Willa's Coach: The Olympic Series - Book Three

By Patrizia Murray

Willa Ferrier is headed for Olympic curling gold, if she can keep her mind on her team, her strategy, and her drive, and keep her mind off her aching knee, and above all, off the thoroughly annoying curling official and sometime coach, Stoney Turner, who keeps reminding her of their shared past and former passion. How is a woman supposed to concentrate on the ultimate prize when her eyes keep straying to the eye candy that keeps popping up at every turn in her personal and competitive life? Is Stoney just basking in her reflected glory, or is he truly on her side?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Patrizia Murray
• Release date: May 15, 2015
• ISBN: 9781310555138

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Willa’s Coach

The Olympic Series: Book Three

Patrizia Murray

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Willa’s Coach - Olympic Series 3

Copyright © 2015 by Patrizia Murray

First E-book Publication: May 2015

Cover design by Bella Media Management

Letter to Readers

Dear Readers,

If you have purchased this copy of Willa’s Coach by Patrizia Murray, thank you for not sharing your copy of this book.

Regarding E-book Piracy

This book is copyrighted intellectual property. No other individual or group has resale rights, auction rights, membership rights, sharing rights, or any kind of rights to sell or to give away a copy of this book.

The author and the publisher work very hard to bring our paying readers high-quality reading entertainment. This is Patrizia Murray’s livelihood. It’s fair and simple. Please respect Ms. Murray’s right to earn a living from her work.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED: This literary work may not be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, including electronic or photographic reproduction, in whole or in part, without express written permission. All characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

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Dedicated to Family, who indulge my writing, without understanding it or making judgments on the inner workings of my mind, and the Ladies who Lunch.

Dedicated to P, F, F, B & O, curlers all, who gave me my love of the game!

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Acknowledgements

Valley of the Sun Romance Writers of America, Glendale Chocolate Affair, and readers of like minds to mine, as well as Olympic Games, past and present, and the volunteers who make them happen.

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Prologue

Twenty-five years ago…

The shrieks and laughter of fun loving children echoed across the frozen lake. Some of the kids had skates on, and with small steps, learned how to glide and move with their extended feet.

Colors of bright red, blue, green, pink, and purple dotted the pristine white of the snowy ice, and parents watched carefully from the sidelines. Some parents ventured out onto the ice, to teach and protect the small ones from bigger hot doggers who were playing "Crack the Whip’ and racing each other madly around the perimeter. Impromptu hockey and shinny games were in progress, and everyone had to dodge pucks and players careening in all directions.

It was so cold, that breathing was difficult, although it didn’t slow anyone down. You could see your breath puffing out of your mouth and nose like smoke, although that allowed the hairs in your nose to freeze together, the tears from your eyes to mold your eyelashes almost shut, or to freeze on your cheeks, but those were the only two body parts exposed to the winter weather. Everything else was covered with hats, scarves, mufflers, and whatever else people thought might stave off the bitter cold. The necessity of wearing so many clothes made for some interesting outfits, without even a passing idea of fashion. The many layers made movement slow and ponderous, only adding to the fun as snowball fights and fox and hounds games in the snow were viewed in slow motion.

Sleds and toboggans shot down the only incline out onto the ice, bowling over whatever unwary bodies that might be in their way. Some ingenious souls used broken down cardboard boxes in lieu of sleds, & the slick material slid almost better than the sleds with runners.

Winter in the snow belt necessitated warm clothing, but because everyone was used to the snow and cold, that didn’t stop any kind of outdoor activities except maybe if there was a whiteout with no visibility. Otherwise it was fun as usual.

At least everyone knew there was hot chocolate and warm fires waiting for them once they got back to the house.

Believe it or not, outdoor play actually worked up a sweat inside all the clothing, because you knew you couldn’t stop moving , or you would get even more frigid.

The slap of hockey pucks against sticks , the sharp hiss of blades on ice, the shouts of joy on a Christmas morning, as new skates & other gear was tried out, amid bragging about whatever else Santa had delivered last night.

At one end of the lake, close to shore, quite another activity was beginning. Teams of four apiece, equipped with kitchen brooms, lined up at one end of a snow-cleared space about seventy-five feet long. At their feet were sixteen one gallon tin cans which had formerly been home to juice, fruit, tomatoes, soup or some other type of liquid. Now the cans were filled with solid ice, and coat hanger handles were embedded in the center of each block of ice.

The would-be ‘curlers’ were learning the rudiments of a game that had originated in Scotland centuries before, and it was Christmas Day, when the annual Jam Can Curling Bonspiel was in full swing.

Decked out in warm clothing that consisted of bright colored t-shirts denoting the two teams, stretched tight over jackets and snowsuits, and displaying team names like Bill’s Button Dwellers, and Will’s Warriors, the curlers all sported plaid on some part of their body. Some wore traditional Scottish kilts or plaid pants over snow pants, or some a hat or long tartan scarf. They were a colorful group, and proud of it. The T-shirts were handed out along with all the other presents under the tree, and some family members had several of them at home already. This year the color choices were neon orange and screaming pink. No thought of gender colors was contemplated and the ageless admonition to all from at least one or more of the ‘Bills’ was You get what you get and you don’t throw a fit!

The Ferrier family get togethers at the lake were a tradition dating back many years, and all the siblings, cousins, and even a few friends had been shooed out the door by the moms who were busy creating the ultimate Christmas dinner, and didn’t want the dads and kids under foot.

At center ice stood the three Bills, senior, junior, and the Third, who had so many curling trophies between them, that most were put away in boxes in the garage or attic. Back in the day, some ‘trophies’ weren’t trophies at all, but were valued prizes, such as toasters, blankets, chairs, sweaters, dishes, trays, glasses, and coffee mugs. Sometimes if you were lucky winners, you got both!

The children knew that once they left the lake cottage for home, they could go down to their local curling rinks where the ice was perfect, didn’t require them to clear it with snow shovels, and the bull’s eye rings were more or less permanently affixed to the ice. Best of all, at home, they weren’t required to wear the "Bills’’’ idea of family colored t-shirts onto the ice.

Here, the ice surface was bumpy, uneven, with leaves and other debris embedded into it. They had spray painted red and blue circles onto the ice, and the game was underway.

The three Bills acted as coaches, but there wasn’t much finesse involved in the game. Each child would kneel on the ice, using his broom for balance, and would heave one of the icy cans down toward the bull’s eye. If they were lucky, some of the cans even made it into the painted rings at the other end of their playing surface.

To keep track of whose cans were closer to the center of the rings, each can was spray painted either red or blue.

The teams had been chosen in the time honored manner of oldest to youngest, with no thought of experience, strength or skill. As usual, the smallest child was Willa, the baby amongst all the cousins. She had been an afterthought for her parents, and she always had trouble with the heavy cans. It was agreed that one of the older boys could help her throw, when it was her turn. Otherwise her team would never get her ‘rocks’ down to the target.

Each year, Willa grew more determined to throw her own jam cans, because she was sorely embarrassed to need help from what she termed, ‘some stinky boy’!

The sport , if it could be called such, carried the name Jam Can