I move some more magnets. “We’ll overload through the middle, playing a four midfielders diamond formation that will give us an advantage of four on three. West, as striker, I want you to come in deep towards the midfield and draw your defender out. Our wing backs will time their runs to get the switch of play.”
The boys nod along, and I move two more magnets. “This will allow Whitford and Walters to slip behind them and create more scoring opportunities.”
The players murmur their agreement, and I step back to let Luca rev up the team as captain. We’ll miss his leadership when he inevitably gets picked up by an A-League club.
As the second half gets underway, I nervously pace the sideline shouting instructions to the players.
“Push across.” I call to the defenders.
Ritter wins the tussle and sends a beautiful through ball to Whitford. “You’ve got time.”
His shot goes wide and they set up to defend as the opposition goalkeepers plays the ball long.
“Come on, ref,” I yell, throwing my hand up in the air at a bad call by the linesman. “He was clearly offside.”
We narrowly avoid conceding a goal, and Noah takes a touch before racing up the pitch towards our scoring end. “Switch it!”
He does, giving it off to one of our midfielders. “Pass and move.”
The ball gets turned over, and I groan. “Man on! Come on boys, let’s lock in.”
In the eighty-second minute, we finally get a chance as West takes a clean through ball from Ritter, turning on his player and switching it out to Walters, who times his run on the right perfectly. He’s got the leg speed on his defender, and dribbles towards goal, one on one with the keeper. Just as I think he’s about to take the shot, he cuts it back to Whitford, who slices the net.
I pump my fist, keeping a lid on the celebrations. We still have twelve minutes left with stoppages, and Northern Rivers won’t go down without a fight. They kick off, playing the ball around and testing for weakness in our defence. Their striker takes a shot, which Peters saves. We get another chance, this time with West, but it hits the cross bar.
In the dying minutes of the game, there’s a scramble for the ball in our forward half that results in a corner. With a perfectly aimed kick by Whitford to the back post, West headers it into the net as the ref blows the whistle three times.
Game over.
We beat Northern Rivers two-nil, sending us into second position on the ladder behind Blue HavenUniversity, who we’ll come up against at home in two weeks’ time. After shaking hands with the opposition coach, Andy pats me on the back with a wide grin as we follow the team into the locker room.
I give my final address to the team, then melt into the background as they get around each other and celebrate. Andy gives me a knowing smirk when I sneak out the door, but I ignore it. Let him think what he wants. He’ll never guess what I’m actually doing, and I’m not about to confide in him. I know he won’t judge me, but until I figure out where this is going, I’m playing my cards close to my chest.
As I’m making my way across the car park, a keening moan from my left causes me to stop abruptly and spin on the spot. Only to immediately wish I hadn’t.
Dylan’s leaning against the stadium wall in a precarious position with two females from one of my third-year history classes. His tongue is buried down one girl’s throat, while his hand is down the other girl’s jean shorts as she watches them make out through hooded eyes.
What the fuck?
As I stand there like a creep, frozen to the spot, Dylan pulls away from the girl he’s kissing, placing his hand on top of her head and pushing her to her knees, and not softly. She undoes his pants with a giggle and a sultry look up at him.
Before I cop an eyeful of my son’s cock, I rush towards my car, in the opposite direction.
My heart races as I slide in behind the wheel, slamming the door behind me. I close my eyes, but the scene I just witnessed has them flying open again. My stomach churns.
Fuck.
It’s one thing to know your adult son is sexually active, but seeing it is another—especially when it’s with your students. I might have enjoyed watching my tempting little devil touch herself, but I don’t want to see my son getting his rocks off. And I’m not too pleased with how rough he was with them, even if they seemed to be enjoying themselves.
Burying those thoughts, I throw my car in reverse and back out of the park. As I drive home, I take stock of my life—thirty-nine, divorced, having phone sex with someone my son’s age—I’m a walking advertisement for a mid-life crisis.
I need to put a stop to this ridiculous thing we’ve got going on, whatever it is.
By the time I get home, shower, and climb into bed, I’ve made my decision. I open the Euphoria app and send her a message.
@watch_me_watch_you: Are you up?
I cringe after pressing send. It sounds too much like a booty call. Swallowing around the lump in my throat, I’m about to delete it when her reply comes through.
