Page 32 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

THIRTY-TWO

ROB

The sun shone onto my face, blinding me as I helped a lineman scrabble up a wood wall.

“For fuck’s sake, this is worse than practice,” I groaned, glancing back at the other team. They’d all scaled their wall except for Trent, who took a running start at the wall and clambered up like a squirrel.

I hadn’t seen the promised ropes course, but so far, we’d taken part in a scavenger hunt, unwound ourselves from giant human knot, and balanced the entire team on a two-foot platform.

Now, we’d split into two teams to run an obstacle course.

The smaller players on the first team flew over the ten-foot wooden wall while Fieste and I struggled to lob our bigger players up.

Finally, everyone was at the top except for us.

“I’ll toss you up and then you can pull me up after.” Fieste braced himself against the wall, hands extended.

I shrugged, fitting my foot in his cupped hand and hauling myself up. Isaiah Cooper grabbed me, hefting me up with ease. Bracing myself, I reached a hand down for Fieste. He stepped back, running at the wall but jumping inches from my outstretched hand.

“Let me try.” Cooper took my spot and reached down. Same results.

“Fuck it.” I raked a hand over my face. “I’m going back down. I can jump higher.”

“You don’t have to do that,” Fieste wheezed, face beet red and cheeks puffed. He doubled over, holding up a finger. “Just give me another shot.”

The other team took off toward the next obstacle, and annoyance prickled at me, but I leaned further down, waiting for him to reattempt the jump.

He backed up farther this time, sprinting to the wall and propelling up the side.

Our fingers brushed this time. He fell back down to the ground with a determined frown.

“Jump down there, Rob,” Noa muttered in my ear as he watched the other team break away.

“Give him another shot,” I said, before yelling to Fieste. “You got this. One more time.”

He grit his teeth, rubbing his hands together as he backed up. His gaze stayed on the wall as he ran, picking up speed into the wall and then propelling himself up. This time, I caught his wrist. He scurried up the wall until he could throw his leg over the top.

I moved out of the way as he collapsed on the platform. The rest of the team took off toward the next obstacle.

“Good job,” I said, waiting for him to catch his breath.

“Don’t belittle me.”

“I mean it. This shit is hard.” I held out a hand.

He eyed it, as if he expected me to pull it back any second, and then took it, letting me lift the bulk of his weight.

“I swear, if there’s another wall, I’m quitting,” he panted, doubling over to rest his hands on his knees.

I peered over the wall at the next obstacle and grimaced. “Well, good news. There’s no wall. Bad news, we’re crawling.”

“Are you serious?” He straightened up in time to watch Cooper belly flop onto the ground and army crawl under a rope net. “Can’t we just hop over it?”

“Not if we want to win.” My eyes traveled to the other side of the course as the other team finished crawling, standing up to run to the next activity. “Which might not be a possibility at this point. But fuck it, we gotta try.”

“Do we though?” Fieste whined.

“Yep,” I answered with a level of conviction I did not believe in. “We’ve got to make the effort. And if you need something to look forward to, the ropes course looks fun as hell and the staff has assured me it’s incredibly easy. Built for lazy C-suite executives.”

He pitched back his head with a groan. “You really have to pick now to be motivating?”

“Apparently. Now catch your breath and let’s finish this thing.”

“Finishing this thing” required another three hours of punishment. By the time the staff strapped me into the ropes gear, I fully regretted not taking our chances with ax throwing.

But in a stroke of genuine team spirit, Luke White, reluctant kicker and burgeoning business mogul, not only allowed special teams to brew beer in his brewery but also closed one of his restaurants for the post-event party.

The Crown & Copper vibrated with activity as player’s friends and family filtered into the bar.

House music shook the weathered rafters of the colonial-era building, and specially crafted beer flowed freely from the taps into handmade steins.

The kitchen produced a non-stop flow of appetizers eaten almost as soon as they hit the buffet table.

Noa hooked an arm around his wife, Lena, as Fieste regaled her with the come-from-behind story of the obstacle course.

“And Rob, who I should mention,” Fieste gave me a wink before flitting his eyes around the bar and lowering his voice, “absolutely hates me, looks me in the eye and says, ‘you got this.’”

He pressed his palm to his chest, holding his other hand to the sky. “It was almost a divine experience. Energy coursed through my body, all the aches and bruises melted away, and I was healed enough to finish the course.”

Lena laughed. “Seriously? Rob, you? You were motivational?”

“We were going to lose.” I shrugged. “I just wanted the kid to keep going.”

“But then the floodgates opened,” Fieste continued bombastically. “Rob showed real leadership ability out on the course.”

“I’m turning in my captain’s patch at the end of the season,” I muttered.

“No way.” Trent Vogt interjected himself into the conversation, stein in hand. “We need you, Grant. You know, being old and all that.”

“You mean having seniority? That’s called seniority,” I countered.

“And here I called it being a crotchety old man who doesn’t know when to quit,” he grinned, ribbing me in the side.

“You lie in bed at night and pray you’ll have a career as long as me. Keep running your mouth and some rookie will lay you out during pre-season.” I gave a sidelong grin at Fieste who laughed.

“Damn over aggressive rookies, huh?” He shrugged.

Trent cocked his head, narrowing his eyes at the rookie. “Holy shit, Fieste, is that a hickey?”

His hand jumped to his throat. “What?”

Trent prized Fieste’s hand off his neck, revealing a purple mark just above his collarbone. “Man, I know you’re young, but hickeys? You can’t be doing stuff like that on our team.”

“It’s not a hickey” Fieste slipped away from Trent, cheeks burning red.

“It’s that Gracie chick, isn’t it? Rob’s friend?” Trent asked.

A chill ran down my spine, vision temporarily going black. “What?”

A panicked look flitted across Fieste’s eyes.

“That’s her name, right?” Trent asked. “Kit and I saw them downtown last week at a brewery. They were getting drinks together.”

“We weren’t getting drinks together,” Fieste insisted.

“You were at the bar. What the hell else were you doing?” Trent shrugged.

“We were there for trivia, with a group.”

Trent took a sip of his beer. “Damn, we should have special teams brew us a couple of beers every season.”

“Trivia?” I echoed.

“She’s pretty cute. I don’t blame you, Fieste.” Trent smacked him on his back, oblivious to my mounting anger or the fear clouding Fieste’s face.

His eyes locked on mine. “We just?—”

“What did I fucking tell you?” I stepped up to him, crowding him.

“What’s going on?” Lena asked, though I barely registered her presence. My full focus landed squarely on Fieste.

He grimaced. “I wasn’t?—”

“You weren’t supposed to touch her. Not a damn hand hold, not a hug, certainly not a fucking hickey. Have you lost your mind?” I stepped into his space, vision tunneling as a vision of his arms wrapped around Astrid, kissing her, touching her.

“Are you even going to listen to me?” the rookie asked.

Noa’s hand brushed my shoulder. “Hey, cool it a bit, man.”

I shook him off, standing nearly nose to nose with him. “I asked you to do one simple thing. That’s it.”

As if coming out of a dream, Fieste shook his head. The fear on his face disappeared, replaced with defiance and maybe a bit of his own rage.

“No,” he bit out. “You wanted to drain my bank account and then you wanted me to pretend to date someone who liked you. That’s not ‘one simple thing.’”

“It’s one simple thing if you’re not a complete fuck up. No wonder you didn’t get drafted.”

“You don’t know a single thing about me, do you? I thought you were just being polite, but you actually don’t know, do you?”

The question took me off guard. “Why would I know anything about you?”

“Oh, I don’t know, because I walked onto your team from a national championship winning school during a year that the league is hard up for linemen? You didn’t think that was weird?”

“Other than being pissed at hell after you took a cheap shot at me, I didn’t think about you at all. Why would I?”

“Because I got drafted, you dick! And I burned the team for a chance to play with the Breakers.”

Noa confirmed the story with a nod.

I shook my head, confused. “Why would you do something dumb like that?”

“Thomas Baker.” He spat out my ex-teammate’s name like a swear. “He coached my high school team and when I asked him who the best middle linebacker was, he said Rob Grant.”

“I haven’t thought about Baker in decades,” I grunted.

“Yeah, that seems to be a pattern with you. Not thinking about other people.” Fieste gripped his beer so tight his knuckles turned white, stepping up to me.

“Well, he remembers you. He told me not only were you a skilled player, but a great teammate. The best. That if I wanted a mentor, I couldn’t do any better. ”

My stomach dropped.

“So, I studied your game film. All of it. High school, college, pro. I went to your games. And I turned down my draft team for a shot at the Breakers because I wanted to learn from the best.” Ethan raised his voice, ensuring not only could our teammates hear us, but the entire restaurant staff.

“And turns out Rob Grant is a miserable asshole.”