Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 83355 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 417(@200wpm)___ 333(@250wpm)___ 278(@300wpm)
That offer would have happened long ago had Brittany told me what was going on, except she was ashamed for not only falling for a guy like that but for staying as long as she did. I know a little something about that shame. I actually married Scott despite my strong suspicion he wasn’t right for me. While his verbal abuse was minor, it worsened after we married and to this day, I could still kick myself a million times. Love does strange things to our perception as well as our common sense.
“Two minutes until pancakes are ready to serve,” I say.
“I’m going to get changed,” Brittany says.
I glance over my shoulder and see her running for the stairs. She looked fine in her jeans and hoodie because she has the face of an Irish nymph with her fiery mane of hair and vivid sea-blue eyes. By the time I’m plating the food, Brittany is back wearing a fitted, maroon thermal long-sleeve shirt, providing warmth without bulk, black leggings with a subtle pattern and black waterproof winter boots with faux fur trim. Because we raid each other’s closets all the time, she has on my black puffer jacket with a cinched waist and has topped it with a chunky-knit maroon infinity scarf. Never let it be said the Montreaux sisters aren’t into fashion.
Brittany tops off her cup of coffee, refreshes mine, and then we sit with Izzy. I take the iPad away from my niece who grumbles but then gets easily distracted by the pancakes, her little legs swinging back and forth under the table.
“Aunt Willa, do you think I’ll score a goal today?” she asks, her voice brimming with anticipation.
I’m doubting anyone will score a goal today, but I would never tell her that. “I’m sure you’ll do great, sweetie. But just remember, the most important thing to accomplish today is to have fun.”
She frowns, puckering that little mouth. “But I want to score a goal.”
Snickering, Brittany chucks her daughter under the chin. “Try really hard and I’m sure you will. But if you don’t, Aunt Willa will teach you how to do it.”
I give Brittany a panicked look. She knows how stressful this is for me, not knowing a damn thing about hockey other than the purpose of the game is to, in fact, put the puck in the net. It’s called a goal.
Brittany gives me a reassuring smile. “You’ve got this.”
“I better,” I mutter, sipping my coffee. I’ve spent the last two nights reading up on the peewee league’s rules and watching YouTube videos on how to teach kids to play hockey. I know enough to know I’m out of my depth.
Izzy then makes a proclamation that turns up the heat. “I’m gonna be the best hockey player ever because I have the best coach ever.”
While I know it’s wasted breath, I feel the need to point out, “You do understand your aunt is a figure skater and has never played hockey, nor has she ever even watched a hockey game before.”
And because I don’t give smart six-year-olds enough credit, I’m shocked when she says, “Yeah… but you’re a doctor and you’re smarter than anyone I know. You’ll just learn how to do it and then teach me.”
So very simple and ironically, it’s exactly what’s going to happen. While today is truly going to be a fun game to let the kids get on the ice, I actually do have some semblance of a plan for basic stick skills to work on at our next practice. Today’s objective, however, is simply to keep them from bashing each other with the sticks and hopefully keep it to three or fewer meltdowns on the ice.
♦
It’s immediate intimidation when I walk into the IcePlex. There was a relaxed vibe the other day when I was here for Izzy’s practice, which unexpectedly ended with me becoming a coach. But this morning, the minute I step foot inside, I feel an electric surge of parental pride coupled with overenthusiastic little kids.
The noise is almost deafening with three full-size rinks and two games going on simultaneously per rink. You have the expected scrape of skates on ice, clack of sticks and shrill of whistles, but layered on top of that are hundreds of parents cheering, yelling and screaming.
I’m shocked as we walk by a row of stands and one father yells, “Check him, Marty. Knock him to the ice.”
Another person—a grandmother I think, based on the age lines of her face and snow-white hair, screams, “That was a penalty ref. For fuck’s sake, do your job.”
“Oh my God,” Brittany whispers to me as we make our way down to the rink where the Ice Pups will be playing the Mini Blizzards. “These people are nuts.”
“Probably anomalies,” I mutter, but then some man yells out, “I’m going to kick your butt, ref.”