Football Mum
"He coaches her son's Sunday league team. She's at every match, every practice. Season ends. She invites him for a drink to say thanks."
Every Sunday, she's there.
Rain or shine, freezing cold or blazing heat. Lisa Marshall, standing on the touchline in her puffer jacket and leggings, cheering on her son Tyler like he's playing for England.
I'm the coach. I notice things.
She's maybe thirty-six, thirty-seven.
Thick in the way that suggests she was probably proper fit ten years ago and has just... softened. Strong thighs, curvy hips, tits that her sports bras work hard to contain. She's always in athleisure—leggings, trainers, hoodies—like she might join in at any moment.
She never does.
But she watches. Cheers. Brings snacks for the whole team.
And she looks at me sometimes in a way that makes me forget what I was saying.
September
"Tyler's improved loads this term."
She catches me after practice, while the kids are collecting their stuff.
"He works hard."
"Because you're a good coach." She smiles. "Not every volunteer gives a shit. You do."
"Thanks. I try."
"I know you do." She lingers. "Anyway. See you Sunday."
She walks away. I watch her go.
Her arse in those leggings is a problem.
October
The boys lose their first match. Tyler misses a penalty.
He's in tears by the sideline. Lisa's comforting him, but she looks at me with something like panic.
"Tell him it happens to the best," I say, crouching beside them. "Even the pros miss. What matters is he had the guts to take it."
Tyler sniffs. "Really?"
"Really. Next time, you'll score. And you'll remember this moment made you better."
He brightens. Lisa mouths thank you over his head.
Her eyes are wet too.
November
She starts hanging back after practice.
"Quick word about Tyler's positioning?"
"Sure."
It's never actually about positioning. It's about... us. Talking. Getting to know each other while pretending it's about football.
She's a single mum—dad fucked off two years ago. Works at a call centre. Hates it. Lives for weekends when Tyler has matches.
"You make Sundays bearable," she admits one evening. "For him and for me."
I don't know what to say to that.
December
Christmas break means no football.
Two weeks without seeing her feels longer than it should.
I text her on New Year's Eve: Happy New Year. Tell Tyler he's got a spot in the starting lineup when we're back.
She texts back at midnight: Happy New Year. Can't wait.
I'm not sure she means the football.
January
Training resumes. She's there, pink-cheeked from the cold, more beautiful than I remembered.
"Good Christmas?"
"Quiet. You?"
"Same." She hesitates. "Tyler's staying at his nan's Saturday. If you wanted to... I don't know. Get a drink? To celebrate the second half of the season."
"That sounds good."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah."
Saturday night, I knock on her door.
She opens it in a dress—actual dress, not leggings—with makeup and everything. She looks completely different. Still thick, still curvy, but polished somehow.
"You clean up nice," I manage.
"So do you." She grabs her coat. "Come on. I've been looking forward to this all week."
The pub is quiet. We grab a corner booth.
"Can I be honest?" she says, two drinks in.
"Sure."
"I've fancied you since September. The way you are with the kids. The way you treat Tyler." She looks at her drink. "My ex never came to matches. Never cared. And here you are, giving up your Sundays for someone else's kids."
"I like coaching."
"It's more than that." She meets my eyes. "You're a good man. That's rare."
We walk back to her place slow.
At the door, she hesitates.
"Tyler won't be back until tomorrow afternoon."
"Right."
"I'm just saying." She bites her lip. "If you wanted to... come in."
I've wanted to come in since September.
She kisses me in her hallway.
All that tension, all those touchline glances, all the lingering chats—it comes pouring out. Her body presses against mine, thick and warm, and I grab her arse through that dress like I've been dreaming about for months.
"Bedroom," she breathes. "Please."
She's beautiful naked.
Not perfect—stretch marks, softness, the evidence of life—but real. Human. She's self-conscious until I start kissing down her body, worshipping every curve.
"You don't have to—"
"I want to."
I spend forever between her thighs. She comes twice before she's pulling me up, begging.
"Inside me. I need to feel you."
I push in slowly, watching her face.
"Oh God. Oh God."
We make love—that's what it is, not just fucking—slow and intense, four months of waiting paying off in every thrust.
When we come together, she cries. I hold her through it.
After
We're careful at matches. Keep it professional.
But everyone can see something's changed. The way we look at each other. The way she smiles now.
"Are you shagging Coach Jake?" Tyler asks her one day.
She chokes on her tea.
"We're... dating. Is that okay?"
He thinks about it. "He's alright. Better than Dad."
High praise from an eleven-year-old.
The season ends with a trophy—third place in the league, our best finish ever.
Lisa's there with the other parents, crying and cheering. Tyler holds up the trophy like it's the World Cup.
"Thank you," Lisa whispers to me in the chaos. "For everything."
"Thank you for showing up," I whisper back. "Every Sunday."
Two years later, we're still together.
Tyler's moved up to the U-14s. I still coach, still spend Sundays on frozen pitches.
But now I come home to Lisa. To her warmth, her curves, her life.
"Best signing I ever made," I tell her sometimes.
"Smooth talker." She kisses me. "But keep going."
Football brought us together.
Everything else keeps us there.