Page 13 of King

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 hadno 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.”

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