"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 hadan 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?"