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 toguard 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.
I could almost imagine him as a college athlete—young, hopeful, and ready to take on a new sport in a new country. Now, he was a little jaded, a little cynical, and much less likely to put himself in uncomfortable situations.
He hadn’t alluded to it, but something life-altering must have happened in the past eighteen years. Maybe he’d fallen in love, had his heart broken, or perhaps there’d been strife within his family. At first, I’d thought it had something to do with Freya, but that wasn’t it. Glimpses of a jolly man with a heart of a gold shone through his rough exterior more often these days. If it was his intention to hide his amiable nature, he was losing the battle.
Look at him now, hurling a football with his peers for a laugh. No serious agenda, no high stakes…just fun. For someone who’d been reluctant to join the team, Viggo seemed perfectly comfortable in the mix of loggers. Like he belonged here.
The game was terrible.
Elmwood’s hockey jocks kicked the sawdust out of WoodHollow’s loggers—pun intended. 42-7. There were no highlights, only a series of unfortunate events. I sat with Reg and Gretchen behind Troy and did my best to pump up the beleaguered lumberjacks. All the enthusiasm in the world didn’t help with dropped passes, slow running, or the very real fact that Elmwood was simply in better shape.
They had a bit of an advantage. In spite of the fact that they were ten-plus years older than our guys on average, Riley Thoreau, Vinnie Kiminski, Court Henderson, and Smitty Paluchek were former pro hockey players who ran the Juniors camp and coached year round. It was basically their job to stay fit. Sure, Elmwood had a few less physically imposing team members, but that didn’t quite even things out.
