Six |Leia Welsh|

Am I nervous? Oh, you bet your bottom dollar I am.

My palms are sweaty, my heart is racing, and I can feel a cold sweat breaking out on my forehead.

I've never actually seen the principal in the flesh before, but let me tell you, the stories about him are enough to make anyone pee their pants. I've heard all kinds of crazy stuff about this guy. Like the time he supposedly expelled a kid for accidentally bumping into him in the hallway.

I warily stride in front of the principal's office, my knuckles rapping against the door in a steady beat. The muffled voice behind the door granting me entry prompts me to push the door open, and my eyes immediately zero in on the framed ice-skating posters of me adorning the walls.

My jaw drops in surprise.

"I didn't lie about being a fan," Principal Turner remarks with a clap, his tone light-hearted. I mean, it's not that creepy to see my hockey posters on his wall, but I guess it's not as awkward since he's gay. Who am I kidding? It's still creepy as hell.

As I take in the sight, I notice a bobblehead version of myself on his desk. I have to blink rapidly to make sure I'm not hallucinating. And then I see it – the mini puck with my face on it in the corner of his office. I can't help but shake my head in disbelief. Ari didn't even have all this stuff, and she was the one who claimed to be my biggest fan.

He taps his desk absentmindedly, staring at the poster. "Have you thought about my offer? You'll also earn credits if you say yes. They really need all the help they can get," he says, rubbing his beard as he gestures for me to take a seat across from him.

He's offered me a position as an assistant coach for the men's hockey team. He believes that because I went pro two years ago, I can help them out. I had to give up hockey after tearing my ACL in the final championship game, and it was broadcast nationwide.

Hockey was my passion, my everything. I loved it more than anything, and the thought of coaching a sport that I miss every single day is both enticing and terrifying.

Sure, I'll get college credits for it, but I'm not sure if I'm ready to dive back into the world of hockey just yet. And I'd be an assistant coach, I'm also not the easiest person to work with, I know I can be a bit much at times.

"What if me and Coach Johnson don't see eye to eye on things, what then?" I ask with a smirk, curiosity dancing in my eyes as I await his response. Just then, the door swings open and shuts in a flash, revealing a bald, slightly overweight man with bright sapphire eyes.

Coach Johnson I'm assuming stands before me, a whistle hanging around his neck and dressed in a blue and white WB shirt paired with cargo jeans. His soft smile is almost disarming.

"Then we talk about it and come to a solution together," Coach Johnson replies, taking a seat beside me.

As he extends his hand, I notice Principal Turner beaming with pride, as if the hockey team just won a championship. I can't help but stifle a laugh at the sight.

"I've seen your highlights, you were good – sorry, you are good – and we could really use your help," Coach Johnson says, his tone genuine.

He was right though, I was good.

"Leia Welsh," I introduced myself, shaking his hand. He seems taken aback for a moment, but quickly regains his composure and pulls his hand back.

"Coach Johnson," he responds with a warm smile, while Principal Turner nods like a kid.

I sneak a glance down at my left ankle, checking for any signs of weakness. It's a silly habit, but one that gives me a sense of reassurance. I breathe out a sigh of relief. So far, so good.

It's always nerve-wracking having to make sure it's holding up, like it's some delicate antique that might shatter at any moment.

"Leia, I know the injury you faced must put you in a tough spot. It's a tough situation, especially now that the stars from last year have graduated," Coach Johnson sighs, echoing the sentiment shared by the principal.

I feel a sense of satisfaction as I bask in the praise being thrown my way. It's been a while since anyone has acknowledged my talent, let alone praised it.

These days, I'm usually just the subject of hushed whispers or the recipient of questioning glances about why I gave up on the sport.

It's been a whole year since I last stepped onto the ice, and in that time, I've practically vanished off the radar. I deleted all my social media accounts and just faded into obscurity.

Ari knows better than to bring up the incident around me, knowing how touchy a subject it is for me. But I made a promise to myself to step out of my comfort zone.

"Okay then how are you planning to handle the backlash when your team gets trash-talked because of who their assistant coach is?" The question hangs in the air, leaving them both at a loss for words, much to my amusement.

I press on, not giving them a chance to recover.

"And what about when your players refuse to listen to me because I'm just a nobody, or worse, because I'm a female trying to tell them how to play a 'dudes' game?" Their silence speaks volumes, filling the room with an awkward tension.

But I'm not done yet.

"Here's a better question for you both – what will you do if there's nothing I can do to help the team improve? Will you turn around and point the blame at me when things go south? When people start asking why the team sucks, will you conveniently throw me under the bus?" My words are harsh, I know, but I need them to understand the gravity of the situation.

They've come to me, a former player who quit out of fear after an injury, and not just that – they've sought out a student from their own school for help.

If I do this, I need to know that I won't be put into a position where I'll be taking the blame for the lack of skill from the players. I don't want them using me as an escape route.

The room is filled with a heavy silence as they mull over my questions, and I can't help but tap my left foot on the carpeted floor. It's clear that they haven't fully thought this through–

"If people bad mouth the players, well, there's nothing much I can do about that. If the guys get out of line, I'll make them apologize and show you respect. I'll make sure of that. And even if there's nothing you can do, at least you can say you tried. We won't throw you under the bus just for that," Coach Johnson mutters, staring at the ground as if it holds all the answers.

I can practically see the gears turning in his head as he contemplates my potential involvement with the hockey team. I know for a fact that those players are going to be talking smack.

Some of them are all about their reputation and having me on board might just tarnish it. But hey, who am I kidding? I'm only doing this for the extra credits.

"Alright then, I'll give it a shot, but only if there's some cash involved," I declare, a mischievous smirk playing on my lips.

Principal Turner claps his hands excitedly, thanks me profusely, and nods vigorously, almost shouting in approval. I can't help but be surprised at how easily this deal came together. Maybe I should ask for a promotion next. Or maybe I should ask for school days off. Or maybe I'd be asking for too much.

I'm not saying the rumors aren't true about Principal Turner, but I also don't know if they are, so for now I'll play it at a distance with Principal Turner, even though he's like a little kid.

"Practice starts at six today," Coach Johnson announces before giving me a firm handshake and winking at Principal Turner as he exits the room.

I linger for a moment, glancing at the motivational posters adorning the walls before turning back to Principal Turner.

"Take those down, please," I request with a smile, but the look of fear that flashes across his face makes me wonder if he took that as a threat.

I giggle to myself as I leave the office, wondering whether I might have made a mistake. I've been flying solo for a while now, and I know those hockey players are going to hate me. But there's no use dwelling on it now. I've already committed to the gig. Time to see what this coaching business is all about.