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)
Brittany sighs as she looks her daughter up and down, utterly adorable in her hockey jersey and black skates. The child is only six but she does know how to skate, thanks to lessons from yours truly nearly since she started walking. Try as we might, we couldn’t get her interested in figure skating.
Taking Izzy by the hand, Brittany leads her over to a frazzled-looking man with spectacles that keep sliding down his nose. He has a roster on a clipboard and checks off each kid’s name as they arrive.
Brittany places her hand on Izzy’s shoulder as the man looks up. “Hi. I’m Brittany Montreaux and this is my daughter, Izzy.”
“Coach Peters,” he says brusquely as he checks Izzy’s name off the list. His watery eyes come to me. “And who’s your kid?”
“I’m Izzy’s aunt Willa. Brittany’s sister. Just here to watch.”
The man stares at me, then his eyes cut to Brittany, and then back to me. “You two look nothing alike.”
The words alone are rude but his tone isn’t offensive. Almost as if he’s just socially awkward. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I say, “I promise. We’re sisters.”
The man isn’t wrong in that there’s absolutely no resemblance between me and Brittany. My hair is a warm brown with hints of gold and my eyes are a steel gray with hints of blue. A stark contrast and proof that I’m adopted and Brittany isn’t, although Brittany doesn’t necessarily look like our parents either, who are both blond. Lord knows we heard my dad rant enough during one of his drunken fits that Mom must have screwed the milkman since Brittany has red hair.
Of course, there was no milkman, and my dad was always so apologetic when he sobered up, but still… this isn’t the first time our differences have been pointed out.
“Very well,” he says, as if my declaration is mildly acceptable. He points to the stands that only have three rows. “You can watch over there.”
Brittany pats Izzy on the helmet and I give her a thumbs-up. Her eyes are wide with excitement and maybe a little nervousness. “You’re going to do great, favorite niece of mine.”
I get a toothless grin. “I’m your only niece.”
Brittany and I climb up to the third row to watch. Since the rinks are set up for peewee practice, there’s no glass around the boards and our view is unimpeded because there’s no one sitting in front of us. Coach Peters gathers the kids around him and I note that for the most part, they all have some skating ability.
“Okay, kids, listen up!” Coach Peters calls out, but his voice is barely heard over the cacophony of excited children. None of them pay him any attention, too happy to be on the ice in their new skates and uniforms.
Brittany and I stifle giggles as the poor man tries to run a few basic drills, but it quickly becomes apparent that the kids are more interested in chasing each other than following instructions.
Coach Peters blows his whistle, the shrill noise garnering the little ones’ attention. “I need you children to listen to me. This is an organized sport and you are acting very unorganized. All eyes on me.”
That works for about five minutes but then one little boy falls down and it starts a riot of giggles as another kid tries to pull him up and he falls as well.
Coach Peters puffs on his whistle in short staccato bursts, but the kids ignore him wholly. Brittany snickers and I elbow her in the ribs, noting that the other parents are also laughing.
After about fifteen minutes of futile attempts, the coach throws his hands up in exasperation. “I can’t do this,” he yells, his gaze coming to the stands and all the parents who are no longer laughing. “I quit.”
A stunned silence falls over the rink as we watch the coach rip his whistle off and throw it down, followed by his clipboard. He skates off the ice, through the gate and disappears into the crowd. Now all the kids are absolutely silent until one little girl starts crying at the top of her lungs, prompting another little girl and boy to start bawling. Parents shoot off the benches, rushing to the boards to console their kids.
“Jesus,” Brittany whispers as we exit the stands and gather around the rest of the parents.
“What do we do?” a woman asks, her worried gaze cutting between the other parents and the kids.
What do we do indeed?
Ultimately, the league manager makes an appearance after a parent finds him and confirms that Coach Peters left the building and said he has no intention of coming back.
“I’m going to guess he’s never coached kids before,” I whisper to Brittany. Admittedly, coaching requires a very Zen perspective, a light touch and a hell of a lot of patience. I spent a lot of time in high school earning extra money giving kids skating lessons and it’s not for the faint of heart.