George was distracted. He was moody and irritable and not his normal laughing, joking self. The early morning had been anything but peachy for the newlyweds. Amelia was an angry teether and up long before dawn with her own crankiness, plus Waker had stuck herself in the bathroom, heaving into the toilet with a vigor that could’ve impressed many super drunk people. On top of that, she did not want his sympathy or help.

That was partially his fault, sure. She hadn’t woken him up with the most exciting news, after all. Nor had she woken him up particularly nicely, either. A pillow to the back of the head was a way to startle someone into a heart attack, not wake someone up.

So maybe he’d woken up on the wrong side of the bed to start with. And all the accusations and anger being vented from Waker had put him on the defense. And maybe he had responded not so well in turn, and made the situation even worse. Add in a screaming baby who was demanding attention for her teething and hunger, and it just... compounded on itself to the point that here George was, brooding on his broom as his teammates ran through another set of drills.

He was in his own world, not paying attention, and another quaffle sailed past him. The reprimand and yelling snapped him back to the time, glancing back just in time to see it fall below the hoop. “Sorry, not sure where my head was.”

If there was anything to be said about the newest assistant coach, it was that she was loud.  Whether the workout was going well or not, she was constantly yelling something.  Sometimes it was in English, but more often than not, she was shouting in her native Romanian at a team that could not understand her: at least not specifically.  They just knew that it was probably not a good idea to get in her way.

So, as they were running drills, her random outbursts of screaming were interspersed with intense quiet.  Alina’s eyes darted about the pitch, watching the team as they flew their drills. Each move should have been exacted with precision.  She started screaming at soon as she saw a quaffle going on an unintended path. 

“You expect to win like this?!” she bellowed at the top of her lungs, swinging her leg over her broom and flying upward.  The keeper – distracted mess! She turned to the rest of the team.  "Hundred laps!" she bellowed, "No stopping! Rapid!"  Her face was not one to be ignored - or questioned - and even though she did hear a groan, the brooms shifted their course to lap around the pitch.  "This just warmup!" she screamed after them, "Real workout after!"  They'd already been practicing for an hour and a half. 

Her anger suddenly turned on the keeper who looked like someone had spat in his oatmeal. 

“Dumnezeu![1]” she shouted in frustration.  "No time for you to be distracted!” she reprimaded in a thick accent (more prominent with her agitation).  "A match in three days and you want to play like that?  I bench you for this game, da?" Her frustration had mounted and the petite witch set her jaw: what would he have to say to that. 

1.	”God!” in Romanian

George went between a sheepish blush and a simmering glower. Retorts could’ve easily come out of his mouth. Reminders of the last Quidditch year... when they had been winning more than the Cannons could be expected to win. When they were almost considered in the same ring as other professional quidditch teams. They had some great plays, amazing saves, and had won a handful of games where people could’ve capitalized on it and made a few galleons out of the deal.

But there was a reason they had a newer Assistant Coach. Who liked to yell and curse and swing her arms around to make a point. So instead of putting in all the effort to argue, George pursed his lips and shifted just a little on his broom.

His stomach flipped and flopped in a queasy moment; everyone else was doing a hundred laps, and he... was not included in that. Nerves were not usual for the ex-Gryffindor. A gloved hand came up and wiped the sweat from his brow, slicking hair back that was wet from the drizzle and sweat.

Honestly... George hadn’t meant to be distracted! He had shown up for practice, hadn’t he? Even with all the hiccups at home... “I know, I just-” His mouth hung open at her threat, surprised shock clear in the way he just... stared at her. After a moment, he caught himself, fumbling over words that came out more rushed and angry than he expected. “But... It’s not my fault! I mean, it’s my fault, maybe, but... but... the baby is teething, and I couldn’t sleep, and then Waker...” He jabbered on for a few more moments before he closed his mouth and tried again.

Less angry this time. After a breath or two. “It’s just... temporary. I’m in it to win it. I’ve got this.” His hand gripped the broom, knuckles muffled in their cracking under the weight of the gloves. Waker had won one of her arguments, at least, even if he wasn’t going to wear the helmet. “I can’t not get paid for this game, you see? I need to play.” He tried to flash her one of his smiles, even if it wasn’t as peppy and charming as usual.

Alina did not understand these British quidditch players!  She had come from teams that practiced endlessly.  It didn’t matter if your mother was sick or your dog’s leg had fallen off – you just played, that was what you did.  So, to hear excuses, the assistant coach was not amused. 

Excuses did not make him play better.  Though, it sounded as though the source of the excuses weren’t going to make him play better either.  Truthfully, Alina could not relate.  She had never been a parent, and her marriage was only recent.  The prime of her career had been played single and unattached – probably why she played so well: nothing outside to deter her. 

She did not feel moved really, by his plea, however.  “If you are in it to win it,” Alina tried to copy him, but it sounded ridiculous even to her ears, “then you prove it.”  She was a bit out of practice, but it didn’t matter.  She had been an excellent chaser in her hayday and still knew her way around a quaffle.  Drawing her wand from the inside of her robe, she summoned a bag of quaffles and cast a simple, lasting levitation charm on the bag.

Flicking her wand, the bag popped open and out popped one of the quaffles which she speedily grabbed.  “Every shot I make: 25 laps.  I make ten shots?  You out of the game.”  Her rules were simple and she did not give a chance for him argue.  Alina wrapped her strong hand around the hilt of her broom and shot upward, starting a wide circle that would hopefully keep him guessing where she was going to come from, at least until she swung a quick left and took a dive down to attempt a shot behind him. 

Alina would make him work for it, that was certain, and she released the quaffle from her hands with a grunt – throwing with all of her might before summoning the next ball.  Rapid fire style. 

George felt quite dignified to make all the excuses and whines he felt like. It was just a practice, after all! They ran drills and ran this way and that and none of it really mattered until the big game. Sure, they could get a new, fancy move down, or they could fine-hone one of the classics. But did it compare to the adrenaline rush and uncertainty that a real game gave?

George would say no. Quietly. Where Alina wouldn’t hear it.

Prove it?! Had he not done that when he had gotten back on the broom after breaking half his body? Ahead of schedule, might he add (silently, fuming, in his head). Eyes narrowed but he huffed and breathed in, gloves gripping his broomstick before rolling his shoulders. He glanced uneasily at the bag she brought towards her, shifting himself just slightly so he was in a more ready stance on the broom.

Mouth opened in surprise. There were plenty more than ten quaffles in that bag, he was sure of it! And twenty five laps per shot?! His tongue hit the roof of his mouth in a brief silence before he started to protest. “But the back up Kee-” He didn’t get a chance to make his argument - she was already spinning through the air for a shot. An odd noise escaped him before he grasped the end of the broom and pulled up, shooting off to try and catch the first quaffle.

It had already found its way to the first hoop before he could get into position. An angry grunt escaped him before he squared off to her. “That wasn’t fa-” Eyes widened as another quaffle was flying at him already, and he hastened to scramble after it. Another miss. This time the grunt fed into a roar, and it was on.

He ducked and twirled and lunged for each ball she sent his way. He let another one in before deflecting one, keeping a mental count as he watched her for the next one, catching it just in time, letting it fall down to the pitch below as he dove for the next, a hoop below. That one he kicked out of the way, following through with the broom in a classic upside down circle, only to not catch her next one. This time he grit his teeth and fought his way from hoop to hoop, catching and deflecting the next few shots.

He was tired and worn out and under slept. His chest was throbbing, as it normally did on colder mornings, but he fought for his breath and kept on. This was his job, and he could prove to her that he deserved to be paid for it. How dare she threaten to bench him! He had mouths to feed. He caught another ball before throwing it back at her in defiance. George could do this.

“Fair is for country!” Alina called out at Carter’s protest.  The grin on her face widened as she sunk her second shot – fifty laps already.  Tsk!  What a shame. 

She’d almost feel bad if she didn’t know, for a fact, that this would make him better.  There was no room for just good enough anymore.  She was determined to push the limits and secure, for her new team, a place at the top.  She was willing to play the long game, wait it out and grow a team, but she also wasn’t going to go easy on them in the meantime.  Did no  one any good if they couldn’t play right now either.

The keeper was young, he had so much potential.  It’d be wasted though if he washed out and too busy pitying himself and his home life.  That didn’t make champions!  Darting to catch quaffles for fear of the punishment at the end – that made champions!  Alina’s heart was thumping in her chest and she felt the adrenaline coursing through her veins.  During a game, she could stick herself on the sideline and just yell at her team, but during practice… the chance to be hand’s on?  It was priceless. 

It reminded her why she had spent a good majority of her life on a broom.  It made each shot blend into the next and despite the fumbling beginning, he was most assuredly improving – she’d made him angry, and when he chucked the quaffle back at her… Alina balanced easily and caught the ball in a cradling motion, laughing.  “That is the way!” she announced, floating stationary for a moment.  “See that?  You are awake now!”  The happy declaration preceded Alina’s decision to fly up to him, closing the distance between them in the pitch. 

It wasn't that she was uncaring - that couldn't be farther from the truth.  If the players want to advance, if they wanted to negotiate and be compensated fairly, they needed to produce wins.  "No one in the stands cares if you are tired," she informed him, "they care if you block quaffles.  That's it.  Sob stories," a half-hearted shrug, "do not sell jerseys or sign autographs."  Sometimes it was necessary to be the bearer of bad news and the person who grounded others in reality.  Hopefully, Carter would understand that.  "Don't raise pay either," she raised her eyebrows, having half of an inkling that might have been the reason he fought back with such zeal. 

"Neither will..." she struggled to come up with the word she wanted and gesticulated toward the broom, "sit a little further back," she instructed.  "More stable.  You'll try it in drills."  It was matter-of-fact, a foregone conclusion: just like the next statement she made.  “You missed three,” Alina informed him, still grinning as she shoved the quaffle into his arms.  “You do laps, carrying the quaffle,” she paused, nodding with thought.  “You drop it, you start over.  Da?”   

George should’ve put more of a spin on the quaffle, but he, as the Keeper, was in the position to throw the ball in the easiest catch to the team Chasers. If he threw it too hard or too wild, they would fumble with it. He had quite a few fun maneuvers up his sleeve to trip up the other team, of course. No one wanted a fumble into the other teams hands so close to a goal. That would just make more work for him.

The Keeper was just as important as any other position on the team, though it wasn’t always the most action packed area. Then again, George was more likely to argue that point than a Beater might. Each player position had pros and cons.

Knuckles cracked as George balanced himself upright on the broom, one fist inside the other palm. The gloves muffled the cracking as he huffed and puffed. He followed it with a roll of his head, shoulders bouncing as he settled onto the broom, lower now. The closer maneuver made him tense up, thinking she was going to fly in for a close score.

When it appeared she just wanted to talk, he relaxed a little, frowning as he listened. George could understand how the crowd felt, but it didn’t stop how he was feeling. Not completely. He drummed his gloved hands on the underside of his broom while he considered what she was saying. George thought that some sob stories, in the right journalists hands, could help a team out. If it was done in the right way.

But this was not a time for marketing ploys. He understood what she was getting at. Even if it irked him because his problems were the root cause of her counseling.

He blinked at her gesture before looking down at where she was... gesturing. Eyebrow cocked, he smirked and almost made an inappropriate joke. “Wha-” Sit further back? His cockiness faded into a frown, again, and he made eye contact before doing as she said, if only to not add to his laps.

“But how am I going to do a backwards 360? Or the Starfish and Stick? This’ll slow me down...” Maybe George just needed to keep his mouth shut and try it out. It was easier to question, though, than to follow advice. It had gotten him in a lot of trouble over his few years.

Accepting the quaffle (instead of dropping it), George swallowed his words and tucked it under his arm. He didn’t understand how he would drop it, but he nodded anyway. “Sure, I got it.” He wasn’t completely thick. With his other hand on the broom, he eased away from the posts and started on his laps.

 Alina heard his concerns, but she’d been coaching for a long time now.  “I teach you,” she nodded, “After laps.”  Alina had to be sure he served his sentence for missing those goals before anything.  Wasn’t that also the core concept of raising children: immediate consequences reinforce expectations?  That sounded right.  Ever since she had married Ed she’d needed to be much more familiar with that, even if she was not the discipline figure. 

Completely opposite on the pitch, however, and even if her husband had plenty of opinions about what one should do when coaching of the Cannons, she was the one who actually held the position, and this was her way. 

Pleased as he caught the quaffle, Alina met his eyes and nodded curtly, watching him turn and head toward the outer ring of the stadium.  It seemed like an easy task, carrying a quaffle while flying laps… but Alina didn’t intend on making it that easy.  A keeper needed strong hands no matter what.  It was the middle of the winter and though they’d had relatively little snow, they’d had quite a bit of freezing rain through January. 

Alina removed her wand from her side holster and waved it in lofty circles, first a fog-like mist appearing, then working up into the form of a grey cloud.  With a gentle flick, Alina sent the full cloud after her keeper and above his head.  It rumbled before unleashing a soft sprinkling of frozen rain… at first.