It starts as an innocent little crush. Harmless and temporary. As the kids’ coach, you’re surrounded by parents every day, watching from the sidelines, chatting amongst themselves as practice winds down. Jackie Taylor shouldn’t stand out more than any of them, except that she does.

With her flowy sundresses, perfectly done hair, and gold jewelry that catches the afternoon sun when she tucks her sunglasses into the neckline of her shirt, your eyes find her in every crowd.

She’s married, you remind yourself. She’s a mom.

Still.

“You’re good with them,” Jackie says one day, leaning against the fence as you gather stray soccer balls into the mesh bag slung over your shoulder. “My kid really likes you.”

You laugh, adjusting the bag, hoping it covers the obvious nervousness. “Yeah? Well, she’s a good player.”

Jackie hums. “Must be the coaching.”

You try not to overthink it, but moments like these start piling up.

Little comments, stolen glances and how Jackie always finds a reason to stay behind after practice. It seems coincidental at first. Until you notice the way her voice dips when she talks to you, the way her eyes flick over your body before settling back on your face.

She starts arriving early, too. Not just to drop off her daughter, but to stand at the sidelines, watching you. Her fingers toy absentmindedly with the hem of her dress, her neatly manicured nails tapping against her bottom lip as she follows your movements.

And when you run drills, jogging across the field, you can feel her gaze trailing up your legs.

You shouldn’t notice these things. You shouldn’t let them get to you.