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“I don’t know.” My voice catches, and I swallow hard before I can force the rest past the tightness in my throat. “That’s what I’ve been trying not to think about all fucking day.”

“I’m angry because I care about you. You were my quarterback when you got here, but you became my friend, and I thought I became yours.”

I can’t look away from him. Friend shouldn’t hit me as hard as it does, but I’ve spent the entire morning afraid yesterday changed who I am to him. Coach trusted me before I gave him much reason to. He made room for me here when I was still trying to figure out if Charlotte even wanted me, and somewhere in all of that, having him believe in me started mattering for reasons that had nothing to do with whether he thought I could win football games. But I haven’t lost him. I can finally breathe around that, but knowing he still cares doesn’t make this easier. It only makes me understand how badly I hurt someone who matters this fucking much to me.

“You did.” My voice comes out rough. “You are.”

Coach holds my gaze, the hurt still there even after I give him the answer. “Then you should understand why this fucking hurts.”

“I do now. Yesterday, I knew you were angry because we kept it from you. I knew I’d hurt you. I didn’t understand that you were standing there wondering if I trusted you the way you trusted me.”

“Then why didn’t you tell me?”

“Because I thought I could give her the time she needed and still be the person you trusted. I kept telling myself those things didn’t have to touch each other.”

Except standing in front of him now, I can’t keep them separate. Coach asked about my life and trusted me with pieces of his while I answered around the one thing that connected all of us. He gave me the choice to let him in, the same way Tuck did this morning, and I was so focused on his anger that I never stopped long enough to understand why finding out this way hurt him.

“Then yesterday happened, and you weren’t angry with your quarterback. You were hurt by me.”

His gaze drops to the practice sheet in his hand. I want him to look at me again badly enough that I nearly say something else just to make him, but I’ve already spent the morning trying to force a response out of him. There isn’t anything left I can do except stand here and let him decide what happens next. When his eyes finally come back to mine, I make myself give him the only thing I still can.

“I’m sorry I hurt you.”

He studies my face as if he’s deciding whether I understand what I’m apologizing for now. I can’t give him anything more certain than what I’ve already said, and waiting without trying to convince him feels harder than any answer I could offer.

“I believe you.”

I expected that hearing him say he believes me would make this easier, but Coach doesn’t soften. He can believe me and still be hurt. He can care about me and still need something from me that I can’t earn by throwing a football better or finding the right thing to say. I want to ask how long he’s going to be angry. I want him to promise we’re going to be okay, but that would be asking him to take away the uncertainty I just admitted I don’t know how to sit with. So, I keep my mouth shut and wait.

Coach looks toward the facility before his attention comes back to me. “How serious is this with Calliope?”

Hearing her name makes the ache from yesterday flare again. I’m still pissed that she let the moment pass after telling me she was ready, but that isn’t what I feel first. I miss her. I miss the weight of her against me when I wake up and the way she steals from my plate even when hers has the same fucking food on it. I want my key in her pocket because she expects to come back.

“I love her.”

Coach doesn’t move, and the longer he stares at me, the harder my heart beats against my ribs. I hadn’t planned to tell him before I told her. Hell, I hadn’t planned to say it at all when I walked over here. But now that the words are out, I want to say them to her so badly it hurts. I want to see her face when she hears them. I want to hold her while I tell her that falling isn’t what this feels like anymore.

Coach draws in a slow breath. “Does she know?”

Despite everything, my mouth starts to curve. “I haven’t told her ‌yet.”

“And you just told me before you told her?”

“That wasn’t the plan.”

His mouth twitches, and the sight of it loosens the knot beneath my ribs. It’s the first time all day I haven’t had to wonder what I’m looking at when he looks back at me.

“Don’t tell her that.”

“I wasn’t planning on it.”

“I’m serious. I have enough problems with my daughter right now without getting blamed because you messed up your first ‘I love you.’”

I can’t hold back my smile, and when Coach shakes his head, there’s a hint of one on his face. I allow myself to have the familiar moment with him without trying to turn it into anything more.

“But loving her doesn’t fix what happened between us.”

My shoulders tense again, and the laugh dies in my throat. I knew one decent moment wouldn’t put us back where we were, but some stupid part of me had already started reaching for it anyway.