Page 15 of Scoring with the Coach's Daughter

“Grab your apron,” Sam instructs Ellie who nods and walks to a cubby. Sam grabs an apron from a hook on the wall. Sam ties it around her waist with a practiced hand.

Ellie returns with a tiny apron and slips it over her head. Then she grabs a spare apron off a lower hook on the wall and hands it to me.

“You need one too, Jake,” she says. “This way, we match.”

“Thanks, kiddo,” I say, tying the strings behind me. “How do I look?” I ask as I pose for her.

“Like a chef!” Ellie giggles, and I strike another more ridiculous pose that earns a burst of laughter.

Sam shakes her head, but I swear she’s holding back a grin.

“So,” Sam says, clapping her hands, “let’s get started. We’re making pizza.”

“Pizza!” Ellie cheers as she grabs a child’s stepstool and places it near the workstation. She then climbs it and submerges her tiny hand into the flour on the counter. Sam adds water to the powder before Ellie gleefully spreads it across the workspace. They must have done this a hundred times because Ellie knows the drill.

Ellie is rather zealous with her mixing and as her hands toss the dough, flour flies through the air like confetti. I had no idea flour could fly that far. Ellie is impervious to Sam’s dour face, and I’m intrigued by her smirk.

I wonder over the dynamic between them as Sam seemed uncomfortable with the mess.

I join them, putting my hands into the mix before me and I end up creating a mess of my own. Ellie giggles but Sam’s look implies I’m a novice and I hope she’s not upset with me. Ellie rubs the end of her nose and the flour coats it white.

I chuckle and wipe it off with the end of my apron. Ellie then swipes flour onto my nose and her impish giggle is refreshing and cuts the stuffy air.

“Ellie,” Sam’s stern voice intervenes. Ellie proceeds to pound the dough and flip it over before she shapes it into a ball.

Sam visibly flinches as flour settles on the floor and coats my sneakers.

“It’s fine,” I say, nudging Sam’s shoulder. “It’s just flour. It’s supposed to be messy.”

She glares at me. “Not in my kitchen, it’s not. She’s usually more on point. I think she’sshowing off for you.”

“Aww, live a little, Sam,” I tease, picking up a pinch of flour and sprinkling dusting the end of her button nose.

Her eyes narrow with disapproval, but I catch the faintest twitch of her lips like she’s fighting the urge to let go and have some fun.

“Auntie Sam, look!” Ellie says, holding up a lopsided ball of dough. “Can I roll it now?”

Sam clutches the dough like she’s resisting the urge to fix the mess Ellie’s made.

“I think it’s perfect,” I say, stepping in before Sam can. “You’re a natural, Ellie.”

Ellie beams, grabbing a rolling pin and attacking the dough with enthusiasm which causes more flour to fly—on the counter, on the floor, and somehow on my apron and shirt—but I don’t care.

Sam cares, though. I can see it in the way her eyes dart toward the mess, her jaw tightening as she reaches for a rag.

“Leave it,” I say, my voice gentle but firm. “We’ll get it later.”

She hesitates, her hand hovering over the towel at her fingertips before she reluctantly steps back.

“You’re impossible,” she mutters, but the tone is one of resignation.

“I like to think I have my moments,” I say, flashing her a grin.

We all have a ball of dough, and working mine into a ball has become therapeutic. I can see how one can get so lost in a project that makes the world fade away. I discover that I’m not stressing over my injury. I’m distracted by Ellie’s vivacious and exaggerated personality, but I enjoy seeing Sam as a mother. And I love what I see even if she is uptight at times.

Ellie is concentrating on the rolling pin but as she rolls the dough, it sticks to it and she frowns. “Ahh,” she groans.

Sam steps in to save the day. The staff, who started out sneaking glances at me like I was some kind of celebrity, are now watching the scene unfold with quiet amusement as they work.

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