The hashtag popped up on his feed like a dare. Leo didn't even remember following the account, but there she was: .
Leo shook his head, dazed. "I deleted the app."
"They did." She stepped closer, plucked the ball from his feet. "But you're not really thinking about the game, are you?"
Leo was the new assistant coach, twenty-three, all nervous energy and too much cologne. He thought he was being subtle when he'd linger after practice to "help gather the cones." But Greta had been twenty-three once. She knew the game.
One Tuesday, after a brutal loss, she found him alone in the equipment shed, kicking a ball against the wall.
He swallowed. "No, ma'am."
Her name was Greta. And she wasn't just a body—though the curves in those yoga pants were, frankly, a work of art. She was the mom who showed up to every soccer game with a clipboard and a cooler full of organic snacks. She volunteered for the school auction, ran a half-marathon last spring, and always smelled like vanilla and confidence.
Leo froze. "I... yeah. The kids played hard."