Chapter 4

CHAPTER 4

Willa

I stand at the stove, flipping pancakes, the familiar sizzle and aroma filling the modest kitchen. My home, a cozy two-story house in the Squirrel Hill neighborhood, is just outside the Pittsburgh city limits. It's a quiet, friendly area with tree-lined streets and well-kept houses, the kind of place where neighbors still greet one another from their porches. The house itself, built in the 1950s, has a charming brick exterior with white trim and a small front porch. It's not grand, but it's home, and it's all mine since Scott and I divorced.

Inside, the house has a warm, welcoming feel. The living room, with its hardwood floors and a large bay window, lets in plenty of natural light. The walls are painted a soft beige, adorned with a few family photos and some abstract art pieces I've picked up over the years. The kitchen, where I spend a lot of my time, is functional and homey. It has white cabinets, a simple but sturdy dining table, and a small island with a couple of stools.

"What is this?" Brittany exclaims upon walking in. She beelines for the coffee pot and after pouring a cup, leans against the counter giving me a critical once-over.

I look down at my outfit. I'd chosen a cozy, oversized cream-colored sweater with a turtleneck to keep warm in the chilly rink, paired with some dark skinny jeans that are quite stretchy to allow for easy movement. While I very much wanted to wear my camel-colored ankle boots with a low heel, they're not practical if I need to step out onto the ice to help one of the children. So I went with a pair of black Converse high-tops and hope to God they have enough traction to keep me from falling. "What is what?" I ask, perplexed.

"You're all gorgeously trendy looking. You look nothing like a hardened, peewee hockey coach ready to take these kids to victory. You're not even wearing a whistle, for goodness' sake."

I snort at the mental image. "You give me far too much credit. I think if we can come away from this game with none of the kids yelling at each other or getting hurt, it's a win in my book."

Izzy walks into the kitchen like a zombie. Her red curls spring up all over the place, her bottom lip pouted out. "It's too early," she whines.

"Hey, you're the one who insisted you wanted to play hockey, princess." I wave my spatula. "Take a seat. I've got my famous blueberry and mango pancakes on the griddle."

Izzy's eyes light up with excitement. "Can I have orange juice too?"

"Got you covered, kiddo."

Brittany pours the drink and brings it to Izzy, who opens her iPad and pulls up an educational game she likes to play.

"I got a second interview for that warehouse manager job," Brittany says, moving closer to me.

I glance over at her, frowning. "But their schedule was bananas. Third shift is awful."

"Yeah, but I'm tired of being a mooch. I need to find something."

I flip over the pancakes on the griddle and turn to face my sister. "You're not a mooch. You help me around the house and outside of you roping me into coaching, I generally love having you here. So, my advice to you is to turn that warehouse position down and find something better suited."

"Easy for you to say. You have a medical degree and can go anywhere. I have a high school diploma, little work experience and no one wants to give me a chance."

"I'm glad to put out feelers for you in the medical community. I'm sure I can find something in the administrative field."

Brittany shakes her head, too proud to take my direct help. "I'll find something on my own. It's enough that you're letting us stay here for free."

Reaching out, I take Brittany's hand and squeeze it. "You're my sister, my closest friend, my forever ally. We protect each other. Always have and always will. So don't you think on it another minute. Just keep plugging away at trying to find something you want to do and also keep thinking about college. That's always an option."

Brittany blinks away the sheen of gratitude in her eyes and I know it's purely from my reference to us protecting each other. We grew up in a household where that's just what we had to do. There's nothing I wouldn't do for her, nor her for me.

I release her hand and turn to the pancakes before this melts into a blub-fest of tears because if she gets going, then I'll get going, and Izzy will be freaked out. That little girl doesn't know about my and her mom's battle with an abusive, alcoholic father growing up, and Brittany has kept Izzy fairly well shielded from her dad.

It's ironic and even embarrassing that both my sister and me ended up falling for men who were abusive and demeaning to us, same as our father was to our mother. It's that horrible cycle that you say you're never going to repeat, but then that man exhibits one little thing that makes you think you can change them and you're a goner. At least Britt had the sense not to marry Jeff. While she stayed a lot longer than I did because she was somewhat dependent on Jeff's income to raise Izzy, she had no qualms about leaving him once I offered her my home and protection.

That offer would have happened long ago had Brittany told me what was going on, except she was ashamed for not only falling for a guy like that but for staying as long as she did. I know a little something about that shame. I actually married Scott despite my strong suspicion he wasn't right for me. While his verbal abuse was minor, it worsened after we married and to this day, I could still kick myself a million times. Love does strange things to our perception as well as our common sense.

"Two minutes until pancakes are ready to serve," I say.

"I'm going to get changed," Brittany says.

I glance over my shoulder and see her running for the stairs. She looked fine in her jeans and hoodie because she has the face of an Irish nymph with her fiery mane of hair and vivid sea-blue eyes. By the time I'm plating the food, Brittany is back wearing a fitted, maroon thermal long-sleeve shirt, providing warmth without bulk, black leggings with a subtle pattern and black waterproof winter boots with faux fur trim. Because we raid each other's closets all the time, she has on my black puffer jacket with a cinched waist and has topped it with a chunky-knit maroon infinity scarf. Never let it be said the Montreaux sisters aren't into fashion.

Brittany tops off her cup of coffee, refreshes mine, and then we sit with Izzy. I take the iPad away from my niece who grumbles but then gets easily distracted by the pancakes, her little legs swinging back and forth under the table.

"Aunt Willa, do you think I'll score a goal today?" she asks, her voice brimming with anticipation.

I'm doubting anyone will score a goal today, but I would never tell her that. "I'm sure you'll do great, sweetie. But just remember, the most important thing to accomplish today is to have fun."

She frowns, puckering that little mouth. "But I want to score a goal."

Snickering, Brittany chucks her daughter under the chin. "Try really hard and I'm sure you will. But if you don't, Aunt Willa will teach you how to do it."

I give Brittany a panicked look. She knows how stressful this is for me, not knowing a damn thing about hockey other than the purpose of the game is to, in fact, put the puck in the net. It's called a goal.

Brittany gives me a reassuring smile. "You've got this."

"I better," I mutter, sipping my coffee. I've spent the last two nights reading up on the peewee league's rules and watching YouTube videos on how to teach kids to play hockey. I know enough to know I'm out of my depth.

Izzy then makes a proclamation that turns up the heat. "I'm gonna be the best hockey player ever because I have the best coach ever."

While I know it's wasted breath, I feel the need to point out, "You do understand your aunt is a figure skater and has never played hockey, nor has she ever even watched a hockey game before."

And because I don't give smart six-year-olds enough credit, I'm shocked when she says, "Yeah… but you're a doctor and you're smarter than anyone I know. You'll just learn how to do it and then teach me."

So very simple and ironically, it's exactly what's going to happen. While today is truly going to be a fun game to let the kids get on the ice, I actually do have some semblance of a plan for basic stick skills to work on at our next practice. Today's objective, however, is simply to keep them from bashing each other with the sticks and hopefully keep it to three or fewer meltdowns on the ice.

?

It's immediate intimidation when I walk into the IcePlex. There was a relaxed vibe the other day when I was here for Izzy's practice, which unexpectedly ended with me becoming a coach. But this morning, the minute I step foot inside, I feel an electric surge of parental pride coupled with overenthusiastic little kids.

The noise is almost deafening with three full-size rinks and two games going on simultaneously per rink. You have the expected scrape of skates on ice, clack of sticks and shrill of whistles, but layered on top of that are hundreds of parents cheering, yelling and screaming.

I'm shocked as we walk by a row of stands and one father yells, "Check him, Marty. Knock him to the ice."

Another person—a grandmother I think, based on the age lines of her face and snow-white hair, screams, "That was a penalty ref. For fuck's sake, do your job."

"Oh my God," Brittany whispers to me as we make our way down to the rink where the Ice Pups will be playing the Mini Blizzards. "These people are nuts."

"Probably anomalies," I mutter, but then some man yells out, "I'm going to kick your butt, ref."

Jeez, this is going to be a nightmare.

I find the Ice Pups gathered around the bench we'll be sitting on. They all came dressed in their gear as advised, except for their skates, which the parents are busy helping to lace up.

Nervously, I glance back at the three rows of bleachers behind us, some already filled with spectators, and I'm assuming the rest will be taken by our parents as soon as the kids have their skates on.

"Attention," I say, calling the parents' eyes to me. "Can I get everyone to gather over here a moment?" I then look to the little boys and girls, advising them. "You go out on the ice. Remember the drills we did a few days ago when you skated back and forth between the boards? I want you to do that to get warmed up."

When the kids are out of earshot and the parents are gathered around, I take a deep breath. "I just wanted to once again, set expectations. I don't know what I'm doing and if anyone has decided they want to take over coaching duties, now is the time to speak up." I'm met with complete silence, not unexpected. I nod. "Okay, because I'm the coach, I have a few ground rules I want to go over. Our kids are here first and foremost to learn skills and good sportsmanship. Low on my list is winning, and it should be low on yours as well. At this age, the kids should be having fun. I don't want any family member or friend that's here to cheer on your kid to yell out anything but absolute encouragement. There will be no profanity, threatening of coaches or refs, and there will be absolutely no forcing your kid to play rough or to hurt others. I won't tolerate anyone speaking to their kid in a negative or abusive manner. Am I clear?"

Wide eyes look back at me, but I get nods from everyone but one of the fathers. I don't push the issue because it's enough that he heard my rules. Yeah, that might have been a little overboard and possibly driven by having a father who could dish it out, but it needed to be said for my own peace of mind.

"Okay, with that out of the way… let's hope the kids have fun and we'll work each week on trying to improve."

Eventually, a ref steps out on the ice and explains the half-rink rules and how we'll switch out players to give everyone a chance. At this age level of hockey, the kids don't have the physical stamina to use the entire rink, so it's halved, and each game alternates who is on offense and defense, with basically a simple mandate to try to get the puck into the net.

Me and the other coach, a very capable-looking man who mentioned only five times that he played minor league hockey, move to the bench and send out our first little warriors. They're awkward on their skates, don't quite know how to hold the stick correctly, and they miss hitting the puck more than they connect. I'm grateful they only play on a shortened rink as it takes forever for them to even skate the course of the half piece of ice, and at least one kid falls every minute or so.

It's hilarious though, and the kids seem to be having fun. I'm laughing more than I'm cringing at how bad we look, and there's no doubt… we are a pitiful team. The Mini Blizzards jump out to a 3–0 lead on us and their worst player is better than our best.

Still, the parents dutifully cheer and yell encouragement, some even laughing along with me, until… one doesn't.

It's the same father who didn't acknowledge my pre-game speech as he leaves the stands and positions himself right behind the bench. His son, Theo, is out on the ice and he yells at him, "Theo… you've got to look at the puck. Just like we practiced."

I grit my teeth, not by his words but that he's left the bleachers and gotten close to the kids. I'm on edge when he yells out, "Are you even out there? Jesus… skate faster and quit being so timid."

Okay, that's going too far. I wheel around and say, "Mister…" Well, shit—I don't know any of the parents' names, so I yell, "Hey… you."

He meets my gaze. He looks annoyed, his eyes moving back to his son.

I take a step over to him. "Hey… you." When I have his attention, I point to the bleachers. "Return to your seat and if you can't say something nice, don't yell it out at all."

"I have the right to give my kid pointers," he seethes.

"No, you don't. I'm the coach. No one else wanted to do it. So unless you want to take over the whole team, go sit back down."

The man glares at me but turns on his heel, settling down next to a woman I assume is his wife. She looks absolutely mortified.

My heart is beating a little fast, but all in all, that wasn't so bad. I turn back to the action on the ice, trying to yell out what encouragement I can to the players.

Great hustle out there.

Way to work as a team.

Stay focused and have fun.

You got this.

Not a single piece of technical advice but I'll learn the game better and be ready for the next practice. I also take mental notes of some things the other coach is calling out.

Keep your stick on the ice and watch the puck!

Remember to look up before you pass and find your teammates!

Stay low in your stance and keep your balance!

Eventually, the game is over and because these are little kids and no one wants them to be discouraged, the score was capped at five for the winning team. We push the sportsmanship by having the teams line up on the ice and shake hands, us coaches at the end of the line.

I'm completely charmed when two twin boys actually reach out to shake my hand. "Good game, Coach."

Three little words but they sound so mature, I can't help but do a double take at them.

Freaking adorable.

When the handshakes are done, Izzy skates over to me and we exit the ice.x I walk slowly so as not to slip since I'm not in my skates and she chatters on at a hundred miles an hour. "Was I good, Aunt Willa? Did you notice I didn't fall down once and I even hit the puck once with my bat?"

"Stick," I correct her with a laugh.

"Stick," she affirms. "But some of those kids pushed a little hard."

I wince because that right there is one of the reasons I was worried about Izzy playing this sport. Boys can be stronger and tougher, and this is a co-ed league.

"We'll have to figure out a way that if they push, you don't fall down."

"I'm not scared of them. I want to push them back so they know I can't be intubated ."

Laughing, I pat her head. "You mean intimidated ."

"Right," she says, and as we exit the ice, Brittany is there to pull her into a hug.

My attention is caught as Theo's father clamps a hand on the boy's shoulder and starts walking him out of the arena. "Unbelievable! Do you even know how to play hockey? Keep your stick on the ice, for crying out loud!"

I follow along, wanting to talk to him about this behavior. As we're moving past the opponents' bleachers, still half filled with Mini Blizzard parents, he yells, "You skated around like you were out for a Sunday stroll! When are you going to learn to look up before you pass? You made us look like a joke out there! I've seen better back-checking from a toddler. Get it together or you can forget about coming back to the rink."

Poor little Theo is crushed by that last statement, a threat that he can't play unless it's to perfection.

"Hey… wait a minute," I call out, reaching to grab Theo's father's arm. He turns around to glare at me and I'm painfully aware we're standing right in front of the opponents' flock of parents, so I try to keep it civil. "We didn't get a chance to introduce ourselves properly. I'm Willa Montreaux, the coach, and I didn't catch your name."

"Isaac McVey," he mutters and starts to turn away.

"Mr. McVey," I say sternly. "If I can have a private word."

He turns all the way around, his hand still clamped on Theo's shoulder. "What do you want?"

I glance down at Theo, bending at the waist to smile at him. "You played a great game, kiddo. You're going to be one of our stronger players and what a good role model you'll be."

"Oh, come off it, lady," Mr. McVey snarls. "He played like shit—"

"Don't you speak to him that way," I snap at him. "This is a recreational league for new players and they can't be held to a very high standard."

The man leans into my space, his mouth twisted into an ugly sneer. "My kid has been playing pond hockey since he was three. He played like shit and he knows it and no one is going to tell me what I can and can't say to my kid. Especially not some figure skater hack who's trying to coach a sport she knows nothing about."

I want to strangle the man because I never wanted this job to begin with. He had every opportunity to step up to the plate and he didn't. I know I'm right in that he shouldn't be talking to the kids this way, just as I know I can't continue to argue with him. He's not going to hear a word I say and now I'm dealing with an enraged bull.

My shoulders sag and he pounces on my display of weakness. "That's right, little ice dancer. You continue to pat those other kids on the back and give them encouragement while I actually impart some useful knowledge to my kid. Until such time that you get some coaching savvy, I suggest you keep your pretty mouth shut."

I don't even have time to be incensed because someone—someone very tall—approaches from my side and says, "She has someone with coaching savvy helping her."

This is news to me and I turn to the stranger, my head tipping up to look at what might be the most beautiful man I've ever seen in my life. Granted, he's young, maybe early- to mid-twenties, but that doesn't stop my appreciative once-over.

Dark hair worn short, slanted eyebrows, a straight nose and sharp cheekbones. His lips are full and his eyes are the lightest golden brown. Maybe even more gold than brown, and they glow against his tanned skin. He could be a runway model his face is so perfect, and I have to force my gaze away.

"Holy shit," Mr. McVey says with delighted exuberance, holding out his hand. "You're Jack Kingston."

I have no idea who Jack Kingston is but I can tell it's distasteful to him to accept McVey's offer, and yet he does it to be polite. While their hands are still grasped, the tall man says, "I couldn't help but overhear the way you were talking to your son and his coach."

Mr. McVey starts stammering, "Well, you know… just being tough with my boy as this is a tough sport. I'm sure you had the same."

"No," the man named Jack Kingston says, and I note he still has Mr. McVey's hand in his grip. It looks painful to be honest, and Theo's dad tries to pull away. "I've never had a coach or one of my parents talk to me that way, and as you well know, I turned into a pretty good hockey player."

I'm so confused as to what's going on, but I'm mesmerized because that bully of a man seems to be a little pale right now. He manages to jerk his hand back and I realize it wasn't from his own strength, but because Mr. Kingston chose to let him go.

"As I said, I'll be helping to coach the Ice Pups and I'll make it clear to you and to everyone else at the next practice, but Coach Montreaux's instructions are the same as mine. Do you remember what they were?"

Mr. McVey shakes his head, his jaw slack with confusion.

"Coach Montreaux said that the main goals we're going to teach these kids are skills and good sportsmanship, but most importantly, they should be having fun at this age. Cheering should be done with encouragement, not with any negativity or abusive language. Do you have a problem with that?"

I stare slack-jawed as this man, who, if I'm not mistaken, not only has proclaimed himself as a coach with me for this team, but he was clearly listening in on my original speech to the parents. I have no idea who he is or where he came from, or even why he seems to command Mr. McVey's respect, but I have to say, I'm enjoying the hell out of him putting this asshole in his place.

"Not a problem, King," Mr. McVey stammers. "We'll, um… see you at practice, I guess."

Jack Kingston ignores Mr. McVey and squats down to Theo. "I was watching you and you did an amazing job out there. Keep up the good work, okay?"

The little boy looks in awe, so he must know who this man is. Theo nods, his mouth hanging open.

"Good," Kingston says and then rises. He turns to me and taking my elbow, he says, "Got a few minutes to chat, Coach?"

"Um… sure," I mumble and find myself being led from the crowds to a quiet spot away from the bleachers. Brittany catches my eye, her brows raised in a silent plea about what's happening. I just shrug.

When we're alone, I'm the first to talk. "Who are you? And why would you say you're going to help me coach?"

"I will help you coach," he says with a smile that's so beautiful it almost makes me a little dizzy. "And I'm Jack Kingston, but I go by King."

He holds his hand out to me and I shake it. "So you said to Mr. McVey, but I don't know who Jack Kingston is. Theo's dad seems to think you're pretty important though."

Releasing my hand, he tips his head back and laughs. "That's refreshing. I'm a defenseman on the Pittsburgh Titans."

Now my eyes flare wide at that tidbit of information. I do indeed know who the Pittsburgh Titans are because I don't live under a rock. I know that the original team was killed in a plane crash a little over a year and a half ago.

And… oh my God. A professional hockey player just put Mr. McVey in his place and…

"Wait," I say with a shake of my head. "You're going to help me coach?"

"I am," he says with another panty-melting smile, and I shake my head again trying to dispel that thought. He's far too young to be melting my panties. "I don't know that I can make every practice and game, but those that I can't make, I'll leave you instructions."

"I don't understand," I say, throwing my arms outward. "Why would you do that? You don't even know me, and for that matter, why are you even here? Do you have kids on another team?"

"No kids of my own. I came with the Titans' goalie, Drake McGinn. His twins play for the Mini Blizzards."

My head twists around, my eyes scanning the crowd, and I see a gorgeous man with long blond hair and a beard with those two precious twins who told me "Good game" out on the ice. Obviously, their dad has imparted sportsmanship to his boys.

"I was watching you," King continues. "Couldn't help but hear your ground rules speech to the parents, which was very smart. At this age, those kids just need to have fun. And well… when that jerk started berating his son, I was on my way to say something to him but then you started in on him and I kind of let you do your thing. It was glorious."

"Until you intervened on my behalf," I murmur, finally giving in to a grateful smile now that I've pieced together just how this all went down. "Thank you for that. It was very sweet and all. But I can't possibly accept your offer to help with the team. You're so busy and—"

"What do you do for a living?" he asks, leaning an arm up on the edge of the bleachers and tucking his other hand in his jeans.

And oh my God… why is that a sexy pose and why do I recognize it as such?

I blink, trying to concentrate. "I'm a doctor. Family medicine."

"And you have time to coach?" he replies, his point clearly made.

"Yeah, but my niece plays on this team. I have a vested interest."

"And I have a vested interest because I'm watching someone try their best in a role I'm guessing you didn't really want. That's impressive. Besides, I've always loved coaching kids, so it would make me happy to help."

God, that's sweet but I couldn't impose. And well, this guy is just way too… distracting. In a very bad way. "Um… I really appreciate your offer, Mr. Kingston—"

"King… or Jack, if you prefer," he says easily.

"King," I say sternly. "But I volunteered to do this and I'll be able to manage just fine on my own, especially now that you put that father in his place. Again, thank you so much, but I'm going to decline."

Those warm honey eyes scrutinize me for a moment and I hold my breath, wondering if he'll argue with me. But he gives me a lazy smile and inclines his head. "If you change your mind—"

"I won't," I insist.

"If you do," he continues, and then holds out his hand. "Let me see your phone."

Okay, so I'm a little charmed and honestly, while I don't think he's actually flirting with me because I'm old enough to be his… well, his much older sister, I am flattered by the attention. I throw caution to the wind, unlock my phone and hand it to him.

I watch as he navigates to texts and pops in his number, then sends a text from my phone to his. He now effectively has my number.

He hands my phone back. "Call me if you want help. I sincerely mean that."

"Thank you," I say, pocketing my phone. "I do appreciate it, but I'll be fine. It was nice to meet you."

"A pleasure meeting you," he says, his voice, I swear, dropping an octave. Am I imagining things? He looks down at my mouth for a second before locking eyes with me again. "Take care, Dr. Montreaux."

"You too," I murmur, but he's walking away, over to the man he pointed out as being the Titans' goalie where people are asking for autographs. When King joins them, the crowd turns to him as well.

He smiles, talking to parents and kids, poses for pictures and signs things.

"Oh my God," Brittany says, taking hold of my arm while Izzy talks to a little girl she's bonded with from her team. "Who was that yummy piece of eye candy and what did he want?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

"Yes I would," my sister insists. "Spill it."

I tell her about the entire exchange. "But I declined."

Brittany slaps the back of my head. "Are you crazy? He's a professional hockey player and looks like a freaking Greek god."

I roll my eyes at my sister. "I don't need a Greek god."

"You so need a Greek god," she retorts.

Laughing, I check my hip against hers playfully. "You're right. I so need a Greek god. One who can fulfill all my fantasies and preferably cook me breakfast in the morning before he leaves."

"You should have taken him up on his offer," she chides. "You've blown that shot."

"I have his number," I muse for all of three seconds before I talk myself off the ledge. "But no… even if I was tempted, he's way too young."

"He most certainly is not," she exclaims.

"Way too young," I reiterate. "But gosh, he was pretty to look at, right?"

"You're an idiot," she says glumly.

"If you say so," I reply and then take her elbow. "Come on… let's get that kiddo and do something fun today. I suggest clothes shopping."