A Second Chance
Автор
Chrystal Wise
Прочтений
176K
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32
"Love doesn’t just heal the past—it builds a future you never thought possible."
After losing her husband, Morgan returns home to Summersville, hoping only to start over—not to fall again. But life has a funny way of rewriting your plans. Enter Greg, the town’s charming PE teacher with a messy past and zero intention of getting attached. When sparks fly between lesson plans and laughter, both find themselves wondering if second chances might be real after all. With a dash of small-town gossip, a sprinkle of hope, and a whole lot of heart, Morgan and Greg discover that love doesn’t just mend what’s broken—it builds something brand new.
Chapter 1
MORGAN
The trail was quieter than she remembered.
Twenty years ago, this stretch of pine and rock had echoed with laughter and sneakers slapping dirt, her cross-country team chasing the sunrise. Now, it was just her breath and the snap of a half-broken branch beneath her boot.
The air smelled like rain, cedar, and wet earth. She’d come here hoping to clear her head before the new teacher orientation that evening—before she had to smile at old classmates now turned colleagues, before she had to answer kind but awkward questions about how she was holding up.
Her therapist had suggested it: Find the places that used to make you feel strong.
So she came back to the trail. To the town. To a version of herself she wasn’t sure existed anymore. To her family and her friends where she felt loved and safe.
Morgan adjusted her pack and kept climbing. The slope steepened. Her lungs burned, but it felt good—honest, physical. A reminder that she was still alive.
When she reached the ridge, she paused to catch her breath. The valley stretched below her, her hometown tucked into it like a secret. She exhaled, letting the quiet hold her, embracing her like a hug from an old friend. She felt safe and calm.
Then the ground shifted.
It happened too fast—a sharp crack, a rush of loose dirt—and suddenly her footing vanished. She gasped, grabbing for a branch that splintered in her hand. The world tilted.
She slid down the embankment, gravel scraping her palms, until she landed hard against a fallen log. Pain shot through her ankle, bright and immediate.
For a moment she couldn’t breathe. The shock and fear took over her body as she took in the fact that she had just slid down several feet, and then the pain kicked in. She had hurt her ankle when it smashed into the log.
Morgan sat down on the log and felt the hot tears spill down her cheeks. The pain and fear were merging with the stress, pushing her emotions over the edge. She sobbed for a few moments. If she hadn’t been so caught up with her nerves and sadness, she would have realized she was too damn close to the edge.
Morgan looked up as she heard a snap of a branch from the top where she had just been.
“Hey! You okay down there?”
A man’s voice—steady, deep—cut through the rustle of leaves. She blinked up, squinting against the sun. A figure stood at the edge of the slope, framed in light.
“I—I think so,” she called back, though her ankle throbbed in protest.
“I’m coming down.”
“Don’t! It’s—” But he was already moving, careful but sure-footed, descending as if he’d done it a hundred times. When he reached her, he crouched, eyes scanning for injuries. They were blue—or maybe gray. It was hard to tell through the blur of tears she refused to let fall.
“Where does it hurt?”
“My pride,” she muttered under her breath. “My ankle hurts pretty bad.”
He smiled—a brief, unguarded flash—before his expression settled into calm focus. “Can you move your toes?”
She tried, wincing. “Yeah. That’s something, right?”
“Something,” he agreed. “Let’s get you out of here before the rain starts,” her savior said, glancing up at the sky.
He tore a strip from his flannel overshirt, used it to wrap her ankle with surprising gentleness, then looped her arm over his shoulder. “Lean on me,” he said simply, as if it were the easiest thing in the world.
He helped her back up the slope to the top of the rock, gently supporting her weight, taking their time, not to end right back at the bottom, finally reaching the top and beginning the trip for help.
They made their way down the trail slowly, her steps uneven, his steady presence a quiet anchor. He didn’t ask questions—not about why she was hiking alone, no small talk, no flirting. He just walked beside her, matching her pace.
When they reached the ranger station, she turned to thank him—but the words tangled in her throat. The ranger hurried out with concern, ushering her inside for ice and bandages. By the time she looked back through the open door, he was gone.
No name. No number. Just an impression—strong hands, soft voice, eyes that saw her pain but didn’t pry. For some reason, that was harder to shake than the fall.
That evening, she stood outside the gymnasium, ankle wrapped tight, heart beating too fast. The school looked both familiar and foreign—same brick walls, same squeaky doors, but now she was walking in as a teacher, not a student.
Inside, the air buzzed with conversation and the smell of old floor polish. The faculty milled around folding tables, shaking hands, laughing. She tucked her crutches under her arms and limped in, wishing she could disappear.
Martin Long, the principal, spotted her immediately. “There’s our new P.E. teacher!” he announced warmly. “Come on in, let me introduce you.”
Heat rushed to her face. She murmured something polite and made her way toward the front, trying to look capable despite the crutches.
“Everyone, this is Coach Morgan Conners,” the principal continued. “She’ll be joining us from Edinburgh this year—she’s taking over our fitness program and girls’ athletics.”
There was a smattering of applause, a few smiles. Then the principal gestured toward the far side of the gym. “And over here—Coach Greg Holden, returning again this year, will be co-leading the department with her.”
She turned. He was leaning casually against the bleachers, whistle hanging around his neck, hair still damp as if he’d showered not long ago. The same gray-blue eyes. The same flannel—cleaner now and not ripped up for bandages.
Their gazes met. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.
Then his mouth curved, just slightly. “So,” he said, voice low enough for only her to hear, “how’s the ankle holding up, Coach?”
Her heart stuttered. “Better,” she managed. “Thanks to you.”
“I’ll take that as progress.” He extended a hand, his tone soft but teasing. “Guess we’re officially on the same team now.”
She took his hand, and for the first time in months, the ache in her chest eased—not gone, but lighter. And that terrified her more than the fall.
