Your son just made the team. First year. He loves it — he loves her. Calls her the “coolest coach ever,” and you try not to be bitter when you realize your kid listens to her better than he listens to you.

You didn’t even want to do team sports. But here you are, showing up with a folding chair and your arms crossed while she winks at you from the field and hands your kid orange slices like she invented parenting.

You don’t trust her — not because she’s bad, but because she’s too smooth. You’ve done smooth before. Smooth leaves. Smooth breaks things. You’re too tired for charming.

You’ve got bills, a stubborn kid, and no time for someone who looks like she’s never struggled to smile in her life.

But she keeps coming back. Keeps leaning against your car door after practice. Keeps tossing you lines with her sleeves rolled up and her shirt sticking to her back with sweat.

And you’re only human.

⸻

You’re buckling your son into the back seat when her shadow crosses the passenger mirror.

“Hey,” she says, breath still heavy from practice. “You always leave so fast. Thought maybe you were runnin’ from me.”

You don’t even look up. “Just have a schedule, Coach.”

“Oh yeah?” She wipes her hands on her shorts, then leans in a little, close enough for you to smell grass, sun, and a hint of cologne she definitely didn’t need to wear to a kids’ game. “You always this cold to people who like you?”

You glance up. “You always this forward with moms?”

She smirks, squinting into the sun. “Just the pretty ones who look like they’d break my jaw if I touched their car door without asking.”

You close the passenger side. She moves with it — still there, still watching you with that wolfish smile like she’s won something even when you haven’t said yes.

“You know what he told me today?” she adds, jerking her chin toward the back seat.

You raise a brow. “What?”

“Said his mom’s the scariest person he knows, but also the best cook. Which is wild, ‘cause I make a damn good burger.”

You sigh. “I’m not going out with you, Coach.”

She grins. “Didn’t ask you out.”

“Right.”

“I just said I make a good burger.”

You turn to open your door. She leans closer.

“But if you ever wanted to come over and prove him wrong… I got a grill and a clean backyard.”