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 withno 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 wasgood. 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.
