Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 84200 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 421(@200wpm)___ 337(@250wpm)___ 281(@300wpm)
“We?” I ask curiously because Coach West isn’t a loved one or friend to any of those who perished.
“Brienne invited me to one of the meetings when I first started. Wanted me to talk about overcoming loss and dealing with grief.” He shrugs with a fond smile. “I’m sort of an honorary member now.”
Coach West lost his wife to cancer several years ago. He would know all about what it’s like to mourn someone. And I knew about the support group. Brienne Norcross, the owner of the Pittsburgh Titans, emailed me, Coen and Hendrix about it. I never replied or went to any meetings.
“I expect you at tomorrow’s get-together,” he says. I immediately close off, wanting to tell him to go to hell, but he adds, “If you want to keep your position on the second line, you will do this.”
That pisses me off, but I’m polite when I say, “With all due respect, not sure it’s fair to require something like that just to keep my job. I missed one practice.”
“Your play has been substandard all season and you know it,” Coach says, and gone is the affable man we all know and love. His tone is hard and unforgiving. “Now, one of the reasons I’m a great coach is because I can see beneath the surface and coax out the best in my players. You can sit there and tell me until you’re blue in the face that you’re okay, but something is weighing on you. If it’s not the crash, my apologies. You’ll still have a great time at the get-together. You’ll know a lot of people. If it is the crash, you can thank me later for pushing you to get help.”
“And if I don’t go?” I ask, so I’m very clear.
“You’ll go down to the third line until your play improves,” he says simply. “You get a pass today for missing practice. Next time, you won’t enjoy my visit.”
“Didn’t enjoy this one,” I admit truthfully.
Rather than take offense, Coach West grins. “That means I’m doing my job then.”
CHAPTER 2
Danica
“Travis,” I yell up the stairs as I bend to pick up three pairs of his shoes from the living room. “Don’t forget… I want two extra layers under your coat.”
“I know,” he calls back, his tone a low drawl of frustration that I’m micromanaging his wardrobe choices.
I smile and place the shoes on the staircase, each pair on a different tread. I’m almost gleeful at the idea of when he comes down, I’m going to make him carry them back up to his room. He hates making the trek up for some reason, despite the fact he has the energy of a thousand battery-packed bunnies.
Same as he hates to unload the dishwasher and roll the trash cans out to the curb.
I turn for the kitchen, intent on filling a travel mug with coffee when I hear his pounding feet on the stairs. Swiveling back that way, I meet him before he can reach the very bottom, pointing to the shoes. “You know the rules… no leaving your shoes in a place that is not your bedroom closet.”
“Ugh,” he groans in an overly dramatic fashion. “Can’t I take them up tonight when we get back home?”
“No, you cannot.” I point upward. “Upstairs. Now.”
He mutters and grumbles but does as he’s asked, because honest to God… he’s such a great kid. I get a kick out of all these little battles as Travis ages and matures. The way he’s pushing boundaries and rules is a rite of passage.
Or so my sister, Reba, assures me—she has a son of her own, although he’s four years older than mine.
Just a few days ago, I was working on a grant proposal at the kitchen table while Travis finished his homework for the evening. He closed his math book and started to head upstairs so he could watch his allotted half hour of TV.
I didn’t even look up from my work. “Hey, bud… do me a favor and load the dishwasher?”
“No way… that’s your job,” he said. “I unload and you load.”
I lifted my head and appraised him. I had to bite my tongue not to laugh because he looked so earnest in his evaluation of how things work between a parent and a kid.
“No,” I drawled, leveling him with a smile. “Your job is to do every chore you could ever imagine in this house. In exchange, I allow you to have a roof over your head and food in your belly. I merely happen to do a lot of it for you.”
Travis rolled his eyes and then I did bust out laughing. But I pointedly jerked my head toward the dishwasher and said, “Go on… load it up for me. I’ve got more work to do.”
And the biggest heart melt occurred when he walked not to the dishwasher but to me to kiss my cheek. “You’re the best mom ever. Even if you make me do chores.”