Mia
The stadium lights blaze against the darkening sky as I climb the metal bleachers, each step echoing my uncertainty about being here.
Friday night football at Riverside Academy is apparently a sacred tradition, and Blake made it clear that showing up would help me integrate into the school community.
What he didn't have to mention is that it would also make me a spectacle.
But here I am. Ready or not.
I find a spot halfway up the bleachers, trying to position myself where I'm visible enough to seem engaged but not so prominent that I draw attention. That plan fails within minutes.
"Is that her?" a woman's voice carries from two rows behind me.
"I think so. The new English teacher."
I keep my eyes fixed on the field where Blake stands on the sidelines in athletic pants and a Riverside Academy coaching jacket.
Even from this distance, I can see the intensity radiating from him.
He's completely in his element, gesturing to his players, his voice carrying across the field in sharp commands that somehow sound encouraging rather than harsh.
My eyes catch and hold on the way his coach's shirt stretches across his broad chest. I can actually see the play of his muscles and the sight makes my breath catch.
"She's pretty," the first woman continues, breaking my ogling. "I wonder why she really came back."
My shoulders tense but I don't turn around. The crowd around me swells as more parents and students arrive. The marching band plays the school fight song while cheerleaders perform elaborate routines on the track.
Blake catches my eye from the sideline and flashes a quick smile before turning back to his team. That simple acknowledgment sends warmth through my chest that has nothing to do with the hot chocolate stand I can smell from the concession area.
"I heard she left town right after graduation," the second woman says, her voice pitched just loud enough for me to hear every word. "Just disappeared in the middle of the night."
"That's what I heard, too."
I pull my jacket tighter around myself even though the evening isn't particularly cold. As if wrapping myself in it can shield me from the gossip. The whispers are exactly what I feared, what I knew would happen the moment I decided to return to Riverside.
"Why do you think she left?" the first woman asks.
"Well, there are theories." The second woman's voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper that somehow carries perfectly to my ears. "Some people think she got pregnant. Others say she had an affair with a married man. My cousin swears she was involved in something criminal."
My hands clench in my lap and my jaw clenches, but I force myself to act as if I don't hear anything. I try to be the proverbial duck and let everything wash off my back.
The game starts with a whistle blast that makes me jump.
I force myself to focus on the field, watching Blake's team execute plays with precision that speaks to hours of practice.
Blake moves along the sideline with athletic grace, his body language shifting between encouraging and demanding depending on what his players need.
He's wearing shorts, putting his muscular legs on display. I doubt there's even a centimeter of fat on those tanned limbs.
He's beautiful like this. Confident. Commanding. And sexy as hell.
"Evening, Mia."
I turn to find Jack settling into a seat three rows away, close enough to acknowledge me but far enough to maintain professional distance.
He's wearing jeans and a Riverside Academy jacket.
His hazel eyes meet mine for a moment too long before he looks away, but I feel the heat of that gaze long after he's focused on the game.
I feel that same excited punch to my gut that I did all those years ago at the 4th of July party at my parents' house.
The best ... and worst ... night of my life.
Two men. I've been intimate with two men in the span of weeks, and they're both here watching me while I pretend to care about football.
"Is that the principal?" one of the women behind me asks, and I say a silent prayer of thanks that they're no longer talking about me.
"Jack Lewis. He's been principal for three years now. He's single, too. He got divorced several years ago."
"Handsome."
"Very. And apparently very dedicated to his job. My daughter says he's strict but fair."
I risk another glance at Jack. He's watching the game, but his jaw is tight and I can see the tension in his shoulders. Can he hear the women talking about him?
Movement closer to the field catches my attention.
Noah sits in the front row with a notebook balanced on his knee, occasionally scribbling something down.
He's wearing his usual dark-rimmed glasses and a jacket that looks too thin for the cooling evening.
As if sensing my gaze, he looks up and our eyes meet.
The memory of our night together floods through me and I suppress a shudder.
If I'm being honest with myself, I don't regret that night.
Noah was just what I needed at the time.
But I thought it was a one and done. I never expected to see him again.
And I especially didn't expect to become coworkers with him!
Shit, what am I doing? While the women around me are gossiping about me, I'm sitting here drooling over and thinking about three men. Three! Not one, but three different men.
Noah offers a small smile before returning to his notebook. I wonder what he's writing. Observations about the game? Thoughts about me? Plans for his history lessons?
"Halftime!" the announcer's voice booms through the speakers.
The marching band takes the field while players jog toward their respective sidelines. Blake is immediately surrounded by his team, gesturing and talking with animated intensity. Even from here, I can see the respect his players have for him, the way they lean in to catch every word.
"Miss Wilson?"
I turn to find one of my students, Kyle Jorgenson, standing beside my seat, holding two cups of hot chocolate. He's tall for sixteen, with dark hair that falls across his forehead and gray eyes that seem older than his years.
"Kyle. Hi." I accept the cup he offers, surprised by the gesture. "Thank you. That's very thoughtful."
"You looked cold." He settles into the empty seat beside me without asking, his body angled toward mine in a way that feels slightly too close. "Are you enjoying the game?"
"I am. Coach Morgan's team is impressive."
"He's a great coach." Kyle's eyes stay fixed on my face rather than the field. "But I'm more interested in English than football. Your class is my favorite."
"I'm glad to hear that." I take a sip of the hot chocolate, grateful for the warmth. "You're doing excellent work. Your essay on Fitzgerald was particularly insightful."
Kyle's face lights up with genuine pleasure. "Really? I worked hard on that one. I wanted to impress you."
Something about the way he says it makes my skin prickle with unease, but I push the feeling aside. He's just an enthusiastic student. There's nothing wrong with that.
"You have a real talent for literary analysis," I say, keeping my tone professional. "Have you thought about what you want to study in college?"
"I'm thinking about English literature. Maybe creative writing." He shifts closer, his knee almost touching mine. "I'd love to talk to you more about it sometime. Outside of class, I mean. Maybe over coffee?"
The request crosses a line I'm not comfortable with, but I keep my expression neutral. "That's not really appropriate, Kyle. But I'm always happy to discuss your academic plans during office hours."
His smile doesn't quite reach his eyes. "Of course. I understand."
The conversation continues for several more minutes, Kyle asking questions about my teaching philosophy, my favorite books, and where I lived before returning to Riverside. His interest seems genuine but intense, and I find myself wishing he would return to wherever he was sitting before halftime.
"I should probably get back to my friends," Kyle finally says, standing. "Thanks for talking with me, Miss Wilson. I really appreciate it."
"Anytime, Kyle. Enjoy the rest of the game."
He walks away and I release a breath I didn't realize I was holding. The interaction was perfectly polite, but something about it felt off. The way he looked at me and how he positioned himself too close. The personal questions that went beyond normal student-teacher boundaries.
"That kid gives me the creeps," one of the women behind me mutters.
"Kyle Jorgenson? He's always been a little odd. Too intense."
I turn slightly, curious despite myself.
"His parents are loaded," the first woman continues. "They throw money at the school to keep him enrolled. I heard he had problems at his last school."
"What kind of problems?"
"I don't know exactly. But there were rumors."
The second half of the game starts before I can hear more. Blake's team is ahead by two touchdowns, and the energy in the stadium shifts to confident celebration. I watch Blake work the sideline, his passion for the game evident in every movement.
When the final whistle blows, Riverside Academy wins 35-21. The crowd erupts in cheers while Blake's players mob him on the field. He laughs, accepting their enthusiasm with obvious pride, and when he looks up at the bleachers, his eyes find mine immediately.
The smile he gives me is triumphant and intimate, like we're sharing a private victory. My heart does a silly somersault and drops to my stomach.
Get a grip!
People begin filing out of the stadium. I wait for the crowd to thin before making my way down the bleachers. Jack has already disappeared, probably heading home or back to his office. Noah is still in his seat, writing something in his notebook with focused concentration.
The parking lot is chaos. Parents loading tired children into cars. Students laughing and making plans. Teachers congratulating Blake on the win.
I navigate through the crowd toward my car, parked in the far corner under a flickering light. The temperature has dropped significantly, and I pull my jacket tighter as I walk.
My car sits alone in this section of the lot, most people having parked closer to the entrance. I dig my keys from my purse, already thinking about the hot bath I'll take when I get back to my hotel room.
Something white catches my eye and I step closer. A piece of paper flutters slightly in the breeze, trapped beneath my windshield wiper.
Probably some kind of advertisement. I pull it free and am about to throw it into my purse when I change my mind and open it.
It's a note of some kind, typed in large, dark font. My breath catches and I feel a little weak in the knees when I read the words.
I know what you're hiding.