Page 3 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

THREE

GRACIE

A player for the Norwalk Breakers.

I reframed my first interaction with Rob with this new information, surprised by how much it made sense. His giant frame, his strange work hours, his disconcerting stare. I bet he was terrifying on the field.

"It's not really interesting," Rob said gruffly. He fidgeted in his chair, uncomfortable with how the conversation turned in his direction.

"I just assumed you were a contractor. Or a developer. Professional football player, though? That's new. I had a student whose mother worked in the accounting department, but never a player."

He leaned forward, cradling this wine glass in between his massive palms, lowering his voice. "My job is the least exciting thing about me."

If I could forget the existence of the six-year-old glued to my side, that might have been the hottest thing a guy had ever said to me.

Which ultimately was a terrible reflection on my own love life and had very little to do with the man across the table who clearly didn't give a shit about fawning football fans.

“We forgot the cheese!” Gloria said, breaking the tension as she emerged from the kitchen.

At the risk of making an absolute ass of myself, I turned my attention to the piles of food on the table. A lot for four people. Three normal people and a football player? Still a lot, though less than I anticipated.

While I pushed pasta around my plate, Rob mowed through two plates, three salads, and a full loaf of bread.

Mila talked nearly non-stop, pausing only for tiny nibbles of bread. Surprisingly, Rob offered to clean off the table as soon as dinner was over, and Gloria grabbed my elbow to show me her studio.

We slipped out the sliding door by the kitchen, walking down a cobblestone path to a cozy-looking cottage just past the grassy backyard.

The flickering of a carriage light guided us to the front door, and Gloria slid a ring of keys out of her pocket, flipping through the stack until she reached a purple handled key.

She unlocked the door and flipped on the lights.

"Wow." My jaw hit the ground as I took in the studio.

Three wheels on one side of the room, flanked by two farmhouse sinks.

In the center of the room sat a large table, topped with canvas for wedging clay.

A row of covered five-gallon buckets lined the opposite wall, the name of the glaze written on the chalkboard wall with test tiles hanging below.

A patio door led out back next to a door to the bathroom.

“The kiln is in the backyard. Covered, but Rob was afraid of starting a fire if we had it indoors. I don’t really blame him.” Gloria waved her hand, as if having an outdoor kiln was some knock against her studio.

“This is amazing,” I breathed in, awestruck. The cottage studio was nicer than my house. Even the epoxied cement flooring had an intricate pattern hinting it was hand-painted.

I walked around the table, pausing to run my fingers along the boxes of clay underneath. Stoneware, porcelain, brownstone, white. More options than I’d been given in the weekend class.

“Do you rent out the studio?” I asked, almost grimacing at the question. I couldn’t afford a membership to a studio, even one run by my aunt’s friend.

Gloria laughed, brushing her fingers across her chest. “Oh no. I held a little hand building class here for the animal shelter. Rob does some work with them. But otherwise, it’s just me. Mila, occasionally, when I have the energy, or if Rob wants to use it.”

“He does pottery?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. I had a hard time imagining him hunched over the wheel or pulling up fragile vases.

She shrugged. “When he wants. Not often and then often. He prefers brewing beer these days, but when he’s stressed about a game or Mila, I’ll find him out here. He can’t help it. It’s in his blood.”

I turned away from the pottery wheels. “In his blood?”

“Robert, my late husband, God rest his soul.” She touched her fingers to her lips, and her eyes wandered up before she continued with a smile.

“He and I met at a pottery studio. We were both production potters. He made mugs. I made plates. Rob grew up playing with clay. Of course, once he had a football in his hand, he found his true love, but he still mucks around in the clay occasionally.”

My job is the least exciting thing about me.

Apparently, that statement was a fact, not a throwaway line that unintentionally got me hot and bothered.

“Do you want to throw something?” Gloria asked, fishing out an open bag of clay from under the table.

“Do you prefer speckled brown or white? Personally, I love the speckles. It just looks so nicely rustic. And then, if you mess up your throw, it looks like you did it on purpose. Isn’t that lovely? ”

She already had two hunks of speckled brown out on the table, kneading one with practiced ease.

“I haven’t thrown anything in a year,” I admitted. “I wasn’t very good when I learned.”

She waved a hand before tossing me a lump of clay and kneading the second. “Nonsense. I bet you’re a natural. I have some aprons hanging over there.” She pointed to a coat rack by the door. “Pull one on and let’s make something.”

She smiled as she wedged with a confidence that made it impossible to tell her no.

I had taken up so much of their time tonight, and a prickle of guilt nagged at me.

But Gloria seemed so at ease in the studio, as if there was nowhere else she’d rather be, and the truth of the matter was, I didn’t want to be alone.

Not in the rambling giant house that felt lonely with only one person.

Not when Gloria and Mila enveloped me like they’d invited me to dinner weeks ago and not at the last minute because I’d had a meltdown.

I picked through the aprons, selecting a durable gray canvas that covered my entire front and dragged on the ground. Probably Rob’s, but too late to change course.

I pulled up a chair in front of the wheel, my mind reeling to recall the steps to turn this hunk of clay into a bowl or a cup or whatever I could manage that wouldn’t make myself look like an absolute rookie in front of a woman who made the type of pottery sold in fancy stores.

“I’m not sure I remember all the steps,” I admitted with a start as Gloria pulled up the chair beside me. She flipped on my wheel, and I pressed my foot on the pedal. The wheel came to life, flying counterclockwise before I stopped it again.

“Throw that piece down and let’s see what you’ve got,” Gloria goaded me into action. I picked up the clay and smacked it onto the board. “Good girl! Now, dab some water on your fingers and seal it in place.”

She walked me through the steps I’d taken so long ago, her hand cupping mine to make sure I pulled the walls up straight and showing me how to knock down the bottom.

I lost track of time as she wedged more clay, piling it onto the edge of the wheel and then scuttling away with my finished pieces to dry.

“You are a natural!” She insisted as the pile dwindled to nothing and I stopped the wheel for the last time. I checked my clay-splattered watch, surprised to find that we’d stayed in the studio for nearly three hours.

“Oh, look at the time!”

Gloria’s face crumpled with concern. “Oh no, did I make you late for something?”

I shook my head. “No. I just didn’t mean to keep you so long.”

“You didn’t keep me,” she shushed. “Rob is putting Mila to bed, and honestly, he probably appreciated the break from having me buzzing around.”

“Well, thank you,” I said, wiping my dirty hands into the water bucket. “That was fun.”

“And you’ll be back tomorrow to trim? Or would you like me to leave them out of the drying room and come back in a couple of days?”

I hadn’t really considered that pottery wasn’t a one and done activity.

“You don’t want to just reuse that clay?” I asked.

Her face fell. “You don’t want to finish these?”

“Oh no,” I corrected. “I do. I really do. I just didn’t want to inconvenience?—”

“Don’t be ridiculous!” Gloria interrupted, her face bright and eager. “That one vase has an absolutely adorable silhouette. You need to finish it.”

“Okay, if you don’t mind. We have to get ready for the kindergarten tour, but could I come later in the week?”

“I look forward to it!” she said with enthusiasm.

Or maybe I wanted to hear that enthusiasm in her voice so much that I’d imagined it. I couldn’t be sure, but for the first time in a month, I didn’t feel like crying. I didn’t feel sad. And I wanted to hang onto that feeling.

I couldn’t pinpoint whether that feeling came from Gloria or the pottery or just being out of the house, but, I agreed.

I walked away from the Grant household with a bottle of wine, a bag full of leftovers, and some pretty mixed feelings about the evening.

The district didn't exactly have a policy about hanging out with students’ families. Hell, ten years ago, they couldn't have even enforced it with the small size of the community.

And it's not like I'd gotten lit at dinner. I'd enjoyed two small glasses of wine, the first home-cooked meal I'd had in ages, and a great view.

Okay, lusting over my newest student's father probably wasn't allowed by the district. And after my recent break up, I should be focused on figuring out why I dated emotionally unavailable men, not on throwing myself at a guy with a questionable temperament and an unconfirmed marital status.

He wasn't wearing a ring, though.

I climbed into the car, thankful that, at the very least, I had an evening where I didn't cry. Much.