Emma squinted across the vast playing field of St. Pius X Catholic School before lowering her sunglasses, whoops and yells from various teams practicing echoing across it. How the hell did she get talked in to this again? she mused, as all the little 8, 9, and 10 year old girls lined up in their black pleated practice skirts. It was only the second field hockey practice, and Emma still felt like she was completely winging it. Really, she hadn't played the damn sport since high school. But after she'd enrolled Henry into St. Pius' 6th grade class over the summer, she got several thinly veiled hints that it was heavily encouraged for all parents to join some faction of the school's extracurricular activities. Emma honestly shuddered at the thought of being stuck around a PTA meeting table, the other mothers staring at her with their pursed lips and perfect manicures, or wrangling several classes of hyper children to stay together as she paraded them through some zoo or museum field trip. But physical activity…this was something she knew, could at least attempt to teach, and she proposed to the administration to let her take over the abandoned coach post for the third through fifth grade girls. And while she felt like a complete novice, the girls seemed to be enjoying themselves so far. Though she'd had to spend most of the first practice discouraging them from admiring the way their skirts flounced behind them as they ran about, they looked to be ready to finally get down to business.

"Line up, ladies!", Emma hollered, balancing her roster clipboard.

The girls ran up in front of her, hockey sticks in hand. Emma grinned. They looked so deadly serious about the whole operation.

"Anyone want to show me the correct stance we learned last week?" she asked, and the majority of them squatted down in an imitation of the posture she'd demonstrated before.

From across the field, she saw the home ec teacher, Ruby, walking towards her. Ruby had been her friend years before Emma had ever considered enrolling Henry in private school. But when she'd been about to enroll him in the nearest public middle school, all his 5th grade teachers, and even the secretary at the middle school when she went to sign him up, had asked if she'd considered Henry's future.

"What?" she'd responded, confused. "Of course I—"

"What I mean, Ms. Swan," the secretary had said imperiously," is that a child with your son's grades and abilities can only benefit from going to a more…prestigious institution. It's certainly not too soon to think about college."

Well, that had stopped Emma dead in her tracks. For someone who'd just tried to make it through school to be done with it by 18, the thought of having actual options for her kid this early hadn't crossed her mind before then. When she'd mentioned it to Ruby later, the other woman had been all sympathy.

"Can't blame you…I mean, you were trying to finish up your education being shuttled between how many families and how many schools?"

"Ruby, I appreciate it, but can we not talk about this right now?" Or ever, Emma thought. Revealing any of her foster home upbringing was on a strictly need to know basis, but at this stage in their relationship, Ruby knew most of it and hence, when to back off.

"Anyways," Ruby had drawled dramatically, flinging an arm around Emma's shoulder. "I see what you're doing. You invited me over to butter me up."

Emma's eyes went wide. "What? No! I hadn't even—"

Ruby had nudged her then. "Relax, weirdo. I'm teasing. Sorry to say, I'm guessing the home ec teacher doesn't have a lot of pull in the private school hierarchy. But mention me on the application, and when they ask me, I'll put in a good word for you and the munchkin."

Despite Ruby's downplaying, Emma was sure it had been her two cents that had clinched Henry's acceptance. And despite the judgy looks Emma received during her visits to the campus, Henry really seemed to be thriving in the two months since he'd started. Plus, Emma knew the judgmental stares were no different from anywhere else Henry had attended. She was used to being that mother in the class—youngest of the bunch, single, irregular day job. The only title added to her here was, as she imagined it in their minds, "heathen non-Catholic".

Emma was jostled out of her remembrances then, as Ruby passed her with a pat on the back and sat down behind her on a bench then, watching the girls listen raptly to Emma's stick grip advice. Once they'd got that down, and been paired off to do sit-ups, Emma sidled over to her.

"I can't believe you wrangled me into an 'assistant coach' position," Ruby grumbled, examining her long, flaming red nails. "I've never so much as handled a ball. Well…" and a wicked grin stole over her face," none that didn't fit into the palm of my hand."

Emma rolled her eyes, biting her lip against a smile. "I hope you're talking about ping-pong. There're children present."

Ruby snorted. "You should hear the foul mouths on the kids in my class. I'm sure it's generation-wide. They only look angelic."

She looked on the verge of defending her stance further, but her mouth froze half-open, staring at a point over Emma's shoulder.

"Emma. Turn. Around," she hissed as soon as she regained the use of her reflexes.

Emma, brow furrowed, started to turn, and stopped halfway. Not 20 feet away from her at this point, walking towards her, was one of the most—if not the most—gorgeous man she'd ever seen. Straight black hair tousled this way and that, like he'd just gotten out of bed (or just had sex, Emma mused before pushing the thought from her head), dark stubble covering his sharp jaw, lean figure, and, as he got closer, piercing blue eyes. He was also towing, or being led, rather, by a little girl with the same hair hue, albeit hers fell in wild curls to her shoulders. Emma swallowed nervously as they came to a stop in front of her.

"Ms. Swan?" he asked. Oh god, he's British, too, Emma's inner monologue continued.

"That's me!" she quipped, wanting to kick herself for sounding like such a bubbly cheerleader.

"Well now," he began in that delicious accent, "I hope it's not too late, but Gwendolyn here snuck a peek at the first field hockey practice last week, and has been begging me to see if she can be a late sign-up to the team. I'm Mr. Jones, by the way. Killian Jones." He stuck his hand out to shake hers, and Emma returned his firm grip. No wedding ring. Hmmm.

"I certainly don't see—" Emma began.

"Excuuuuse me," the little girl—Gwendolyn—Emma reminded herself, piped up, scowling up at her father. "I do not beg. I asked you, politely, if you could talk to Coach Swan for me."

Emma could see Killian (Mr. Jones, Emma) trying not to laugh at his daughter, as he ran a hand through his hair. "I apologize, darling. You simply asked me politely, in the most beseeching of ways, if I could convince Coach Swan to allow you to sign up for field hockey."

"No convincing necessary," Emma cut in quickly, squatting down to Gwendolyn's level. "You haven't missed much. How 'bout you join in on the rest of the practice, and I'll give you a quick catch-up on last week after it's over?"

The girl beamed at her, eyes just as bright a blue as Killian's. "I'd like that." She held out her hand to Emma much the way her father just had. "And call me Gwen."

"Can do," Emma said seriously, shaking her hand.

After introducing Gwen to the rest of the girls and getting them all going on some push pass skills, Emma relented and let them have a scrimmage between themselves for the rest of the practice hour. She hadn't failed to notice Killian Jones had remained an onlooker on the sidelines. Nor had Ruby, the traitor, who after introducing herself had made a big show about not having her lesson plan for the following day ready, and oh, she ought to go home straightaway to get all that figured out. Total bullshit, Emma knew, especially when Ruby had raised her eyebrows at her and given a wink as she left.

"Toodles, Emma!" she yelled as she made for the parking lot, fluttering her long nails in a dainty goodbye wave. Emma narrowed her eyes towards her retreating back. Oh, her friend would pay later. But now—

"Need help packing up, love?" Killian asked as the girls started to run over and dump their sticks in a pile by the bench.

"Oh, ah, I've got this. It's fine."

"Nonsense. You mentioned catching Gwen up. Why don't I bag these for you while you do that?" Then he flashed a blinding smile at her. Emma clenched her thighs involuntarily. Keep it together, Swan.

"If you insist," she responded once she was sure her voice wouldn't shake. "Shouldn't take more than a few minutes. I have to collect my son from the library anyways."

"Ah. A son?"

"Yes. Sixth grade." Emma couldn't help grinning with pride as she continued. "He's been recruited as a 'big buddy' to younger grade children who need math help. Has to stay a bit later than he'd like, but I think each side benefits."

"Indeed," Killian commented. "But," he mused, sticking his tongue slightly out the corner of his mouth, "would it be much trouble to Mr. Swan to pick up the lad on days he may need to go home earlier?"

Emma stared at him. Mr. Swa—? Was this helpful, devastatingly attractive bastard flirting with her?

"I—ah—there isn't a Mr. Swan," she mumbled. "Just me—me and Henry. My son. Henry's my son." Real smooth, Emma.

He made an interesting little 'hmm' noise in his throat, but looked serious now. "My apologies, love. I seem to be doing quite a bit of that today." He scratched nervously at his ear. At this point, Gwen had ambled over.

"Can we talk strategies, or are you going to yak my coach's ear off for another hour?" she inquired of Killian, indignant little hands on hips. Killian made a mock bow towards her. "She's all yours, my budding MVP."


"I like her," Gwen blurted out once she and Killian were well into Boston's rush hour traffic. "You should ask her out."

Killian turned, startled. "Who, princess?"

"Coach Swan. And I know you like her, too. I can tell."

Killian gave her a sidelong glance. "You are entirely more observant than an eight year old should, or needs, to be."

She folded her arms and sniffed. "Whatever. Plus, if you start dating, her son can come over and help me with my math. Win-win."

Killian stared at her. Sometimes he wondered where else this creature of his could have come from.

"And how do you propose I broach the subject, darling?"

Gwen let her head sink all the way back into the seat, exaggeratedly exasperated. "Just do it, Dad."