Page 14 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

FOURTEEN

ROB

Isaiah Cooper launched across the line of scrimmage, wrapping me up around the waist and knocking me back on my ass. Before Coach Mills could even blow the whistle, Cooper bounced up, wincing.

“Damn it,” he apologized, extending a hand. “I jumped the clap.”

“Again.” I took his hand to get back up.

We’d won our first pre-season game handily.

Barely eked out a second win and lost the third by a field goal.

Maybe it was new players or new plays or bad calls, but regardless, we were on a downslide.

And if we wanted a chance at a post-season championship run, we needed to pull ourselves out of it fast.

Cooper wasn’t doing shit to help. He’d racked up two offsides calls during the last game and at least three this practice alone.

“I wanted to draw a false start.” He shot me a charming grin that didn’t work one bit.

“But you didn’t. The offense stayed in place.

You jumped into the neutral zone.” Coach called over one of the practice players, so I pulled off my helmet and raked a hand through my hair.

“Cooper, you suck at drawing players offsides. You sucked in college. You sucked your rookie year. And you continue to suck now.”

“You don’t want to give me any lessons?” he asked.

“I’m not wasting my time. You’re a shitty chirper. Your trash talk sucks. But you’re a serviceable tackle. Focus on that.”

He clapped me on the back, undeterred. “Thanks for the pep talk, Captain.”

“Get the fuck off the field,” I told him, catching Coach’s nod to call the practice to a close. “All of you, go home. You suck.”

Fieste hovered on the sidelines, trying to catch my eye. I ignored him, veering toward the opposite side of the field for a water instead.

“Quality leadership.” Noa met me on my walk, eyeing Fieste and then raising an eyebrow. “I think your teammate wants to talk.”

“Fine,” I grunted, rounding on the rookie. “What?”

“I just wanted some feedback about practice, if you had the time. Maybe answer a couple of questions.”

“I’m not your coach.”

“You’re the captain, though. And I thought maybe you could–”

“Go talk to Coach Mills if you have questions.” I waved him away as I turned back to Noa.

Noa shook his head. “Seriously, man?”

“What? I’m not here to handhold every rookie who doesn’t know what the fuck they’re doing. I didn’t want him on the team. The guy almost took out my knee when he was a free agent. “

“And he apologized,” Noa pointed out.

Noa and I hadn’t always gotten along, but when I looked around the sea of unfamiliar faces the season I joined the Breakers, his was the only one that didn’t look like it’d annoy the hell out of me by the end of the season.

I’d been wrong, but over the years, we’d gone from unlikely allies to legitimate friends. He was level-headed, good with Mila, and put up with my cranky ass. I couldn’t ask for much more.

“I don’t give a shit if he apologized. I want him off the team.”

Noa didn’t reply. His face said what his lips didn’t: Give the kid a break. He’s new and trying to prove himself, just like we were once, long ago.

Too long. Eight years. Three NFL teams. I’d had a longer career than anyone expected, and I had one more accomplishment to achieve.

And asshole newbies like Ethan Fieste could easily derail my dream of a Super Bowl ring with one errant, cheap tackle.

I’d bounced back from four injuries, and at thirty-three, I wasn’t sure I could handle a fifth.

Noa frowned before his eyes edged the locker room. “I don’t think it’s just a D-line problem, anyway. Something’s not right. I feel it on the offense, too. Special teams, even. We’re not clicking.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I lied. I’d felt it. No mystical bullshit, but a faint sense of unease that permeated the locker room and the field.

Noa frowned. “I don’t know, man. I know Coach Simmons is writing off our pre-season loss as jitters, but it feels like something else. Something more insidious. Diego! Come over here. I have a question for you.”

Diego Salazar, the Breakers’ starting quarterback, waved to his backups as he waltzed over. A faint sheen of sweat coated his face, and he wiped it off with the sleeve of his shirt. “What’s up?”

“Noa thinks the team is fucked.”

Noa’s eyes widened. “That’s not what I said.”

“He thinks we’re cursed,” I continued.

“I didn’t say that either.” Noa tipped his head back and ran a hand through his long black hair. “I said something’s off this season. The mood, the camaraderie, the energy.”

“You think the vibes are bad?” Diego asked with curiosity rather than disbelief.

“Not bad. Just not right. Everything feels pretty…” his face twisted, “disjointed. Nothing clicks.”

“We should get rid of some rookies,” I said, only half-joking. “They probably brought the bad vibes. Let’s start with Fieste and go from there.”

Noa glared at me. “Or maybe we talk to the coaches? Ask for some extra practices? Some quality time together?”

Extra practice meant more time on the field. More time away from home.

“We’re not a fraternity. We need to work like professionals,” Diego said. “It’s early in the season. We had some missteps.”

Diego’s response surprised me. He’d come into the NFL hot, a top draft pick with a killer agent. Usually, those stars burned out within a season, but not Diego. He lived up to the hype, even if he hadn’t yet cemented that hype with a Super Bowl ring. But it was coming, even with bad vibes.

“Early season jitters. Happens to the best teams,” I said, placating Noa with a hand on his arm. “And I’ll back off Fieste. A little. If that’ll help.”

“It’s literally the least you could do,” Noa muttered. “But fine, if you both agree there’s nothing wrong, I’ll drop it.”

He stalked off to the locker room. Diego lingered behind, tilting his head at our normally calm and collected center’s retreating form. He exhaled. “He’s sort of right.”

“So, you do sense bad vibes?” I scoffed, drawing a smile from him.

He raked a hand through his hair and shrugged. “Maybe. But Coach Simmons just got off my case.”

“You don’t want to rock the boat?”

“Not after last season. I’ve kept my head down and stayed out of trouble,” Diego said. “I hate to march into his office talking about gut instinct and vibes when there’s not a problem.”

An unspoken “yet” hung in the air, but Diego’s unease at involving Coach Simmons was palpable.

Over the past four years, I’d avoided Coach Simmons notice.

When he reached out about transferring to the fledging NFL team, I negotiated through his second-in-command, a legendary coach named Lionel Mack.

He’d flown out to my house in St. Louis, played with Mila, charmed my mom, and convinced me that transferring to Norwalk was the best decision for my family and my NFL legacy.

A fat contract and a promise to keep me out of the limelight certainly sealed the deal.

I hadn’t regretted the move once since I’d joined the team, but I also hadn’t tangled with the head coach.

Other than some post-game notes and the occasional check-in, we stayed out of each other’s lanes.

He didn’t force a second defensive captain onto the team or care that my captain position was an “in name only” title.

I had no intention of breaking our unspoken truce by barging into his office to yap about bad juju. And I couldn’t fault Diego for wishing the same.

“I’m with you, man.” I clapped Diego on the back. “Whatever weirdness is happening on the field, it’s temporary. We’ll be back on track come week three.”

He studied my face, wavering for a second before agreeing with a curt nod and a tense smile.

I retreated into the showers, rinsing off the turf and sweat from the day’s practice. My back ached and even a trip to the massage therapist table didn’t ease the dull pain. The constant flood of workouts and game film and play calls swirled in my mind, and I shifted my focus onto something else.

Mila.

My daughter was an easy mental escape. She’d flourished since her first day in kindergarten. The fear had melted away within a day, and she’d come home chattering on about new friends and activities and what she’d learned.

And Astrid.

Hot water scalded my back as she flooded my thoughts. The gentle lilt of her voice and the way her plump lips pursed together when she held back even a touch of exasperation. The gentle swell of her hips and the way her dresses hugged her curves.

I turned off the hot water, changing the temperature to freezing cold. Astrid sure as hell was distracting, but I didn’t need that kind of distraction. Certainly not in the team showers.

Astrid was too young, too sweet, and too involved with Mila and Mom.

Still, my original plan to pass her off to Fieste stayed firmly on the back burner.

Introducing the two of them meant meeting Fieste somewhere other than the field.

At least, that was the excuse I told myself.

In reality, that asshole didn’t deserve Astrid.

Besides, he probably sucked at repairing shit, and I didn’t need him taking up space while I worked.

I’d introduce them…when I finished more of Astrid’s list.

Grabbing a towel, I wrapped it around my torso and made my way back to my locker. Most of the guys had already gone home. No one hung around to catch up. No one offered to grab dinner somewhere. No movie night in the game film room.

Not that I’d ever taken part in those activities, but I noted their absence. For a fleeting moment, I connected the lack of bodies after practice to our performance on the field.

Not my concern.

I had bigger problems on my mind: a six-year-old with a host of new friends, all of which wanted play dates, a batch of beer that needed to be kegged before next weekend, and a dilapidated house to repair.

I pulled on my clothes and reached for my phone, checking the calendar. Mila had dance until six-thirty, which gave me almost two hours.

I texted Astrid.