He Was My Daughter's Soccer Coach
I volunteered for snacks. He volunteered for carpool. The tournament hotel had a family rate we abused creatively.
Coach Derek was thirty-one and careful with words around kids. Reckless only in how he looked at me when whistles ended.
Tournament weekend. Shared hotel block. Parents drank in the lobby; kids slept in teams.
He knocked at eleven. "Team meeting," he said to the empty hall if anyone asked.
We were not careful enough. We were careful enough to not get caught, which is a different religion.
Monday practice felt like acting in a play I wrote. My daughter hugged him. I smiled.
I quit volunteering after season ended. He stayed professional. The almost is what haunts—not the act.
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