Chapter 2

CHAPTER 2

Willa

T he familiar scent of the rink ice hits me as soon as we enter the building. A mix of cold, crisp air and a faint metallic tang. It's a smell that takes me back to my childhood, to the countless hours I spent on the ice, finding solace in the rhythmic scrape of my figure skates. It was an escape from my father's anger and the tension that always hung in the air at home. The ice became my refuge, a place where I could be free. Each glide, each jump, was a haven away from what was often a scary place to live.

The ice rink looks no different from the one I attended during my skating days back home in upstate New York. The boards around the rink are scuffed from years of use, and the overhead lights cast a bright, almost sterile glow. I close my eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply, the cold air filling my lungs. It's strange how the cold can feel so comforting.

This multiplex is buzzing with energy though because it's all about kids' hockey today. Parents chat on the sidelines of the various rinks, bundled up in jackets and scarves as the temperatures start to really dip in mid-November. Kids dart around on wee skates, their laughter echoing through the cavernous space. A pang of nostalgia hits me while watching them, remembering the countless hours I spent perfecting my routines.

I follow Brittany and Izzy to rink B where Izzy's new peewee hockey team, the Ice Pups, are meeting for their first practice. Brittany helps her with her helmet, making sure it's snug. "Last chance, kiddo. Wouldn't you rather be a figure skater like Aunt Willa?"

Izzy has her mother's same curly red hair and bright blue eyes. Missing her two front teeth, she grins at her mom and shakes her head. "I want to be a hockey player."

Brittany cuts me a sharp glance but her tone is teasing. "You clearly failed to make a strong enough impression on your niece."

"You're the one who signed her up for hockey," I point out with a smirk.

Brittany sighs as she looks her daughter up and down, utterly adorable in her hockey jersey and black skates. The child is only six but she does know how to skate, thanks to lessons from yours truly nearly since she started walking. Try as we might, we couldn't get her interested in figure skating.

Taking Izzy by the hand, Brittany leads her over to a frazzled-looking man with spectacles that keep sliding down his nose. He has a roster on a clipboard and checks off each kid's name as they arrive.

Brittany places her hand on Izzy's shoulder as the man looks up. "Hi. I'm Brittany Montreaux and this is my daughter, Izzy."

"Coach Peters," he says brusquely as he checks Izzy's name off the list. His watery eyes come to me. "And who's your kid?"

"I'm Izzy's aunt Willa. Brittany's sister. Just here to watch."

The man stares at me, then his eyes cut to Brittany, and then back to me. "You two look nothing alike."

The words alone are rude but his tone isn't offensive. Almost as if he's just socially awkward. Giving him the benefit of the doubt, I say, "I promise. We're sisters."

The man isn't wrong in that there's absolutely no resemblance between me and Brittany. My hair is a warm brown with hints of gold and my eyes are a steel gray with hints of blue. A stark contrast and proof that I'm adopted and Brittany isn't, although Brittany doesn't necessarily look like our parents either, who are both blond. Lord knows we heard my dad rant enough during one of his drunken fits that Mom must have screwed the milkman since Brittany has red hair.

Of course, there was no milkman, and my dad was always so apologetic when he sobered up, but still… this isn't the first time our differences have been pointed out.

"Very well," he says, as if my declaration is mildly acceptable. He points to the stands that only have three rows. "You can watch over there."

Brittany pats Izzy on the helmet and I give her a thumbs-up. Her eyes are wide with excitement and maybe a little nervousness. "You're going to do great, favorite niece of mine."

I get a toothless grin. "I'm your only niece."

Brittany and I climb up to the third row to watch. Since the rinks are set up for peewee practice, there's no glass around the boards and our view is unimpeded because there's no one sitting in front of us. Coach Peters gathers the kids around him and I note that for the most part, they all have some skating ability.

"Okay, kids, listen up!" Coach Peters calls out, but his voice is barely heard over the cacophony of excited children. None of them pay him any attention, too happy to be on the ice in their new skates and uniforms.

Brittany and I stifle giggles as the poor man tries to run a few basic drills, but it quickly becomes apparent that the kids are more interested in chasing each other than following instructions.

Coach Peters blows his whistle, the shrill noise garnering the little ones' attention. "I need you children to listen to me. This is an organized sport and you are acting very unorganized. All eyes on me."

That works for about five minutes but then one little boy falls down and it starts a riot of giggles as another kid tries to pull him up and he falls as well.

Coach Peters puffs on his whistle in short staccato bursts, but the kids ignore him wholly. Brittany snickers and I elbow her in the ribs, noting that the other parents are also laughing.

After about fifteen minutes of futile attempts, the coach throws his hands up in exasperation. "I can't do this," he yells, his gaze coming to the stands and all the parents who are no longer laughing. "I quit."

A stunned silence falls over the rink as we watch the coach rip his whistle off and throw it down, followed by his clipboard. He skates off the ice, through the gate and disappears into the crowd. Now all the kids are absolutely silent until one little girl starts crying at the top of her lungs, prompting another little girl and boy to start bawling. Parents shoot off the benches, rushing to the boards to console their kids.

"Jesus," Brittany whispers as we exit the stands and gather around the rest of the parents.

"What do we do?" a woman asks, her worried gaze cutting between the other parents and the kids.

What do we do indeed?

Ultimately, the league manager makes an appearance after a parent finds him and confirms that Coach Peters left the building and said he has no intention of coming back.

"I'm going to guess he's never coached kids before," I whisper to Brittany. Admittedly, coaching requires a very Zen perspective, a light touch and a hell of a lot of patience. I spent a lot of time in high school earning extra money giving kids skating lessons and it's not for the faint of heart.

"I'm sorry," the league manager says. "But no coach, no team."

Brittany leans forward to read the man's name tag, her eyes cutting up to him. "Mr. Carlan… surely you have someone else who can coach. We paid to be in this league and these kids are excited."

"We have no one," he says brusquely.

"Then perhaps you—"

"I have far too much to do just managing this league. I don't have time to coach."

"Well, what should we do?" one father asks.

Mr. Carlan glances around our group. "I suggest one of you parents step up to the plate and agree to coach this team. Otherwise, I'll have to remove the Ice Pups from the schedule."

I look around and focus in on the dads who stereotypically would be better served to coach hockey since it's a male-dominated sport. The handful in attendance look up to the ceiling, down at the floor, or scroll furiously through their phones to not make eye contact. One dad puts his phone to his ear, loudly proclaiming he has a business call to take and steps away from the group. The women all look around frantically and then the excuses start to fly.

I would, but my job has me traveling every other week. I can barely keep up with my own schedule, let alone a team's.

I'm allergic to the cold. Every time I step into the rink, I start sneezing uncontrollably. It's really quite embarrassing.

I already volunteer as the head coach for my son's soccer team and my daughter's swim team. I don't think I have the bandwidth to take on another coaching role.

I would, but I have a crippling fear of Zambonis. I saw one up close as a kid, and I've never gotten over it.

I don't know anything about hockey. I mean, I can barely tell a puck from a doughnut. The kids need someone who knows what they're doing.

Brittany wheels on me, her eyes pleading. "Willa, you've got to do it. You know how to skate."

My eyes flare wide as all eyes come to me. I shake my head. "Knowing how to skate doesn't make me a hockey coach."

"But you've coached kids on ice," Brittany insists. One mother nods her head in clear affirmation, as if she knows me.

"Britt, I can't," I protest. "I was a figure skater, not a hockey player, and besides that, I have a very busy schedule."

Brittany rolls her eyes. "Oh, please. You set your own schedule. You can fit it in and I'll help you. I don't know hockey or even how to skate, but I can help keep the kids focused." She seems to ponder her offer and then amends. "From the boards, of course. Like I said, I can't skate."

She's not wrong. I do set my own schedule but I'm not wrong either. I'm very busy. I'm a partner in a new primary care medical practice and we provide extended hours to our patients. It allows for flexible scheduling for work/home balance, but we also have one day a week where we travel to underserved communities and then there are hospital rounds, and well… I don't know hockey!

"Brittany," I groan in frustration, hating the impending guilt that will swallow me if I don't do this. I make the horrible and unfixable mistake of looking over at Izzy, whose mouth is downturned into a pout that could break hearts across the galaxy.

"Okay, fine," I grouse as I glare at her. "But you are absolutely helping me. I don't know if I can make all the practices." I glance around at the parents. "Is there anyone else who can help as well?"

More excuses, more eyes fixed on the ceiling.

I rub at my temple but then Brittany throws her arms around my shoulders. "Thank you so much. You'll be great, I promise, and what an experience for Izzy to have her favorite auntie—"

"I'm her only auntie," I grumble.

"—coaching her."

I shrug off my sister and move to the boards. Motioning with my hands, I call the kids over. While they can skate, they're all still wobbly and a few crash into the wood panels, barely hanging on. I don't have skates with me, so today's practice is going to have to be a get-to-know-you kind of deal.

The kids gather around, their faces a mix of curiosity and excitement. The parents filter back into the stands.

"Hi, everyone." I try to sound confident. I'm a doctor and can deliver a baby for Christ's sake, but somehow these hopeful little stares are disconcerting. "I'm Coach Willa, and I guess I'll be teaching you how to play hockey. Let's, uh, start with some basics. Let me see how well you all can skate. Everyone skate as fast as you can to the far side of the rink and back again."

The kids giggle and whoop, taking off in a blur of flailing arms and pumping legs. A few kids are pretty good, but most are barely able to stay upright when they have to turn. They reach the board, a few crashing and falling, but they're spunky and all come racing back.

A little boy with golden blond curls sticking out from under his helmet reaches me first with an impish grin and a flourishing stop, Izzy right behind him. She's one of the better skaters, I note with pride.

When I have all the kids back, I ask them to do it again.

"What are you doing?" Brittany asks out of the side of her mouth.

"Winging it," I mutter and then smile brightly when they race back again. "Okay… let's divide into groups and we're going to just work on some skating basics today."

Luckily, practice is only supposed to be thirty minutes long as the rink is promised to another peewee group, and with the time already spent with Coach Peters trying to get the kids under control, I barely have them for a full fifteen minutes. I'm able to instruct them adequately in basic skating skills from the edge of the boards, and at the end of that fifteen minutes, I'm exhausted from trying to wrangle the nine of them.

After saying goodbye to the parents, who are more than grateful and appreciative, I spend five minutes with Mr. Carlan to go over the practice and game schedule. Luckily, they only practice once a week and have one game a week, always on Saturday mornings, so it won't be that big of a hardship for me. Of course, the first game is this Saturday, but Mr. Carlan seemed completely nonplussed that I didn't know what I was doing, nor that we only have one practice under our belt, nor that I'm not even sure the kids know the basic rules as I sure as hell don't.

"Relax," he said with a pat on my shoulder. "The rules are online and the games are a free-for-all. It's a bunch of little kids skating after the puck and falling down a lot."

That actually reassures me some, but still… I'm a tiny bit irritated that Brittany roped me into this. But when Izzy flings her arms around my legs as I step outside of the rink to where they were waiting for me, the overwhelming love I have for this kid chases away all the negative feelings. I'd always wanted to have children, but Izzy is the closest I'm getting to that dream right now, so I bask in her love and gratitude.

And if I'm honest, I'll admit I actually enjoyed the challenge. The kids' energy was infectious, and their enthusiasm made up for my lack of experience. In all, I feel accomplished.

"We survived," Brittany says as we walk toward my car. I cut a sharp glare at her, and she amends, "You survived."

I can't help but laugh. "It wasn't all that bad and with only one practice and one game a week, I can work my schedule around it. But you owe me big-time."

"I absolutely owe you," she says, looping her arm through mine with Izzy holding on to her other hand. "You're the best sister ever."

"Yes, I am," I say with authority. "How about we go get burgers?"

"Yes," Izzy exclaims as I unlink my arm from Britt's and move to the driver's door. Just as I'm unlocking my car, my phone rings.

I reach into my purse, put it to my ear and connect with a sassy "Talk to me," thinking it's most likely someone from my office. That's who I get the most calls from, as I don't have any friends in the area. All my friends were my ex-husband's, and well… he's an ex.

I cringe when I hear Scott's voice.

The ex.

"I want to talk about the alimony payments."

"I'm not talking about this with you," I say, my eyes catching my sister's over the top of the car. She can tell by my tone and pointed look that I don't want Izzy to hear any of this, so she helps her get into the back before sliding in the front passenger seat.

He ignores my refusal. "I need a break on the payments. I'm in a bind right now."

I pinch the bridge of my nose and close my eyes. I want to scream at him that he's an idiot and there's no way he can be in a bind. He's a goddamned orthopedic surgeon who doesn't have a dime of debt because we paid his medical school loans off first. I'm guessing his secret penchant for gambling and a mistress with expensive tastes has him in quite the pickle.

I take a deep breath and am proud of how calm my voice is. "The court ordered the payments, Scott. I have nothing to do with them."

"Yes, but if I miss them, you're the one who would notify the court, causing them to garnish my wages or some shit like that. I'm asking you to let me skip a few payments and not say anything to the court."

"And why would I do that?" I ask, my tone rising just a bit. "You're the one who cheated on me and disgraced our marital vows. I'm the one left with all the debt because I helped to pay off your loans. The court thought the alimony was fair and so do I. It's the least you could do for me."

"Jesus, you're a bitch. I don't—"

I disconnect the call. I don't have to listen to his abuse anymore. He immediately dials back, the ringtone triggering my anxiety. If I were to answer it, he'd scream at me. This will be followed by short bursts of foul texts where I'll be called every name in the book. Then he'll leave a voicemail or two bemoaning his lot in life and how I never gave him a fair chance. By tomorrow, I'll get an apology in the form of a call or a text and the cycle starts all over again.

But the greatest thing about being divorced from that man is that I can now choose not to listen to it. I don't have to go home to an environment where I walk on eggshells all the time and wait for the other shoe to drop. It was the same way I felt growing up, never knowing what might set my dad off, although usually with him, alcohol was involved. With Scott, he's just a straight-up asshole.

"You're a piece of work," I mutter under my breath, berating myself for at least the millionth time for marrying a man so similar to my abusive father.

But that pattern has been broken for good, a symbolic event when those divorce papers were finalized. Now I'm free of a bad marriage, a dissatisfying relationship, and I'm never going back to that place again.

I open the door and slide in. Brittany grips my hand, her look silently asking if everything is okay. She knows what I went through with Scott. She went through the same with our father, and then with Izzy's father.

The Montreaux women sure know how to pick 'em.