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’sPinkPandas, Miss Maggie!” Ashley yells. She will be just like her mother one day.
“She’s right,” Courtney says, still beside me. “It isPinkPandas. 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. “Ireally 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. Unlessthere’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…maleshere.”
“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, “Adultunmarriedmales. 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.”
