Page 7 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

SEVEN

ROB

“DADDY!”

I pinched the bridge of my nose and closed my eyes, counting down from three before I opened them again. “Princess?”

“Where’s my dance outfit?” She stomped to the top of the stairs, glaring down at me, a unitard in hand.

“Are you holding it?”

Her eyes narrowed, mouth forming a line. A replica of my expression when someone asked me a dumb question. “It is not. This is my gymnastics outfit. I need my dancing outfit.”

I grabbed the banister, preparing to mount the stairs and wade into the knee-deep disaster of her room.

At first, her toys and clothes and art were contained to her nursery and then they spilled into the second guest room.

Then, the guest bathroom. The living room.

Now, I could barely walk around my own house without tripping over dolls and hair ties and miniature unicorns.

Mila’s manifest destiny of the house was nearly complete as Mom fled to her pottery studio and I built a brewery in the backyard.

“Did you check your dresser?”

Her look turned from annoyed to offended in a heartbeat. She clutched the unitard to her chest. “I looked everywhere.”

Admitting defeat, I forced myself up the stairs, my knees groaning at the effort. In seconds, I’d find the dance outfit crammed underneath a squishy whale or used as bedding for a doll. Better to help her find it than turn up to dance class late.

“Don’t forget Gracie is coming by tonight,” Mom trilled from her room.

“I’m not calling her that,” I said.

“She asked us to call her Gracie.” She had her door open as she held a blouse in each hand. “Let her know I bisque fired her pieces. After she’s talked to Mila, take her back to my studio and show her how to glaze them.”

“Nope. Absolutely not.” I crossed my arms and leaned against the doorframe. “That’s your project. You can deal with it.”

Mom sighed, dropping her hands and letting the blouses flutter against the floor. “You know your way around that studio just as well as I do. Besides, it’d be good for you to spend some time with someone new.”

“There are a dozen rookies wandering the stadium. I’m talking to plenty of new people.”

“You’re just like your father, you know.” She waved the blouses at me. “Which one do you like better?”

“I don’t know. Red?” I asked.

“It’s a little low cut.” Mom frowned.

“Blue then. What the hell do you care, anyway? Don’t you have book club or something?”

Mila stomped out of her room, glaring at me standing in the hallway.

“No, that’s Wednesday,” Mom drawled. “I have a date tonight.”

“Daddy!” Mila shrieked. “We’re going to be late.”

“Wait, what?” I stopped mid-stride with a start, swinging back. “A date?”

“A date,” Mom replied breezily, hanging the red blouse back up in her closet and standing in front of the mirror with the blue one.

“Where are you going?” I asked carefully, ignoring Mila’s angry stomps and edging towards Mom’s room.

“Out. For a drink, then dinner.”

“What’s his name?”

She hung the blouse on the mirror and turned to face me, hand on her hip. “Don. He’s in my hiking group.”

Despite taking care of Mila during the football season, Mom had a cavalcade of friends and clubs: bridge, bingo, hiking, pickleball.

She juggled her social calendar like a full-time job, meticulously filling the time she used to spend working with an array of activities and friends. I couldn’t keep up.

“Where exactly are you going?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.

She raked her hand through her hair. “Sip Society and then Little Italy for dinner. Did you want to meet him first?”

“Is that an option?” I asked.

“No,” she said sternly, before breaking into a smile. “Unless you want to meet him? He’s very nice. Handsome.”

“I hope you have fun.” The words curdled in my mouth, but I forced them out, anyway.

Dad had passed nearly a decade ago. And with Mila heading off to school, I understood on a basic level why she’d want to date again.

I didn’t agree with it, but I could be supportive.

“Are you driving, or is he picking you up?”

“I’m meeting him at the bar.”

“Good.” I nodded. “I don’t want you in a car with him until I’ve met him.”

She smiled, deep set laugh lines forming around her lips and her eyes sparkling. “You worry too much. I don’t think anyone is out there kidnapping old ladies for sport.”

“You’re not old,” I said, clearing my throat. “And I’m happy for you. It’s about time.”

Her mouth twisted, eyes turning misty. “And I think it’s about time for you, too.”

“Nope,” I said, rolling my eyes. “Not a chance. Not until Mila is in college. Maybe after that.”

“I mean it, Rob.” Mom crossed her room to me, her hand covering my arm. “It’s time. Well past time.”

“Who would put up with me?” I asked, the self-effacing quip stinging slightly.

Sure, women lined up along the tunnels after our games, eager for an autograph and a night on the town.

But I wasn’t some first-year rookie. I was a nose tackle at the tail end of my career, known for my hard hits and my aggressive taunts.

Add in a kid, and I wasn’t anyone’s first choice for a partner.

Mom opened her mouth to reply something sweet and comforting and not even close to true. “Hone?—”

“I found my dance dress!” Mila crowed triumphantly from her room. She flounced out, holding the dress aloft. “Mr. Teddy had it.”

“Well, throw it on or we’ll be late,” I said, turning away before Mom could finish her thought.

“Gracie, tonight, six!” Mom called after me.

As if I needed a reminder.

After dance class was a mad dash to get dinner on the table and finished before Ms. Evans walked through the door. Mila wasn’t much help in the endeavor, alternatively helping prepare food and getting directly in my way. A frustrating combination.

Mila played with her food more than she ate but eventually gave up the pretense and pushed the plate away, asking to watch TV instead. As she cleared the table, the doorbell rang.

Plates clattered on the table as Mila scrambled for the front door.

I stopped her with a glare. “Not so fast. You put your plate in the dishwasher. I’ll answer the door.”

I carried my dishes to the kitchen, placing them beside the sink on my way to the door.

Ms. Evans stood outside in a pair of perilously tight jeans and a ruffled floral blouse, her hair braided and cascading down her shoulder. Her smile faltered only for a second when I opened the door.

“Good evening,” she said, her voice tight and formal.

“I’m going to try not to make you cry this time,” I said. The intended joke fell flat.

“I’d appreciate that.” She picked through the words carefully, weighing them in a way that punched me in the gut. Her attention shifted behind me and her face lit up. “Mila!”

“Ms. Evans!” Mila launched herself at her teacher’s knees, wrapping her tiny arms around her and nuzzling in. “I’m glad you came back. Can you read to me?”

She leaned down for a quick hug. “I’m actually here for something else.”

“So you won’t read to me?” Mila pushed out her lower lip, eyes glassy and wide.

Ms. Evans frowned, and her eyes flitted up to mine. “Do you mind?”

The table was a mess. I doubted Mila had cleaned off much more than her own plate but if I didn’t allow it, Mila would bring it up all week. “I guess not.”

“Will you listen too, daddy?” Mila asked.

“Let me finish cleaning up,” I shrugged. “Go on and start without me.”

I dragged my feet as I cleaned off the table, the high-pitched chattering from the living room drifting down the hall and prickling my skin.

Not that I didn’t want Mila’s first year in school to be amazing, but being around Mila’s teacher put me on edge in a way I hadn’t felt in years.

A nervous anticipation mingled with self-doubt.

An unfamiliar feeling I bristled against.

I always sucked at school. I hated being there, got terrible grades, and made my teachers lives’ miserable.

Maybe, even years after graduation, I still didn’t enjoy being around teachers and my trepidation about spending too much time with Ms. Evans had nothing to do with the way she filled out a pair of jeans or smiled in a way that sent my stomach tumbling.

Mila wouldn’t be like me. She was smart, quick, and eager to please. She’d be a star pupil, but until she settled in, I’d have to do what I could to support her. Which, in this case, meant sitting across from Ms. Evans while she read to Mila.

Reluctantly, I slinked into the living room.

“Over here, daddy!” Mila patted the couch beside her.

The space wasn’t nearly big enough, but her huge smile lured me over. Mila shuffled closer to her teacher, standing up to sit half on my lap and half on the couch.

“Look at the duck!” She pointed to the book, and when I leaned closer to see the picture, my shoulder brushed Ms. Evans’.

She stiffened, back ramrod straight and body listing away.

I leaned away, painfully aware of how much space I took up. How even a large couch, specifically purchased to comfortably fit defensive linemen, couldn’t contain an exuberant six-year-old and two adults.

“Yep,” I agreed tersely. “That’s definitely a duck.”

The arm rest dug into my side. I shifted to relieve the pressure.

“He doesn’t have any friends.” Mila shook her head, her voice dipping low and sad.

“Why do you think that?” Ms. Evans cocked her head toward Mila.

“He looks scared.”

I stifled a laugh. “He’s a duck. How can you tell?”

Mila’s face screwed up in a frown, directing her displeasure at me. “He’s frowning.”

“Ducks have bills. Bills don’t frown,” I snorted, clocking her teacher’s frown, one that mirrored my mom’s when I said something not “age appropriate.” “Okay, yeah, his eyes look sad. He’s a sad duck.”

“A very sad duck,” Mila clucked, shaking her head. “And the pond is empty. He doesn’t have any friends.”

“So, what should he do?” Gracie prompted.

Damn, she was good at engaging Mila. Good with kids. Mila hadn’t interrupted her with a million questions or wandered off to play with dolls. Mila tracked her fingers as she ran them under the words and studied the pictures as if there’d be a test at the end.

I kept to my side of the couch, only allowing myself an occasional shift to let the pressure off my hip. The book concluded with the duck finding a friend, and Mila bounced away to play in her room.

“Ready for a glaze tutorial?” I asked.

Ms. Evans lips tilted up into a smile that disappeared just as quickly. “I don’t want to put you out.”

“It’s not a big deal,” I said with a shrug. Then, her face fell, and I backtracked. “Or, if you’d rather, you can come back tomorrow, and Mom can show you.”

Her cheeks blushed a dull red as she ducked her head. “No, it’s fine. Your mom said it shouldn’t take long and as long as you don’t mind.”

“You really don’t know anything about pottery, do you?” I didn’t doubt her claims about only having a basic knowledge, but the offhand comment cemented that hunch. “Everything about pottery takes forever. Let me tell Mila that we’ll be in the studio.”

With Mila plopped in front of the TV in the living room, I marched outside, Ms. Evans following in my wake. I half hoped that Mom would show up, her date a bust and eager to spend another four hours in the studio. Only half hoped.

“So, in addition to starting for the Norwalk Breakers, you also dabble in pottery?” she asked, her voice a soft hum above the crickets and owls making noise in the night.

“I prefer brewing beer, but yeah,” I admitted. “I make pots and shit, too.”

She huffed out a laugh. “Pots and shit?”

“Mugs, plates, tea sets for Mila.” I stopped at the door, fumbling with the keys in my pocket, embarrassed I admitted to doing as much. Other than Mila and my mom, no one knew I played with clay. Not my fellow players, not my best friend. “It’s not important.”

Ms. Evans’s soft green eyes searching me up and down. Her lips tilted into an amused grin. “Teacups?”

“And a tea pot. Mom got sick of making them, and she’s more of a production potter, anyway.

She doesn’t want to make one thing. She wants to make one thing twenty times.

” I shook out my hands, skimming through the ring of keys and selecting the wrong one.

Metal bounced against the lock. A flustered annoyance grew my chest.

“So, if she’s a production potter, what does that make you?” she probed, leaning her shoulder against the door frame.

“A football player.”

“I’m talking about pottery, not your job. Are you more into sculpture?”

I raised an eyebrow at her, a flicker of a frown on my face. “More into sculpture than my mom, anyway.”

“Really? Show me something you’ve made.”

Finally, I slotted the key into the lock, opening the door with a satisfying click. “Like what?”

“The tea set. How many did you make?”

“One, and I didn’t take pictures.”

She planted a fist on her hip, jutting it out as I opened the door. “Of course you took pictures.”

I had a small gallery on my phone, not that I planned to share that fact with her. “I might have a picture. Somewhere. Or ask Mila. She’ll show you a piece, if there are any left intact. She destroys them just as fast as I make them.”

Which was pretty frequently. The offseason had been a long stretch of not much to do.

Mila went to day camp and Mom packed her social calendar, which left me alone most days.

I spent the mornings in the gym, but there was only so much beer I could brew.

I found myself in the pottery studio most evenings.

Her mouth morphed into a teasing frown. “Liar.”

My chest tightened, a brief flicker of lust racing through my veins. I tamped it back down, ripping my eyes from hers and flicking the lights on to the studio. Her bisque ware sat on the table, and I picked up one of her bowls, turning it in my palm. Not bad for a first try.

“Well, Grace.” I trial fit the name, immediately hating it just as much as Gracie.

“Gracie,” she corrected me with a soft smile, as if I’d just misheard the dozens of times my mom had said it. She ran her fingers along the row of bowls still on the table.

“I hate that name,” I said, regretting the harsh tone of my voice.

She cocked her head, confusion rather than anger clouding her face. “You hate my name?”

“Okay, maybe not hate it, but it’s a name for six-year-olds, not…” My mouth outpaced my brain. “You.”

“I don’t like Grace.” She picked up a small bowl. She bobbled the bisque-fired clay, and I grabbed the lip of the bowl before it dropped.

“I don’t really like Grace, either. Seems like a problem, since we’re apparently going to see more of each other.”

“I really like your mom,” she gushed, slipping the bowl out of my hands and setting it back by the others. “She’s really sweet.”

“She’s something.”

“Astrid.”

“Excuse me?”

“My first name is Astrid. Grace is my middle name.”

“Astrid,” I repeated. “I like that.”

“No one calls me Astrid.”

“Would you prefer Ms. Evans?”

She smiled. “Okay, I guess one person calls me Astrid.”