He smiled at the ten kindergartners ambling off the field. They were all too cute in their shin guards and little cleats. Only two of the boys had any soccer competence at all. The others missed the ball, fell down, ran into one another, and generally looked like they were doing a Three Stooges routine. But they tried so hard and seemed to be having fun, which was the real win Diesel was looking for when he coached their team.

He’d been coaching for the past five years, determined that no child under his care would experience what he had growing up. He’d had no male role models and the one man in his young life, the one who should have protected him, had left him forever scarred. Diesel strove to teach good values to every child he coached, how to win and lose, how to work together. But he also taught them how to speak up for themselves. How to ask for help.

He knew the signs of abuse and, as a state mandated reporter, informed Children’s Services when he suspected a child was being harmed. Over the last five years of coaching, he’d been involved in rescuing four children from abusive situations.

He wasn’t saving the whole world through coaching, but he could take comfort in knowing that four little boys were safe today who might not have been. He’d continue to save one child at a time. In the meantime, he’d continue teaching sportsmanship and teamwork—beneficial to any child.

He held up a hand for them to high-five as the team gathered around him, many having to jump up to reach his palm. At six-six, he towered over the five-year-olds, making them crane their necks to meet his gaze.

“You guys did so well today. You made me very proud.” Ten little faces beamed up at him. “Now, let’s talk about next week. We have our first game! Are we excited?”

“Yes, Coach Diesel!” they replied.

“What happens if we win?” he asked.

“Ice cream!” they shouted.

“That’s right.” He lifted his brows. “What happens if we lose?”

They looked at one another, then one of the boys frowned, likely searching his memory, because Diesel had delivered this spiel before and after every practice for the past two weeks. “Ice cream?” he asked timidly.

Diesel gave him a grin, extending his fist for the boy to bump. He searched his own memory for the name of the boy with the dark hair and dark eyes, and the dent in his little chin. . . . Right. Joshua Rowland. “That’s right, Joshua! Whether we win or not, we get ice cream. Winning is fun, but not the most important thing. The three most important things are what?” He held up three fingers, waiting expectantly.

“Have fun!” they shouted.

He nodded. “That’s one. And two?”

“Do our best!”

“Very good. And the third?”