“Can we sponsor a dog rescue?” Anton calls out. “I love puppies.”
“That’s because you are one,” Rebecca says, and his teammates hoot and laugh.
The screen finally lights up. It reads: Hockey is for Everyone. “Each year we participate in this promotion,” Georgia says. “But now we’re going to take it further.” She clicks the remote, and the words fade out and back in again, until it reads: Sports are for Everyone. Bring it, Brooklyn!
“When we say ‘Hockey is for everyone,’ it’s wishful thinking,” Georgia continues. “Of course, we welcome all kinds of fans. That will never change. But think of all the boys and girls in Brooklyn who will never get a chance to skate. There are very few skating rinks in New York City. And we can’t give up enough of our ice time to make a real dent. But there are more than fifteen swimming pools in Brooklyn, and yet most of New York’s children never get swimming lessons. There are unused basketball courts and soccer fields, too.”
Rebecca chimes in. “‘Sports are for everyone’ probably seems obvious to all the fitness freaks here today. Which is basically everyone but me.”
“We love you anyway!” someone calls out.
“Oh, I know you do!” she says with a smile. “But seriously—the kids of New York don’t have enough opportunities to move their bodies. And guess what? Their health will suffer as a result.
“The men and women of Brooklyn hockey have a special power as role models. You can show boys and girls in your community another way to be in the world. How it feels to be part of a team. How your body feels different after a hard practice. How your muscles learn to do things that seemed impossible just a few weeks before.”
She clicks the presentation forward. “This year, I want everyone in this room to think of himself or herself as an ambassador for sport. Georgia and I have created several new programs to help us accomplish this goal. And I think every one of you can make a unique contribution. There are signup sheets on the wall.”
At the side of the room, Georgia reveals a whiteboard with several categories on it. Skating lessons, swim lessons, soccer clinics, etcetera.
“Look, guys. I know that time constraints are real. You have a big job to do here in this building, and you’re all dedicated to your own success. That’s what I love about you. So the scheduling is going to be tricky. That’s why I’m also hiring a dozen coaches to run these programs for us, so that you’ll only have to drop in when you’re in town…”
A hand shoots up. It’s one of the Bruisers. “Are we really going to teach these kids to play soccer? What if we don’t know the rules?”
“The YMCA coaches will help you out. And if you really can’t mingle with kids, you can stick to the black-tie fundraisers. Your famous faces always bring in the cash.”
“Even Baby Bayer’s face?” some heckler teases.
“Oh, especially his,” someone else chirps.
I just bet it does.
“Our first ticketed fundraiser is coming up in November. But our fitness classes for teens begin in two weeks.”
Charli’s hand waves in the air. “Will the time commitment be significant? Most of us work other jobs just so we can afford to be professional hockey players.”
“It’s only as significant as you make it,” Georgia says. “The Bombshells’ practice schedule is in the evenings, to match with the game schedule. We wanted you to have big blocks of time in the early part of the day for other commitments.”
“And they wanted all that ice time for the men,” Charli says under her breath.
“But no pressure. And if you do participate, you’ll earn twenty-five dollars an hour.”
There are a few more questions and comments, and then the meeting is dismissed. “Bombshells, come and get your welcome packets,” Georgia says. “And don’t forget to look at the signup sheets. You don’t have to commit right this second, though. I’ll move the sheets online after today.”
I head right over to the signup sheets, so that I will have first pick. There are teen swimming instructor and lifesaving coach slots in the middle of the day. I’m a great swimmer, and that sounds like fun. So I write my name down immediately.
At twenty-five American dollars an hour, this is perfect for me. I can earn some extra cash and play with kids. What’s not to like?
“Swimming coach,” Bryce says from right behind me. “Do you know where the pools are located?”
I turn around and offer him the pen. “I’ll find the place okay. Are you going to join me?” If he’s that worried about my welfare, maybe he will.
“No.” He shakes his head. “I do not speak enough English to teach people to swim. What if someone struggles, and I forget the word for…” He makes a frantic motion with his hands.
“Kick?” I try.
“Oui.” He puts the pen back on the ledge where it belongs.
Okay. Fine. There goes my opportunity to parade around in my bathing suit in front of him.
His loss, right? I leave him and head over to the table where Rebecca is handing out welcome packets to the Bombshells. The gym bag with our team logo on it—a cartoon bomb with the wick sizzling and ready to blow—is delightful.
Inside, I find a Bombshells T-shirt. On the back it reads: Underestimate us. That will be fun. There’s also a brand-new Katt phone with a sleek yellow case, which I know I’m going to be playing with all evening.
Beneath that, I find an invitation on thick, creamy paper for a black-tie benefit dinner to be held in November.
And, finally, a VIP card for the Colorbox Nail Salon, entitling the bearer to a free mani-pedi every week through April.
“Oh, sure,” Charli grumbles. “The little ladies need pretty fingers and toes to play hockey.”
“That’s not it at all,” Rebecca says from right behind her.
Charli, at least, has the good sense to flinch.
“I own that salon,” Rebecca says. “And I always tell people that I think better with my feet in a tub of warm water. So I just thought some of you might enjoy the same.”
“Thank you,” I say quickly. “The perks are really fun. I can tell you’re thinking hard about making this job sustainable.”
“We’re trying,” Rebecca says. “Brooklyn is an expensive place to live. And we’re not allowed to factor that into our salaries. So we’ve made sure that players have access to housing that’s close by. And some meals on the road. We’ll do what we can.”
“Thank you,” Charli says, her chin down, her expression chagrined. “I do appreciate it.”
She is saved from further explanation by a whistle from Fiona at the front of the room. “Practice starts in twenty minutes, girls. Let’s suit up.”
On my way out the door, I glance once more at the signup sheets. Bryce put his name down for soccer coaching, so we definitely won’t be working together. But right under my name on the swimming sheet, the name Anton Bayer has been freshly scrawled.
He seems like a fun guy. The kids will enjoy his company.
That’s got to be why I feel a strange little prickle of anticipation, right? It’s because of his attitude. And not because I’m suddenly picturing him shirtless.