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)
Troy had been coaching them for a few months and always had a story about the band of bearded tough guys who were literally flummoxed that they didn’t win every freaking time they stepped onto the field. They celebrated too soon, their passes were inaccurate, and they were very, very slow.
“I don’t think these guys do any running…ever. They’d be a lot happier if they could mow through the offense with brute force, and yes, I remind them daily that there’s no tackling. Just…try not to get frustrated,” Troy warned.
“I’ve got this, man. Not my first rodeo.”
But I couldn’t deny that it was…different.
“Okay, listen.” I huddled midfield with a posse of lumberjacks, clipboard in hand. “We’re gonna warm up with some stretches. High knees, walking lunges, side shuffle jog, the usual. I’ve set up cones for sprints, too. Once the blood is flowing, we’ll run some routes. Any questions?”
“How’s the kid?” Beau asked, swinging his arms like a gorilla.
“Uh…my kid?” I pointed at my chest, catching Viggo’s smirk out of the corner of my eye. “Still percolating.”
“Did you find out what you’re having?” Lyle piped in, bending forward to touch his toes.
“No, I’m not going to.”
“The ultrasounds are crazy cool, man. We could see Nico’s whole face in 3-D,” Dirk piped in. “That’s my nephew. You know Nico, right?”
“Of course he does,” someone else replied. “Have you done the ultrasound yet?”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Viggo groused. “Are we serving tea and cake with this party? Let’s get fucking going.”
I pursed my lips in amusement. “Love that enthusiasm. Let’s do it.”
Practice was funny. I knew most of these guys by their donut order, not by their skill on the field. Sure, I’d watched them play, but I’d never coached the loggers. Silas usually did the honors. Troy was his summer backup while Silas coached the NFL stars who’d demolish all of us—until the final game where we’d dismantle the group and add a couple of pros to our regular teams so we could wreck our competition in Elmwood, Pinecrest, and Fallbrook. Ultimately, Wood Hollow was in it to win it.
And sadly, the loggers were our weak link. As I mentioned, brute force wasn’t the key to success in flag football. You had to be quick and agile. The drills were designed to get your feet moving, promote spatial awareness, and evade the defense with swift turns.
I spread cones in a semi-circle and instructed two players to guard either end and attempt to pull the flags off the runner weaving through the cones in the middle…without leaving their post. The only one who made it with their flags intact was Viggo.
“How’d you do that?” Lyle griped, wiping sweat from his brow.
Viggo shrugged. “I remember from my college days. But it helps that you’re slow.”
Lyle flipped him off. “I bet I can throw the ball farther than you.”
“Don’t embarrass yourself, Lyle. I will crush you.”
“You’re on.”
I blew my whistle and waved my arms as everyone chose sides or claimed they could beat Lyle and Viggo lefthanded and blindfolded. “Whoa! Wait up. Accuracy is what counts here, and Beau is your quarterback, so…cool it.”
“I’m more accurate too,” Viggo stage-whispered.
Beau chuckled. “Fuck you, Thor.”
The guys hooted and demanded a post-practice contest, which for some reason, got them fired up enough to put some extra effort in on the remaining time on the clock. I ended the hour with a series of sprints and passing drills, then wished them luck with Elmwood.
“Do you think we have a chance, Coach?” someone asked.
Nope. Not even in Hell.
But I went with the more diplomatic response. “They’re tough, but you’re gritty and if you remember to stay light on your feet, you might do it.”
The posse of sweaty, gruff lumberjacks grunted on cue. They rehydrated, then grabbed a couple of footballs and shuffled off to organize their contest.
Viggo hung back, guzzling water and signaling that he’d join them soon. “You shouldn’t give false hope. They’re terrible.”
“Hate to break it to you, but you’re part of the team now.”
“Coerced again,” he grumbled, recapping his water bottle. “How badly are we going to get beaten?”
“Demolished is the more accurate term.”
He winced. “I’m not going to be much help. I haven’t played in too many years.”
“It’s not about winning,” I said, barking a laugh at his over-the-top WTF expression. “I’m serious. Just showing up is what matters.”
“Maybe. But I’ll feel better after I win the football throwing contest.”
“I really shouldn’t condone this, but…go get ’em, Viggo.”
He gave a wicked chuckle before tossing me his water bottle. I caught it reflexively and stared after him like a lovesick puppy. I set the bottle next to his bag and packed up my things, intending to head home, make dinner, and relax…alone, in my bed. But the raucous laughter at the end zone was hard to ignore. So was Viggo.