’t convinced. “It’s my team, and this happened under my watch. I’m their coach. I’m supposed toleadthose kids.”
Weeks ago, when Jackson Knight first rolled into town, Calla would never have been able to imagine this conversation. She doubted Jackson would have, either. Something had shifted between them, all right, but something had also shifted inside Jackson. He hadn’t just changed their town. The town had changed him.
Oh, how she wished he could see it.
“You’vebeenleading them, Jackson.” Calla squeezed his hand as tightly as she could. “You’re a good coach. I know you don’t believe that, but it’s true. I promise it is. You do an amazing job with the boys when they’re on the field.”
But this wasn’t about what happened on the practice field or during a game. It was about more than that, and they both knew it.
The look Jackson gave her just about broke her heart. It was worse than the footage she’d seen of him on the practice field after he’d torn his ACL. The agony in his eyes wasn’t because of any sort of physical pain. It was emotional. He was ripped apart, but on the inside this time instead of the outside. Calla knew, because she’d seen the same tortured look in her own eyes before.
But simmering beneath that pain, she saw something else—a spark of determination that made her heart thump so hard that she could feel it pounding in her throat. She wondered what he was thinking or if he had any idea what he’d be up against if he intended to make sure the team’s standout players faced any real consequences. Stokes, Collier and Brown were the team captains…the lead scorers. As much as she admired and respected the fiery resolve burning in his icy blue gaze, she knew how a fight like thatwould end. The Victory Club, the school administration and the town itself would never allow it.
Jackson would be run straight out of Bishop Falls.
There was a reason the head coaching position at the high school had been a revolving door since the curse talk had started. If anything,thatwas the Bulldogs’ fatal flaw. Not some silly imaginary curse. A leader couldn’t do his job with one hand tied behind his back.
“You’re a good coach, Jackson. And no matter what SportsSphere or anyone else says, you’re a good man. You can’t control everything the kids do when you’re not looking.”
“No,” he said through gritted teeth. “But I can control what happens next.”
Could he, though?
Calla wasn’t so sure.
* * *
Calla’s dad was still up when she got home, despite the late hour. When she first spotted the warm glow of the kitchen light through the front window, she thought maybe he’d been called out on a veterinary emergency. Dad kept normal hours at the clinic, but he frequently shared his personal phone number with clients, especially if they had a pet who was recovering from surgery. It wasn’t unheard-of for him to dash out and meet someone at the clinic after closing time.
The second their eyes met, she knew better.
He was seated at the big oak table in the breakfast nook, dressed in the striped pajamas she’d given him last year for Father’s Day, face ashen and with his lips pressed into a thin line. A cup of tea sat in front of him, but there was no steam rising from it, which told her it had long gone cold.
“Hey, Dad.” She pulled out a chair and sat down across from him. “I’m guessing you heard.”
He gave a solemn nod. Then his eyes dropped to the table, and his fingertips inched closer to a shallow groove in its oak surface until he began to trace the indentation with his pointer finger.
Calla had spent countless hours at this same table as a child, often alongside her brother. They’d sit side by side and do their homework together after school when they’d been enrolled at Bishop Falls Elementary. During the Christmas holidays, this was where they’d rolled out cookie dough and cut it into shapes with cookie cutters that had been passed down from their great grandmother. Later, after Ethan had started playing for the Bulldogs, they’d eat an early dinner here on Friday evenings before kickoff, hands linked as they said grace—Mom, Dad, Ethan and Calla.
Even the groove her father was absently toying with held a memory. Years ago, a hammer had slipped from Ethan’s grip when he’d been building a robot for the school science fair.
“Tommy’s going to be okay, Dad,” she said.
He let out a long exhale and let her pull his fingertips away from the groove and curve his hands gently around his teacup.
“Would you like me to warm that for you?” she asked. “Or I can make you a new cup. You look like you could use some chamomile.”
“I’m okay. Thank you, though.” He waved a hand and sat back in his chair. “I got a call a few hours ago from the Victory Club phone tree. When I heard the player who’d gotten hurt was Tommy, I just…”
Calla nodded. “I know, Dad. Me, too.”
Their gazes locked, and something unspoken passed between them—something tender and raw, like someone was pressing down hard on an old bruise that had never quite healed.
“He’s a fine boy. He’s got such a soft spot for our patients,” Dad said, voice thick with wistfulness.
