Chapter 3
Three
My nephew kicks the ball at his feet, missing the goal, but his foot connects with the ball.
It’s a win. “That’s it, Wyatt!” I clap my hands, thankful our first spring soccer practice isn’t too cold for my rowdy group of five-year-olds.
Wyatt’s not even in a coat, just a long-sleeved T-shirt.
I mean, it’s not nearly as nice as our fall season, but sixty degrees in February is a win.
“Maggie?” Courtney Shue scurries over from the sidelines, a slight whine in her tone. I know that whine. It doesn’t care that I’m in the middle of coaching. Her Ashley is on the field. They’re all on the field. What on earth could she have to complain about?
I keep my eyes on the kids. “Nice, Hannah. Great kick.”
But Courtney Shue doesn’t care that I’m coaching. She has something to say... There is a tap on my shoulder, and then— “There’s a bit of a chill in the air,” Courtney says.
I glance over at her and force a smile to my lips. “It’s sixty degrees out. That’s about as good as we’ll get in February.”
“Yes, but it’s almost March. I’d hoped for at least sixty-five. Ashley doesn’t have a coat with her.”
No—she does not. However, the poor thing is in two sweatshirts, a beanie, and gloves. And I’d bet money there’s a T-shirt beneath those two sweaters. “I think she’s okay,” I tell Courtney. “They’re working out, too. That warms them up.”
A long sigh falls from Courtney’s chest. And I know what’s coming.
It’s not the first time I’ve heard that sigh.
“You aren’t a mother, Maggie. So, maybe you aren’t aware, but children can get sick if they’re out in the cold too long.
” None of my other parents have an issue with me being Wyatt’s aunt and not his mother. Just Courtney.
“I’m pretty sure germs make you sick, not the temperature.”
Courtney shakes her head. But when her mouth opens to tell me once more why I don’t understand because my loins have yet to give birth—her words to me last fall—I blow my whistle. “Okay, Pandas, line up!”
“It’s Pink Pandas, Miss Maggie!” Ashley yells. She will be just like her mother one day.
“She’s right,” Courtney says, still beside me. “It is Pink Pandas. They voted at the beginning of practice.”
I sigh. “I know they voted, Courtney. I was there. I held the election. I was shortening it.” And I was trying to save the four boys who were outnumbered and lost the election to the five girls on our team.
“You know, if you’re worried about Ashley getting sick, you could pull her. Then put her back in in the fall.”
Courtney’s brows pull together. “But if we pulled her, then there would be no guarantee she’d be on your team next fall and—” She shakes her head. “Ashley loves you.”
Okay, I might be softening a bit toward my most overbearing mother and daughter. “That’s—”
“Even if you don’t have that motherly intuition.”
I cough down my almost kind return of her sentiment. “I really need to coach. Could you—” I nod toward the other parents sitting on the sidelines.
“Oh, sure. But maybe consider canceling practice next time if we aren’t in the seventies.”
“I won’t be doing that. But you can choose not to come unless it’s warmer—that’s fine.” I turn back to my semi-straight line of five-year-old athletes. “Okay, Pandas. Do you remember our Red Light, Green Light drill from last fall?”
My team members bounce excitedly in place—they remember. It was a five-year-old favorite.
“Okay, let’s start at the end of the field. Remember, green light, you dribble toward me. Red light, you freeze!”
We’re only halfway through our drill when my other “favorite” mom decides she needs to chat with me.
Blaire Kline, in her high-heeled boots and faux fur cropped jacket, sidles up next to me. “Maggie? I have a small complaint.”
“Shocker,” I say, unable to hold back my sigh. “Nice kick, Kash. Keep it up.” Again, I keep my eyes on my kids. I’m here for them. I’m here for Wyatt. Not for judgments and complaints from overly pampered adults.
Blaire’s eyes dart to the field. She claps. “Good work, Kashy-boy.”
“Red light!” I call, and my kids freeze in place, a ball at each of their feet. I swallow and spare Blaire one glance. “What’s the problem?”
A slow, wistful breath falls from Blaire. “At our last fall game, you said there would be a possibility of new kids on the team.”
“Green light!” I yell, and my kids start dribbling up and down the field once more.
Then, turning back to Blaire, I say, “It’s not up to me.
It just depends on who signs up for the next season and where the committee places them.
Unless there’s a request or dropouts, they usually keep the teams together. ”
Blaire’s mouth purses and her nose wrinkles. “But when I asked you about new kids, you said—”
“Red light!” I huff. “You could have requested Kash to be on someone else’s team if you’re unhappy.”
“No, it’s not that. I heard Courtney before—” She rolls her eyes. “But I don’t care that you aren’t a mother. You’re here, and you seem to know what you’re doing.” It may be the greatest compliment the woman has ever given me. “It’s just that there aren’t a lot of… males here.”
“Males?” I blink, glancing away from my team to the woman once more. “We have nine kids. It’s a coed team. We won’t ever be evenly split.”
Blaire tosses one hand in the air. “No, not the boys.” She lowers her voice and says, “Adult unmarried males. I’m talking about the parents. I was hoping for a new single dad or two this time around. We’ve only got Evan, and he’s just not my type.”
I cough. I practically choke on the ridiculous request and the control Blaire thinks I have. Maybe Courtney’s right—maybe being outside is going to get me sick. Or maybe the parents on my team are a bunch of crazies who make me choke on my own saliva.
Okay, harsh. Most of my parents are great. But I’m definitely going to ask if coaches can make requests next season. Okay, that’s not true either. While Courtney and Blaire make me want to pull my hair out, I really like their kids.
I look at Blaire, my brows pinched and a frown on my face. How can she ask this with complete seriousness?
“I mean, I understand who is married and who isn’t really isn’t in your control—”
“Do you?” I turn to look her head-on.
“I do, but you said—”
I groan. At this point, the noise escaping my mouth is out of my hands. “I’m coaching, Blaire. I’m coaching.” And my kids have officially been frozen for far too long. Giani has fallen onto his back, his feet pointed to the sky, as if he solidified that way.
And so, practice continues for the next twenty minutes until we wrap it up.
I’ve got every ball but one—the one Wyatt is currently attempting to bounce off his head. My cones are cleaned up, my pennies are in the bag, my parents are gone. But Wyatt loves this game—almost as much as he loves banana cream pie. Almost as much as I love him. And he isn’t finished playing.
“Hey,” I say to my favorite little guy. “Want me to toss it to you? It will be easier to head the ball if you have some backup.”
“No hands!” Wyatt says, his blue eyes shining at me.
“That’s right. No hands in soccer. So, kick it over, buddy.”
Wyatt grins mischievously. “No hands, Aunt Maggie. You have to toss it with no hands!” He giggles, thinking he’s got me.
And while Wyatt has grown up with me living in the same house as him, he only knows a small portion when it comes to my soccer days.
I’m guessing the U-23 U.S team and my years on it mean very little to him.
But that time meant a whole lot to me. I was the captain.
I was good. And sure, it’s been a few years—close to six, to be exact—but I still know how to chip a ball.
With my right foot, I strike the ball, low and underneath, my motion controlled but not too hard as I’m aiming for my nephew. The ball rises into the air directly toward Wyatt.
His blue eyes widen with delight, and he leaps, but my little guy springs to the left when the ball was headed straight for him. The ball skiffs over the right side of his head, just grazing his ear, before bouncing to the ground. Still, his head made contact. Sort of.
And Wyatt is thrilled. “I got it!” he yells.
“Yeah, you did.” I crouch down, lifting my fist, and Wyatt runs over, bumping his hand to mine.
“Hey, Maggie!” Tom Lance, the youth club committee president, walks my way from the next field over.
Pressing a kiss to Wyatt’s head, I stand back up. “You can play for two more minutes, okay, bud?”
Wyatt nods, happy to have the space to himself. He runs his ball over to the small goal set up for one of many fields on this open recreation area.
“How was practice?” Tom asks.
“Good. The kids are great.” But I skip past the small talk, as I know what he’s actually here to ask about. “I just heard back from the Red Tails and the Strikers. They’re both in for the Pros Mentoring Day.”
Tom’s grin spreads, natural and wide. “Yes.” He shakes his head. “Thanks for doing that. How many do you think we’ll have?”
“I asked for ten players from each team. So, we should have one pro per youth team. They’re scheduled to come in two weeks. They’ll stay the entire practice and work with the kids. It should be fun.”
“I bet I could get a reporter out here. They could film and maybe interview a couple kids.” Tom rubs the bristles on his chin. “It could be great exposure for the league, maybe even bring in some sponsors.”
“Great. I’ll take care of the players, you take care of the news crew.”
“Aunt Maggie?” Wyatt calls, and I peer over to the small goal, where Wyatt’s been playing.
His left leg is stuck through the goal’s net, and his hair is somehow stuck in a bolt at the top right of the structure.
The nets for our littles are tiny, and Wyatt is stretched out like a tug-of-war rope, end to end.
“Wyatt!” I squeak, rushing over.
“He’s not a very coordinated little guy, is he?” Tom says.
“He’s five,” I growl as I work to unhook Wyatt’s hair from the bolt. It’s wrapped clear around the thing. “I’m not sure how you did this, buddy.”
“I was work’n on my head bump. I kicked and jumped and…” His little shoulders shrug, and somehow the action loosens his last bit of hair from the bolt.
I work on removing his foot from the net, and when I’m done, Wyatt wraps both arms around my neck. “You’re a real hero, Aunt Maggie.”
“Thanks, Wyatt.”
He pulls back to look at me, purses his lips to the side, and nods. “I heard one time that heroes always eat ice cream after they save the day.”
I smirk, holding back a full-on laugh. “Even before dinner?”
“They eat it for dinner.” Released from his soccer net prison, he tosses his ball in the air.
Jumping, both of his legs kick out in celebration, his head nods into his chest before he flicks it awkwardly up and to the side—completely missing the ball.
And now, I officially know how Wyatt got into his net prison predicament.
I sigh, looking at him stuck in the net once more. “Hold on, bud. I’ve got you.”