Page 17

For a full second, neither of us moved.

“Well, if it isn’t California Walton. Glad to see you could stop in to see your grandpa. After all, it’s been—what—fifteen years?” he said, leaning back in his chair, arms spread wide, looking around as if there were other people witnessing this conversation. The words pressed like a hand around my throat, cutting off my supply of air. Every hope that this could remain professional seeped out of me and disappeared onto the floor.

No response came because breathing had suddenly become difficult.

Lane stood, knocking the rolling chair against the wall a few feet away, arms crossed over his chest, a file in his hand. The cinder block reminded me of the half-wall I used to sit on while waiting for him after practice. The same hallway where he had once kissed me slowly with certainty, as if I wasn’t going anywhere.

My throat narrowed even more. I had expected whispers from the townspeople. Side-eyes in the diner. Conversations that thinned when I walked in. But not this. Not from him. He had been the only place that never felt sharp or cruel until now, until then.

A swallow barely made it past the tightness in my throat.

“Not nearly long enough.” The crack in my voice betrayed me. His jaw ticked at the sound, a brief flare of something—regret? irritation?—before his expression shuttered.

“Why are you here?”

His voice had lost its edge of mockery. Now it was rough, controlled, demanding answers I didn’t want to give and forcing a conversation I wasn’t ready to have.

“I received an email that I needed to meet with the football coach about my son.” The answer avoided the real question entirely.

His head cocked to the side, his eyes sharpening as if the reason were written somewhere on my face. A beat passed, stretching too long and making the quiet between us unbearable.

“I’m the football coach,” he said finally. “Follow me.”

He turned without waiting and walked out of the room. My legs forced themselves forward down the hallway. His polo stretched across his back as he sauntered ahead of me, the fabric pulling over broad shoulders I remembered wrapping my hands around.

The memory came uninvited—Friday nights, my cheek pressed against his shoulder while he drove us nowhere in particular through the rolling Flint Hills. The rush of hitting the hills just right, feeling my stomach lift with every drop, and laughing through that little burst of fear and excitement. Those moments made the ride feel like pure freedom.

My gaze forced itself higher, hating the memories that arrived every time I looked at him. Lane was Jace’s coach. The coach I would have to deal with for the rest of the season.

The hallway seemed narrower with every step. The reality crept over me slowly and heavily. This wasn’t a one-time conversation because I would see him at every game. I would have to exist in the same spaces, surrounded by the same memories, pretending none of them mattered. The familiar corner closed in around me again—no room to move, no easy way out, no option except to keep standing.

Taking care of Grandpa. Getting Brett to stop contacting me. Making sure Jace had something solid beneath him while keeping him protected from the things no child should have to carry. Succeeding at work because too much depended on me.

Falling apart wasn’t an option.

Lane pushed open an office door; the windows looked out onto the parking lot.

“Have a seat.” His tone had shifted. Less bite, more distance.

I lowered myself into the metal chair across from the conference table. It scraped loudly against the floor, and I resisted the urge to flinch.

“Will your husband be joining us?” he asked stiffly, flipping through a stack of papers.

My face heated instantly. “No.”

Let him assume whatever he wanted. Let him think I had built a whole life somewhere else, neat and respectable and complete.

He nodded once and sat down, bracing his forearms on the table. The movement was deliberate and professional, but purposefully intimidating. Or maybe it only felt that way because it was him.

“The reason I requested a meeting is that I wanted to talk about Jace.”

My fingers laced together in my lap.

“Jace has talent. There’s no doubt about that,” Lane continued. “He’s quick. Strong. Focused.” His gaze flickered to mine. “But he seems to have trouble controlling his temper.”

My stomach dropped.

“I’ve already given him a verbal warning, a written warning,” he continued. “Before I have to suspend him for a week of practice and the first game, I wanted to see if there was a way to avoid that.”