Page 2 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

TWO

ROB

I opened the front door to my house, relieved to be away from the stadium.

Pre-season sucked.

New players, new staff, new problems for the same sport I’d been playing for over two decades. I wanted a warm dinner, a recap of the day from my kid, and an early bedtime.

Instead, I found a curvy blonde standing in my hallway and promptly caused her to burst into tears.

Who the fuck are you?

Okay, not my best introduction, but certainly no reason for the waterworks. My hand hovered over her shoulder as she sucked in a shuddered breath. I weighed the pros and cons of making physical contact with this stranger and decided against it.

“Daddy!” Mila yelled, her brown eyes huge as she stood at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene in the hallway. “What did you do?”

“I’m fine,” the woman insisted, her head down. She shielded her eyes with her hand, the light pink polish catching my attention.

Mystery blonde took a step toward the door, but I stood smack dab in the middle of the doorway, feeling like a fucking jackass and unable to move.

“You made my teacher cry?” Mila’s voice teetered on the edge of hysteria.

Ms. Evans.

My stomach dropped. I had imagined some elderly school marm, gray hair pulled into a bun, wearing a collared shirt buttoned to her neck and a plaid skirt. Not a knockout in a floral sundress.

A knockout I immediately brought to tears.

I groaned. “Listen, sorry. I’ve had a?—”

“No need to explain,” she interrupted, sucking in a breath before she dropped her hand.

“What’s going on out here?” Mom rounded the hallway from the kitchen, barely glancing at me before her eyes landed on the teacher. “Are you okay? Oh, sweetie!”

Mom had the teacher encased in her arms, glaring at me over her head and mouthing. “What did you say to her?”

“Nothing,” I mouthed back. Okay, almost nothing. Not quite nothing. “I forgot?—”

“He just startled me. I’m so sorry,” the teacher said, voice wavering.

“He’s very growly,” Mila said gravely, tucking herself between Mom and Ms. Evans, helping Mom usher her away from the big, scary defensive back.

I swore under my breath, letting the trio of women retreat into the kitchen. Clearly, nothing I could say would help. And fresh off the field, I smelled horrible and looked worse.

Rather than face the wrath of Mila and Mom, I bounded upstairs, stripping off workout clothes on my way to the shower. Worst case, I wouldn’t have to repeat my apology reeking of sweat and covered in dirt.

Best case, Ms. Evans would leave and I’d be spared from attempting another half-hearted apology. She was a stranger skulking around my house, and I was the bad guy?

Still, I’d made a shit first impression. And if Ms. Evans left, I’d have to talk Mila down off the ledge. The kid was already terrified about her first day of school, and making her teacher cry wouldn’t help her anxiety.

Ready to face the consequences of my short temper, I returned downstairs. The faint conversation in the kitchen definitely included an unfamiliar voice. I edged closer, listening for more sobbing.

“Come on in, Rob,” Mom called.

As a kid, I’d sworn she had eyes in the back of her head, and nothing she’d done in the years since convinced me any differently. I’d expected as a parent, I’d develop some superhuman sixth sense about my kid too, but so far, no dice.

I winced but forced myself inside. Ms. Evans stood in the center of the kitchen, flanked by Mila and Mom. She had stopped crying, but her tousled hair and puffy cheeks pointed to that being a recent development. My stomach pitted.

I didn’t mind being terrifying on the field, but when it bled into my home life, things got messy. And before Mila, I didn’t mind the messiness.

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I rushed out in a single breath. “And swore at you, I guess.”

“I’m sorry I cried.” I ignored Mila’s glare as her teacher approached. She had clear blue eyes and a soft confidence that I had to respect. Most of the people I made cry weren’t so eager to face me afterwards. “We got off to a bad start. I’m Gracie Evans, Mila’s teacher.”

I held back a frown. Gracie. The name better suited one of her students.

She held out a hand. I took it, enveloping her hand in mine. “Rob Grant.”

“She’s staying for dinner,” Mom announced loudly with a finality meant the order wasn’t up for discussion. “Pasta and meatballs. I made homemade garlic bread too, and a side salad.”

I nodded, not bothering to argue that while the season hadn’t officially started, I needed to lay off the carbs if I wanted to keep my spot as defensive captain. “Sounds great.”

“I really don’t want to put you out—” Ms. Evans winced.

“No.” Mom held up a hand. “I won’t hear it. It’s late, and we have plenty of food. Stay for dinner.”

“Please?” Mila asked. She clasped her hands, widening her eyes and batting her eyelashes.

Ms. Evans eyes darted toward me, Mila’s and Mom’s following right afterward. If I wanted to keep the peace, I better put on my game face.

“Please, stay for dinner. It’s literally the least we can do,” I said, the overly formal request coming out tight.

Her shoulders loosened. She exhaled. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”

“Rob, can you take Gracie to the dining room while I finish dinner? The wine is on the table.”

When Ms. Evans stood to follow me, Mom shot me an exaggerated wink. I scoffed, shaking my head. Even if she was my age, nothing about meeting Ms. Evans pointed towards a romance. I’d made the woman cry, for fuck’s sake.

“Mila, set the table,” I said, adding. “Please.”

Who knew having a teacher in the house would turn me into a constant ‘please’r?

“I’ll open a bottle of wine. I think we all could use a glass,” Mom said, her voice high-pitched and thrumming with excitement. “Which do you like, Gracie? White or Red?”

“Red is fine,” she said, dipping her head.

“Let me just pop down to the wine cellar and pick us one out,” Mom said. “Mila, go get forks and spoons for everyone at the table. Plates, too.”

The silence made me itch, and I considered following Mila into the kitchen.

She’d only set the table a dozen times before, and we’d lost as many plates.

I’d threatened to order a cheap set of plastic plates and use them until she could be trusted with Mom’s china, but was immediately overruled when Mom said that’d be another ten years at least.

“I really am sorry, Mr. Grant.” Ms. Evans kept her eyes down, cheeks turning a faint shade of red that matched the flowers on her dress.

My chest tightened as another rush of guilt washed over me.

“Please.” There was that word again. “Don’t. I shouldn’t have been so cranky. It’s been a long day. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”

“No, I understand.” Beneath her long eyelashes, her eyes misted. She sniffed in, forcing a smile as she met my eyes. “I had to put my aunt into a memory care facility recently. I have been…prone to random bouts of crying ever since.”

She emitted a garbled noise, dabbing the corners of her eyes. “But don’t worry. I’ll pull myself together by the time school starts.”

The conversation seemed to ricochet from bad to worse. Somewhere deep in my chest, I felt a tug to comfort her. To say something. That sounds incredibly difficult. I’m sorry for your sort of loss. Mila cries all the time, you crying was just more white noise.

But it’d been so long since I’d reached out emotionally farther than Mom and Mila.

“That sucks,” I mumbled, relieved when Mila emerged from the kitchen, an overly large stack of plates in her hands.

“That’s too many plates, girl,” I said, standing up to scoop the top half out of her hands.

She crinkled her nose, surveying the table. “Four people. Four plates. Four bowls. And four little plates.”

I counted the stacks. “We need that many?”

“Salad, bread plate, and pasta,” Mom said, holding two bottles of wine in one hand and a corkscrew in the other. “Mila, how many plates is that all together?”

“You don’t need to turn dinner into a math problem just because her teacher is joining us,” I grumbled.

“What’s after ten?” Mila asked, setting down a bread plate in front of me.

“Eleven,” Ms. Evans and I answered simultaneously.

“Right, eleven.” Mila nodded solemnly as she moved onto the salad bowls. “And what’s after eleven?”

“Clearly, we need to work on her numbers,” I said somewhat apologetically.

I’d barely transitioned out of the “keep Mila alive” portion of parenthood, and having her teacher at our dinner table just exemplified how far behind I’d fallen in my parenting duties.

“Counting to ten is great, Mila. Very impressive.”

I raised an eyebrow, unsure if her teacher was being polite or seriously had a bunch of kids who couldn’t count.

Mila smiled, her closed-mouth, smug smile only given in response to compliments.

"So, Rob, Gracie and I actually know each other." Mom set one bottle of wine on the table and popped the cork on the second. "Do you remember me telling you about my friend, Mercy?"

The name sounded vaguely familiar. Maybe wildly dumb names just ran in Ms. Evans family. I couldn't exactly fault her for that. "Maybe."

"Oh, you remember Mercy. She did pottery with me a few times."

Ms. Evans’ eyes softened. "Do you remember the planter she made?"

"I do!" Mom enthused, pouring a glass of wine and handing it to Ms. Evans. "I told her it'd be impossible to throw that much clay as a beginner, but she proved me wrong."

"It's still on our front porch. I don't think I could move it if I tried."

"Thirty pounds and she didn’t trim more than a pound off of it. I thought it'd explode in my kiln," Mom laughed.

"Your kiln?" Ms. Evans tilted her head, lifting the glass to her lips but barely taking a sip.

I stole the bottle from Mom's grip and poured myself an overfull glass, knocking a glug back. "She used to be a potter. She's got a whole ass studio out back. Barely uses it."

"Mila and I were in the studio yesterday morning," Mom tutted.

"I made a snake!" Mila carefully folded the stack of napkins in front of her, slipping one to the side of Mom's plate.

"You used to be a potter? I didn't know that." Ms. Evans tilted her head, and her brow furrowed, as if that piece of information was vitally important and not passing dinner conversation.

Sensing a brewing full blown pottery-related monologue, I downed the rest of my wine and stalked to the kitchen to get dinner in order. The pasta sat in the colander, so I threw it into the bubbling sauce, coating the pieces of spaghetti and tossing half a bowl of parmesan on top.

The garlic bread in the oven was nearly scorched, but I salvaged a few pieces for Mila by scraping off the burnt bits.

Ms. Evans and Mom could make do. When I carried the pasta and salad into the dining room, Mila had passed out at least half the napkins and Mom was evangelizing about the art of ceramics as Ms. Evans ooh-ed over the set of dinnerware Mom had thrown last Christmas.

"Oh, Rob, you're a lifesaver." Mom patted my cheek as I dropped off the salad and went back for the bread. "And I'm prattling on."

"You're not prattling." Ms. Evans placed a hand on Mom's arm, eyes wide and sincere. "I'd love to see your studio, though."

"Would you?" Mom gushed. I closed my eyes and inhaled. At this rate, the woman would never leave my house. "I'd just love to show you. Maybe you want to throw a couple of things? I miss teaching so much, but with Mila and Rob's schedule, I just can't commit to anything."

"I'd love that." Her eyes flitted to mine and then back to Mom with a tight smile. "If it's not a bother."

I snorted. "You'd make her week if you took her up on that offer. I'll warn you though, she's going to trap you in there."

Mila’s teacher’s lips tipped up. "Thanks for the warning."

Her voice hummed low, sending a shiver down my spine that I hadn't expected and didn't want. I retreated back to the kitchen for the burnt toast and salad dressing before I needed to reply, pleased we’d had one conversation where I hadn’t made the woman cry.

Food on the table, I helped serve Mila while Mom and Ms. Evans piled food onto their plates.

"So, you were living with Mercy, right?" Mom asked off-handedly. "In that big old house off Ashbury?"

Ms. Evans face contorted into a grimace. "Um, yeah."

"It's family land? You're from here, right?" Mom watched Mila play with a piece of spaghetti, ineffectually stabbing at it with her fork and not noticing Ms. Evans’s rigid posture at the question.

"Our family are locals. My parents moved to New York when I was in high school, but I came back after college."

Her voice faltered, mossy eyes welling.

“We moved here from Minnesota,” I interrupted. “Out of towners. But I guess that is pretty common around here these days.”

She studied my face for a minute, picking up her wine glass. “Yeah. Norwalk always felt so small and insulated. And then there was the big downtown revitalization and the stadium and the NFL team. It’s not the same city I grew up in, that’s for sure.”

“Well, we’ve been very happy here,” Mom said before zipping into the kitchen.

“What made you choose Virginia?” she asked, sizing me up.

“Lack of options, really,” I said.

Despite my spot on the Norwalk Breakers’ roster, I had been a fifth-round draft pick sent to a struggling team.

My first four years in the NFL had been a constant fight for my place on the first-string.

By the time my first contract expired, my stats earned me offers across the country.

Another four years, with a kid in tow and four reported knee injuries, I had a choice: quit football or take an offer with the only team willing to roll the dice on my dying career.

In hindsight, maybe I should have dusted off my degree, cashed in on some celebrity deals before my name faded, and made another life for Mila. But I wanted a Super Bowl ring before I hung up my cleats.

“And Norwalk had options?” she asked, eyebrow raised.

“They had one. That’s all I needed.”

“Daddy plays football,” Mila said, opting not to sit next to me and pushing the seat closest to her teacher even closer, almost alongside her.

“Football?” Gracie turned her attention away from me and onto my daughter. “Does he? That sounds very exciting.”

She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “Not really. It’s too loud and people get fighty. And sometimes they say mean things about daddy and his friends, and I got in trouble last season because I called one of them a jerk.”

“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I didn’t even realize the parks and rec department started a football league. Last I knew, it was kickball and softball.”

I dipped my head. Apparently, she didn’t know what I did. “Ah, I have no idea about parks and rec. I’m on the Breakers. I play on the defense.”

She tilted her head, eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. “Interesting.”