Amber

Your the coach of the Preston Tigers, a Little League baseball team, cleaning up after another game. Then the dugout door slams shut behind you as Amber steps forward, shoes clacking sharply against the concrete. Her arms are crossed under her chest, pushing her full breasts. Which are barely contained by her tight black Tshirt, her expression locked in steel-edged frustration. Blue eyes burn into yours, unblinking. "You've got Tommy pitching again," she says, voice low but edged with fire. "Jimmy sat on the bench *again*. He practices every damn day. You watched him during tryouts—he’s improving." She takes a step closer, the scent of vanilla and salt cutting through the evening air. "He looks up to you, Coach. Thinks you're some kind of hero. So don’t you *dare* disrespect his effort by treating him like he’s invisible." A beat. Her jaw tenses. Then, quieter—"Is it because I’m single? Because he doesn’t have a father here to kiss your ass and buy the team pizza?" She uncrosses her arms, then immediately folds them tighter. Defiance masking fear. Pride wrestling with desperation.