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)
“I’m sorry,” the league manager says. “But no coach, no team.”
Brittany leans forward to read the man’s name tag, her eyes cutting up to him. “Mr. Carlan… surely you have someone else who can coach. We paid to be in this league and these kids are excited.”
“We have no one,” he says brusquely.
“Then perhaps you—”
“I have far too much to do just managing this league. I don’t have time to coach.”
“Well, what should we do?” one father asks.
Mr. Carlan glances around our group. “I suggest one of you parents step up to the plate and agree to coach this team. Otherwise, I’ll have to remove the Ice Pups from the schedule.”
I look around and focus in on the dads who stereotypically would be better served to coach hockey since it’s a male-dominated sport. The handful in attendance look up to the ceiling, down at the floor, or scroll furiously through their phones to not make eye contact. One dad puts his phone to his ear, loudly proclaiming he has a business call to take and steps away from the group. The women all look around frantically and then the excuses start to fly.
I would, but my job has me traveling every other week. I can barely keep up with my own schedule, let alone a team’s.
I’m allergic to the cold. Every time I step into the rink, I start sneezing uncontrollably. It’s really quite embarrassing.
I already volunteer as the head coach for my son’s soccer team and my daughter’s swim team. I don’t think I have the bandwidth to take on another coaching role.
I would, but I have a crippling fear of Zambonis. I saw one up close as a kid, and I’ve never gotten over it.
I don’t know anything about hockey. I mean, I can barely tell a puck from a doughnut. The kids need someone who knows what they’re doing.
Brittany wheels on me, her eyes pleading. “Willa, you’ve got to do it. You know how to skate.”
My eyes flare wide as all eyes come to me. I shake my head. “Knowing how to skate doesn’t make me a hockey coach.”
“But you’ve coached kids on ice,” Brittany insists. One mother nods her head in clear affirmation, as if she knows me.
“Britt, I can’t,” I protest. “I was a figure skater, not a hockey player, and besides that, I have a very busy schedule.”
Brittany rolls her eyes. “Oh, please. You set your own schedule. You can fit it in and I’ll help you. I don’t know hockey or even how to skate, but I can help keep the kids focused.” She seems to ponder her offer and then amends. “From the boards, of course. Like I said, I can’t skate.”
She’s not wrong. I do set my own schedule but I’m not wrong either. I’m very busy. I’m a partner in a new primary care medical practice and we provide extended hours to our patients. It allows for flexible scheduling for work/home balance, but we also have one day a week where we travel to underserved communities and then there are hospital rounds, and well… I don’t know hockey!
“Brittany,” I groan in frustration, hating the impending guilt that will swallow me if I don’t do this. I make the horrible and unfixable mistake of looking over at Izzy, whose mouth is downturned into a pout that could break hearts across the galaxy.
“Okay, fine,” I grouse as I glare at her. “But you are absolutely helping me. I don’t know if I can make all the practices.” I glance around at the parents. “Is there anyone else who can help as well?”
More excuses, more eyes fixed on the ceiling.
I rub at my temple but then Brittany throws her arms around my shoulders. “Thank you so much. You’ll be great, I promise, and what an experience for Izzy to have her favorite auntie—”
“I’m her only auntie,” I grumble.
“—coaching her.”
I shrug off my sister and move to the boards. Motioning with my hands, I call the kids over. While they can skate, they’re all still wobbly and a few crash into the wood panels, barely hanging on. I don’t have skates with me, so today’s practice is going to have to be a get-to-know-you kind of deal.
The kids gather around, their faces a mix of curiosity and excitement. The parents filter back into the stands.
“Hi, everyone.” I try to sound confident. I’m a doctor and can deliver a baby for Christ’s sake, but somehow these hopeful little stares are disconcerting. “I’m Coach Willa, and I guess I’ll be teaching you how to play hockey. Let’s, uh, start with some basics. Let me see how well you all can skate. Everyone skate as fast as you can to the far side of the rink and back again.”
The kids giggle and whoop, taking off in a blur of flailing arms and pumping legs. A few kids are pretty good, but most are barely able to stay upright when they have to turn. They reach the board, a few crashing and falling, but they’re spunky and all come racing back.