Page 5 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

FIVE

ROB

Cars spilled out of the paved parking lot, littering the grass surrounding the massive brick school.

“Looks like we’re going off-roading,” I said, turning left across the opposite lane and into the grass. The car bounced, and Mila giggled in the backseat as I pulled in between two trucks.

“Are we allowed to park here?” she asked, craning her head back toward the school.

“I don’t think a tow truck could get us out, if that makes you feel better,” I muttered, shifting the car into park. “We’re going to be late if we don’t hustle.”

“We’re going to be late?” Mila asked, voice strangled with a frisson of anxiety.

“It’s an optional tour. We aren’t really late,” I said, hoping the lie would placate her.

She didn’t want to get out of bed, and I’d shifted my afternoon drills to early morning so I could bring her to the school.

Instead of getting home with time to spare, Coach Simmons had cornered me on my way out of the stadium with some questions about the rookies and starting lineup.

By the time I’d answered his questions, I’d had to speed all the way home.

I scooped Mila up in my arms, jogging across the street. In contrast to the tiny school I’d attended, Norwalk Elementary District 3 was immense. A single, sprawling building with tendrils that ended in playgrounds.

The front door was locked tight and Mila pointed out a big, red doorbell between the two glass doors. “Oh, can I press it?”

I bent forward until her palm reached the button. She smacked it hard, and the door unbolted with a thunk. A staticky voice called, “Come on into the front office.”

Mila wriggled out of my arms and marched into the front office with a smile. “Mila Grant. I’m starting kindergarten.” She beamed up at the front desk employee, planting her hands on her hips.

The employee pitched forward. “And whose class are you in?”

“Ms. Evans,” I said when Mila’s confidence faltered. I clapped a hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze.

She tapped a button, and another obnoxious beep blared in the room as the door unlatched. “Go through that door and walk down the hall. Kindergarten is the third hallway on the left. Ms. Evans’ classroom is at the end of the hall on the right. I can’t wait to see more of you, Mila.”

Mila smiled and marched out the door, following the directions with her hands splayed out in front of her.

“The hand that makes an L is the left,” she muttered under her breath as she led us.

I craned my head down the hallways as we passed, wondering how nearly two hundred kindergarteners would navigate this maze on the first day without massive meltdowns.

“Oh! Ms. Evans!” Mila’s shout drew my attention from the science lab.

Ms. Evans stood in the hallway with a passel of children and adults in tow. “Mila! Mr. Grant. I’m so glad you could make it. You’re just in time for a tour of the school.”

Her eyes dipped when they met mine, a faint blush on her cheeks. I couldn’t tell whether it’d been there before.

“Come on, Mila.” I nudged her shoulder and moved us to the back of the line.

Mila’s teacher walked us through each of the six wings: one for each grade level and the last for other classrooms: speech therapy, library, science lab, and other programs. Effortlessly, she kept a gentle patter of conversation, stopping at intervals to ask a kid which way the bathroom was or if they could remember the way to the cafeteria.

She handed out bingo cards with pictures of different rooms and paired the students, urging them to check off each classroom they found.

Mila beelined toward a little boy in a cowboy outfit.

Connor, his mother, Susan, told me as she slid in beside me.

Connor had two older brothers and one younger sister.

His father worked as the branch manager at a bank downtown.

His mother quit her nursing job when her second oldest son was born because it cost more than her salary to put them in daycare.

She was also a big Breakers fan and head of the PTA and hoped I’d join.

I had less than no interest in joining the PTA.

“Now, we’re going to leave the parents in the cafeteria so they can speak to the principal,” Ms. Evans announced over the hum of conversation, saving me from more of Connor’s mom’s life story.

“And how about…Mila leads us back to the gym so you can meet Mr. Ryder, the gym teacher. We’ll see all the parents soon! ”

The kids waved goodbye to the parents as Mila lead them back down the hallway. Connor’s mom threaded her hand through my arm. “I wonder if this is about the buses. My kids don’t take the bus. I drop them off. Once Gunnar is in middle school, I might let him take the bus…”

No. This wouldn’t work. I could handle a polite nod at the start of the gymnastics class, but near-constant conversation with pushy PTA parents? Not for me. Maybe it wasn’t too late to convince Mom to homeschool Mila. She didn’t need friends that badly.

“Mr. Grant?” I straightened at the sound of Ms. Evans’ voice. She ducked her head into the cafeteria, surprising Connor’s mom into temporary silence. “Do you mind coming with me back to the classroom? I seem to have misplaced some paperwork.”

I stood, hurrying away from Mrs. PTO without a second glance. The tension in my shoulders lessened with each step. “What’d I forget to do?” I asked as she led me into the hallway.

She looked me up and down, the edge of her lips hitching up and her eyes lighting up. “Did you know that Mrs. Barker is head of the PTA?”

I groaned, shoulders inching up. “Yeah. She mentioned.”

“She’s a bit of a talker.”

“I noticed that too,” I said, my eyes wandering down the hallway toward the classroom.

She stayed glued to the hallway with a bemused expression. “You’re welcome.”

My gaze darted back. “Welcome?”

“For saving you. She would have talked your ear off for the next hour, and Mrs. Lennox, the principal, would have let her. Mrs. Barker raised over thirty thousand dollars last year for the school.”

“So, she’s just allowed to verbally kidnap other parents?”

“Verbally kidnap?” She snorted softly, shaking her head. “I like that. And yes.”

“I’m willing to write a check right now if you can guarantee I’ll never end up sitting next to that woman again.” I shook my head, annoyance mixing with amusement.

“A personal check?” Her grin turned into a full smile that took my breath away. “I’m tempted, but that’s a big ask. So I’ll give you this one for free.”

“What about the kids?” I asked.

She waved a hand at me as she led me back to the classroom. “They’re meeting the other teachers: gym, language, arts. They’ll be busy for another half hour before someone will bring them back to the classroom. You can hang out in here, if you want.”

“Am I going to miss anything important?” I asked.

She bit back a smile. “Even if you did, you wouldn’t have heard it over Mrs. Barker, anyway. But no. It’s all the same stuff I put in the parent packets.”

“Thanks. So, how the hell do you relax in here?” I asked as we entered the classroom. “You don’t even have an adult-sized chair.”

She perched on one of the dozens of miniature chairs clustered around coffee table height desks. “You think I relax in a room full of twenty six-year-olds? Impossible.”

“Okay,” I conceded. “That’s fair, but you could maybe set out one of those ball chairs or a bean bag for adult visitors.”

“And listen to the kids fight over who gets to sit on it next? No. I’d rather sit on the floor.”

I folded myself into a chair, but the low groan of metal forced me to pop back up again.

“Maybe I do need a bean bag,” she smiled. “For the parents’ night.”

“So, what do we think?” I asked Mila as I fastened her back into her car seat. “Connor sucks, right?”

Her eyes widened. “Don’t say that about Connor! He’s my best friend!”

Damn it. As much as I wanted Mila to have friends, another afternoon with Connor’s mom might kill me. Spotting the lack of a ring on my left hand, she spent most of her time back in the classroom trying to talk up her single friends.

“You only met a few of your new classmates. I’m sure you’ll meet someone better. Maybe another princess.”

“Connor’s a cowboy. That’s sort of the same,” Mila said.

“You’re excited though? Ready?” I asked, standing at the open door with my hand on the roof.

She nodded. “Yep. Can I go back tomorrow?”

I shook my head. “It’s a weekend, so no.”

“I hate weekends.”

Considering I worked most of them, I agreed.

I closed the door gently behind her and piled into the driver’s seat. Mila’s school was only a short drive from our house, through residential and county roads rather than highway and main thoroughfares. And on the way to the stadium, which meant only adding a few minutes to my commute.

We pulled up to the house to find Mom on the porch, waiting for our return. Mila’s return, really.

“Gigi!” Mila launched out of her seat as soon as I put the car in park.

“Hey, seat belt stays on until I say to take it off!” I called after her too late. She had her arms around Mom’s knees, talking a mile a minute about Connor and the school and life in general.

“Sounds like a very fun afternoon.” Mom patted Mila on the head, herding her into the house. She stayed behind. “Also, Gracie is coming over this evening.”

“Why?” I asked, clocking the glint of amusement in my mom’s gray eyes and not liking it one bit.

“I’m giving her a key to the studio,” she answered with a wave of her hand. As if she regularly gave out keys to her studio.

I raised an eyebrow. “A key?”

“So she can come and go as she pleases. Pottery isn’t exactly a once-a-week hobby, and we’re all busy. The last thing I want is for her pieces to get ruined because she didn’t have time to finish them before they hardened.”

Suddenly, I had a vision of Mila’s teacher waltzing through my yard.

Hanging out on the front porch. Spending more and more time at my house.

And it all made my head hurt. I pinched the bridge of my nose.

“Why don’t you come up with a time to do pottery together, since you seem to enjoy her company so much? ”

“We’re busy women.”

I couldn’t argue with that. “But you might not see her if you don’t know what time she’s coming by.”

“She has my number. Does she have your number? You should give her yours, too. Just in case.”

“I shouldn’t,” I said with a shrug, leaning back on an excuse I’d been using ever since I showed up at the NFL combine with a newborn in tow. My number stayed private. My personal life stayed private. And most of all, my home stayed private.

Unless my mom decided otherwise.

Rifling in her purse, she pulled out her phone. “I’ll just send you both a text.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I groaned. “It’s really not enough that you’re giving her a key?”

“She’s Mila’s teacher. And Mercy’s grandniece.” She emphasized the last bit as though that meant anything to me and then shrugged. “She probably has your contact information, anyway.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but Mom was right. She already had my contact information, somewhere among the other paperwork she received when I enrolled Mila in school. I just wish I didn’t like how much I liked the idea of her having my number.