DISCLAIMER: The characters and events in this story are based on Star Trek. I do not own them or Star Trek, they belong to the estate and heirs of Gene Roddenberry. This story is copyright (c) 2001 by Trish. This story is rated PG.

Soccer Mom


Spock sat at the kitchen table, reviewing the most recent equipment inventory that had been collected on the Enterprise. It was early fall, and although it was still warm there was a light breeze coming through the open window. On days like these he was almost tempted to save his work for later, it would have been nice to enjoy the afternoon. However, it was imperative that he finish the rosters of both people and machinery before his ship and crew set out on their next mission. Someone had other ideas.

"What do you think, Daddy?" the angelic little voice asked at his elbow. He peered down from behind his comm pad to the bright fuschia dress of Cinderella, which he noted but did not say had not been colored as neatly as possible.

"That is a very imaginative creation, T'Ny," he answered his five year old daughter as he pulled her close to him in order to inspect the work of art.

The little girl beamed and squirmed with delight. "Do you think Mommy will like it?" she questioned.

"I am certain your mother will find it very pleasing." He took the child by the hand and led her to the door of the food storage unit. "We shall display it so that it is the first thing she sees when she arrives home."

The magnets had barely succured the drawing when the father and daughter heard the sounds of a car pulling into the driveway. Then, in only a few seconds the back door slammed and the sounds of sporting apparel being strewn about the floor in the other room were obvious. A young boy, of no more than eleven years of age, strode hottly into the room. He was tall and thin for his age, and his dark coloring matched that of his fathers save for his intense blue eyes.

"Did you have an enjoyable practice, my son?" Spock inquired before he noticed the youth's expression.

Sol rolled his eyes. "No!" he muttered.

"Why not?" Spock questioned, concerned. There was obviously something troubling his boy.

"Guess!" the fifth grader shot back.

It did not take Spock long to come the his usual conclusion. "Your Mother," he stated as if there was need to question.

"Dad." The boy's frustration was obvious. "You shoulda seen her."

"What did she do this time?" Spock was almost afraid to hear.

"She was outta control. She thinks she runs the team. Everytime the coach has something to say to me, she goes ballistic," Sol explained.

"Perhaps your mother is only concerned for you well being," Spock tried to defend his wife, although when it came to this matter he knew their son was correct.

"She screams orders like she's on the Enterprise or something," Sol continued. "She made Billy Wycoff's father cry. Then I thought she was going to beat up the coach."

"Your mother does tend to get a bit over excited over your recreational activities," Spock agreed.

"That's why Mommy's not allowed to come to my dance classes anymore," T'Ny interrupted her brother's tirade as he stopped to take a breath.

"Lucky you," the boy exclaimed.

"That will be enough, Sol. I will talk to your mother. Go upstairs and change," Spock told him. The boy complied but sulked the entire way.

It took exactly 2.18 minutes for the back door to slam again. Dr. Christine Chapel was in no mood for polite greetings, although her husband had wished for one. "Spock!" she shouted as she rounded the corner of the mud room. "Why do we pay to have Sol on that team?"

"Hello, T'Hy'la." Spock stood waiting for their customary kiss as Christine set her purse and files down. She had picked Sol up after school for practice after coming straight from headquarters. "What, huh?" She nearly forgot. "Oh, hi." She kissed him lovingly but quickly, to his disappointment, and went on about her scathing review of the local soccer program.

"What do you mean, my wife?" Spock asked her.

"I mean we don't spend hundreds of credits, buy new shoes every two weeks it seems like, and go to endless hours of practice to have some know-nothing coach tell our son that he can't kick the ball. Hi, Baby." Christine stopped long enough to greet her daughter and notice the child's masterpiece as she collected items to prepare for dinner. "This is beautiful, sweetheart. I love it." The little girl wriggled with satisfied delight.

"T'Ny, why don't you take your drawings into the family room?" her father suggested. After the little girl had happily gone on her way, Spock continued, "I am sure Sol's coach did not imply that he could not play." He had seen his son's skill enough to know that the boy was becoming an accomplished player.

"Then why won't he let Sol play his own way? Everyone's got a style."

Christine was fuming as she began peeling celery for the soup she was making.

"Accomplishment in sports also takes discipline," Spock answered. "Perhaps the coach is only trying to instill that quality in our son."

"He can go instill it in someone else. Our son is damn good and he doesn't need anyone holding him back," Christine countered.

"Sol is very talented, but may I remind you that soccer is a team sport. He must learn to be a teammate before he becomes a star," the Vulcan said with pride, certain his child could become exactly that if he so desired.

Christine missed the meaning in Spock's words. "Oh, you're just on his side."

"Whose?" Spock asked.

"That coach," she said.

"I am on our son's side," Spock told her. "I wish him to be as good a player as he can be. However, I also wish him to enjoy himself while he is playing." He cleared his throat. "It seems, my love, that he is unable to do so when ... you are present at his practices."

"What?" Christine seemed hurt.

"He is ... uncomfortable with your exhuberance." Spock tried to soften the blow.

"He didn't say anything." Christine stopped and looked at him.

"What did he say while you were driving home?" he questioned.

"Uh ... well. Nothing, come to think of it." Christine paused. "I've embarrassed him. Haven't I?" She looked as though she wanted to cry and Spock absolutely could not stand that look.

"I do not believe it is uncommon for children to find their parents actions a bit shameful at times," Spock said, putting his arm around Christine's shoulders.

"I don't want him to be ashamed of me," she admitted. "I just want him to have every chance that is coming to him."

"He will have them," Spock assured her. "First, he must learn how to manage them. Even in soccer, there are lessons."

Christine nodded. "I suppose you're right." She chuckled. "Am I still allowed to go to his games?" She looked hopeful.

"Yes." He knew he could not stop her. "However, perhaps if we tried supporting him silently on Saturday," Spock suggested. "You can let the coach do his job, and let the team play."

"I'll try," His wife agreed.

Saturday dawned bright and warm, with a hint of Indian Summer in the air. The entire soccer crowd surrounded the busy local field as the team practiced before the game. Spock and Christine, along with T'Ny found their usual seats in the bleachers. Christine had even swallowed her pride and apologized to Billy Wycoff's father on their way in. The family was set to enjoy a pleasant game.

The first few plays did not go well. Christine bit her lip. I am proud of you, my wife, Spock told her through their bond, as he slipped his fingers around hers and squeezed them reassuringly.

I'm trying, She sent back to him. Afraid to open her mouth. A goal was missed, and she physically winced.

I know you are, his mind smiled at her.

A little further into the game, things did not look good for their team. They should put Sol in, Christine thought.

Patience, Beloved, Spock told her. The coach knows what he is doing.

You're right. She looked over and smiled, taking a deep breath to calm her nerves.

Finally, Sol was in. He scored the team's only goal of the morning and Christine cheered politely. How's that? she asked.

Admirable, Spock assured her.

Then the referree disallowed the goal, on the grounds that Sol's foot had slipped into the goalie's area. Spock could feel Christine bristle and squeezed her hand even more. She returned the pressure. Not even when their children were born had she compressed his fingers so hard. He wondered if she would draw blood.

Sorry, she said innocently.

It is alright, T'Hy'la, Spock affirmed.

Another goal was scored, this time it was declared fair. Sol had assisted, but not been the actual scorer. That was alright, he was learning. The team off on defense, Sol was playing with all his might. Spock watched his son maneuvering on the field. Pride swelled within him as the boy's sure-footed agility managed to win the ball back to their side. He was right, there definitely was talent there. The boys looked as if they were having so much fun. Christine was enjoying herself. Even T'Ny was having a great time, although she was more engrossed in the soydog her mother had purchased for her, than in her brother's game. It was a perfect day. Spock lost his thoughts in the action of the game.

Sol was once more on defense and protecting the ball with all he had. Determination was written all over his face. He swirved and made contact, sending the ball back toward the opposing net. The air screamed with a shrill whistle. "Penalty," the referee called.

Christine had found that remaining calm during the game was actually relaxing. She was enjoying herself. Even though a pentalty had just been called on her precious, perfect little boy she was able to handle it. Perhaps he had made an error or there had been an accident. Before she could finish her thought a dark shadow obliterated the sun.

"Are you blind?" a loud baritone echoed across the field.

Christine looked up to find Spock standing with his fists clenched ready to send another barrage toward the refree. The climax was topped by the sharp cry of a mustard-covered kindergartner.

"You tell 'im, Daddy!" T'Ny cheered.

Christine crossed her arms and stared smugly, self-satisfied at the figure of her husband towering over her in the stands.

The world seemed to stop for one lone player on the field. He was tall and thin for his age and his dark coloring matched that of his fathers save for his intense blue eyes. Sol buried his face in his hand and wished for ground to swallow him up. He was now certain that he was adopted. Even the understanding pat on the back from Billy Wycoff did nothing to relieve his embarrassment . He was sure that his whole team thought his entire family, insane.

Spock and Christine met their son in the car that day.

The End