Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86537 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 288(@300wpm)
“I do?” I worked with a few parents in the crowd who no doubt wondered what was going on. My face and neck felt warm with embarrassment. I stared straight ahead, wishing I’d never gotten into his SUV.
Dexter was oblivious. “He’s a logger and a craftsman. That means he can take a chunk of wood and make it into anything.”
That was true, but… “Hurry it up,” I whisper-hissed.
“Please help me welcome Viggo!” Dexter shoved a clipboard under his arm and clapped.
“Yo, that’s Big V!” a scruffy logger in a John Deere ball cap yelled.
Troy brightened. “Big V. I like that!”
And yes, now everyone was chanting, “Big V, Big V, Big V…”
With a stoic expression in place, I pivoted slightly to glare at Dexter. He pursed his lips in amusement, then blew a whistle, signaling the beginning of practice.
I was given the task of throwing the ball—first to help the kids warm up and later, as timed with a specific play Dexter called. He would shout out a number and point in a random direction, wordlessly indicating where I should throw the football. My initial attempts were a bit wild. My aim was good, but I had too much firepower. The kids scrambled to catch balls I launched into the stratosphere, laughing like loons as though they assumed I was being funny.
“Do that again! I got this one,” a kid named Rhys called, waving his arm like a windmill.
I growled, which made them all laugh.
Dexter snickered and handed over another ball. “They like you.”
“Hmph. I don’t think they’re learning anything,” I grumbled, lining my thumbs at the laces.
“They’re having fun. That’s what counts.” He patted my shoulder and jogged to the opposite end of the field to help Troy with a sprinting exercise.
I stared after him, fixating on his perfect ass for a moment before realizing I was surrounded by a gaggle of twelve-year-olds.
“Do you really know how to make anything out of wood? Like…could you carve a canoe?”
“Yes,” I replied matter-of-factly.
“What about a house? Could you make a whole house?” Rhys squinted, his brown curls falling into his eyes.
“Yes.”
“How? Wouldn’t that take forever?” a kid with floppy blond hair asked.
“I would require helpers, but it could be done.” I pulled my elbow back and launched another ball into the air.
The kids gasped as the football disappeared from view for a beat.
“That’s so cool! Teach us how to do that!”
I frowned, unsure if I was supposed to pass along poor techniques or admit that I didn’t remember enough of the fundamentals to correct my mistakes. But…I gave it a try.
“Let’s try to do it the right way. Use your whole body. Your feet, your legs, and your arm.”
The blond kid nodded vigorously. “That’s what Silas says! He’s my stepdad. Do you know him? He used to play professional football.”
I studied the boy. “You’re Chase. Cooper’s son.”
A.k.a. my boss’s kid.
“My dad is the police chief,” Rhys piped in.
Great. I clearly hadn’t thought this through.
Chase grinned. “My dad can make stuff out of wood too, but I don’t think he could make a boat. I’ll ask him.”
I gave a thumbs-up and gestured to the four kids hanging around me—Chase, Rhys, Elliot, and a girl named Ariana. “You should pass to each other.”
Ariana raised her hand. She was petite with brown skin and long, dark, braided hair. “Don’t we need to learn defense if you’re the defense coach?”
I scratched my nape. “Screen, block, tackle.”
Ariana raised her hand again. “We can’t tackle.”
“I wish we could,” Chase lamented.
“Me too,” the other boys chimed in.
I considered googling flag football defense but decided it was a bad look—even with preteens. I’d have to wing it.
“I know you can’t tackle. You pull flags, intercept passes, and do what it takes to stop the other team from scoring.”
“We know that already,” Ariana said.
“Okay, okay. Let’s try intercepting. Take turns throwing to me and the rest of you try to take it away.”
“So…you want us to play take away…from each other or from you?”
“He can’t run. He has jeans on.”
“And boots.”
I furrowed my brow and glanced down at my feet. “I can run.”
And that was how I found myself wearing flags attached to a Velcro belt that barely fit around my waist while dodging grabby hands. There was no finesse, no real teaching moments. I simply had no other ideas.
Judging from their unfettered laughter, I thought I might be doing all right. The kids weren’t the only ones laughing. I had to look ridiculous. A giant logger being chased by a posse of little people. I’d created a melee. Dexter and Troy halted their drills to watch me twist out of reach over and over. They joined the fray in a coaches versus players keep-away while the parents cheered on the sidelines.
By the time the whistle blew, I was a sweaty mess. I panted as if I’d just finished a marathon…in my jeans. My shirt stuck to my back, my pits were stained, and I’d never been thirstier in my life. I took the water bottle Dexter tossed at me and chugged it.