Chapter 3 #2
Charlene stayed outside to cheer on the kids and their pickup game.
I went in to greet Sela, then peeked into the living room where Agatha, Leroy, Terrance’s husband Justin, my paternal grandfather, and my father sat.
The television blared some football game, but I could hear my mother’s laugh over the announcer.
She was in the kitchen—the hub of our house.
I followed the laughter and the smell of tomato sauce, peppers, and garlic and smiled when I saw her holding out a spoon for my brother Terrance to taste the sauce.
“Chug, chug, chug,” Grandma Filipkowski chanted.
I bent down to kiss her cheek, feeling the cool papery texture of her skin against my lips.
She was a spry eight-six with pale blue eyes, and wispy white hair coiled in a bun at the nape of her neck.
She looked fragile, but I knew how strong she was—and I remembered how strong she had been in my youth.
When my parents had married back in 1975, mixed race marriages weren’t common or always accepted, but with the approval of both sets of parents standing beside them, my mother and father had weathered any storm society sent their way.
I loved my mixed heritage, loved when Grandma and Grandpa Filipkowski told me about their childhoods in Poland, loved when Nana and Pops Washington told me about how our family had come north after the Civil War to Baltimore and opened a tiny neighborhood grocery store.
That store had been sold three generations ago, but the success had fueled a large family of teachers, doctors, lawyers, and business owners.
“How do you expect me to chug a teaspoon of sauce?” Terrance teased our grandmother. Then he tasted the contents of the spoon and swallowed, a thoughtful expression on his face.
“More oregano?” Mom asked.
He shook his head. “Maybe a touch more basil. And toss in a couple extra bay leaves.”
“Do those bay leaves actually do anything besides be a nuisance when you’re trying to eat your pasta?” I asked as I hugged my mother then did the same to my brother.
Mom swatted at me. “The recipe called for bay leaves, so I’m putting in bay leaves. Stop complaining about having to pick them out of the sauce.”
I grinned. “Okay, okay. What can I do?”
“Sit and entertain your grandmother.” Sometimes dinner involved lots of chopping and dicing, but outside of special occasions or a rare impulse to try a particularly chef-worthy recipe, Mom opted for easy dishes that could feed an army.
Because that pretty much summed up the size and appetite of our family.
We were all tall, strong, and including the kids, there would be eighteen of us for dinner tonight.
I sat down beside Grandma Filipkowski and she patted my hand. “How are you moja droga? How is Brad?”
Terrance rolled his eyes. “Grandma, Brad is dead. Dead.”
Grandma Filipkowski didn’t look particularly startled by that. “I am glad to hear this news. He was not worthy of our Willa.”
Brad wasn’t dead, although some of my family probably wished he was. Kicking him to the curb had been my come-to-Jesus moment when I’d decided to stop dating sexy assholes and find myself a good man who would treat me right.
Or buy a really good vibrator and just call the whole thing quits.
“That man was eight months ago. Get with the program here,” Terrance continued. “Willa has entered the dating-desert phase of her life, where she stays home on weekends, wears a lot of pajama pants, and binges on ice cream and Hallmark movies.”
That was surprisingly on-point, aside from the Hallmark movies.
“I’ll have you know I went out last night,” I informed my brother.
He dramatically clutched his heart. “Were you wearing pajama pants? Was it a trip to refill your ice cream supply?”
I mock-glared at him. “Jordan had tickets to see the Tusks play.”
“Is that a new band?” Grandma Filipkowski asked. “I can never keep track of this new music.”
“The Tusks are a hockey team,” Mom told her.
“A very bad hockey team,” Terrance added.
Mom shrugged. “New sports teams are always bad. Give them a season or two to gel and I’m sure they’ll do us proud.”
“Are they hot?” Grandma Filipkowski was looking at Terrance, clearly considering his opinion on male attractiveness more valuable than my own.
“Oh hell yes. They’re orcs, so they look like jacked-up pornstars with green skin.” Terrance turned to me. “I only saw the promo pics though. What do they look like up close?”
I felt my face heat, thinking that I’d seen one particular orc up close and very personal. “Jacked-up pornstars with green skin,” I agreed. “They play without their shirts on, so I can attest to the level of upper body muscle.”
I could attest to other muscle as well, but I wasn’t about to tell my family that.
“Justin and I might need to spring for season tickets,” my brother said.
“Get them while they’re cheap.” I desperately needed to change the topic of conversation away from orcs and especially hockey-playing orcs.
“How are things at the gym, Willa?” Mom asked, coming to my rescue.
“Slow,” I admitted. “One of my main clients is injured, so he’s put his training on hold. A couple of others have spaced out their sessions due to finances. I’m trying to pick up as many classes as I can to make up the difference.”
There was a heavy moment of silence. I knew they all worried about me. Hell, I worried about me.
“Things will pick up this spring,” Terrance said. “Or maybe after Christmas when everyone gets gym memberships and training sessions for their New Year’s resolutions.”
Things did pick up after the holidays, but then they just as quickly dropped back off again as the resolution-makers gave up, or people’s gift certificates ran out and weren’t renewed.
“You need to train someone famous,” Grandma Filipkowski told me. “They’re the ones with all of the money. They’ll pay you double what those gym clients of yours do.”
My mind went immediately to Eng, although he wasn’t famous anywhere aside from his own kingdom. And even if a miracle occurred and the Tusks won a game, an orc who did nothing besides prop up the wall wasn’t likely to become famous.
“Actually, you should train those Tusk orcs,” she added. “Maybe then they would be winning their games.”
“Gran, they clearly don’t know hockey. They need a coach,” Terrance told her.
“They need someone to teach them to skate first,” Mom added.
They were both right. All the custom training programs in the world wouldn’t help these guys if they didn’t learn how to skate and what the rules of hockey entailed. But…”
Grandma Filipkowski snorted. “They still need a sports trainer, even if they get a coach and skating lessons. Orcs are strong as a farm oxen, but they’ve got the flexibility of granite and no speed off the block. Their fast-twitch muscles need work.”
“That’s what I said,” I told her, amazed at how much my Polish grandmother and I thought alike.
The idea stuck in my brain all day, no matter how I tried to push it into the recesses of my mind.
It would be a dream come true to train a professional sports team, but that dream had always seemed wildly out of reach for me.
But the Tusks weren’t a typical NHL team, and I got the feeling their owner was far too cheap to spring for one of the big-name trainers.
I, on the other hand, would be willing to work at a significant discount just to get my foot in the door.
But first, I’d need to work up the nerve to pitch the demon who owned the team.
And then I’d need to hope I could do enough to improve their playing and maybe even get them to the point they’d win a game or two.
Because if there was no difference in their skill, if they still were the laughing stocks of the NHL, then all my efforts would amount to nothing.
And I’d be right back where I started—poor, with limited career prospects.