Page 8 of Delay of Game (Norwalk Breakers #4)

EIGHT

ROB

“How was your night with Gracie?”

Thanks to a cluster of pre-season meetings and a well-timed dance competition, I’d successfully avoided talking to my mom about Astrid for all of two days. But Mom waited until I was waist deep in a mountain of laundry to corner me about her newest friend.

“I wouldn’t call it a ‘night.’ She read Mila a story, and I sat around while she glazed her pieces. Mila was thrilled.”

“She’s great with Mila, isn’t she?” She touched her chin, eyes faraway.

I turned a tutu inside out and chucked it in the dryer. “Mila takes to anyone who gives her undivided attention.”

“And how did showing her around the studio go? Seems like she’s not just a good teacher, but she’s shaping up to be an excellent potter.”

Mom gave a lot of compliments, but praising someone for their inherent talent at pottery ranked as the most prestigious among them. Either Mom believed it, or she wanted me to know how impressed she was by Mila’s new teacher.

“I’m sure she’ll do fine in the studio.” I pulled a load of workout clothes I’d left in the dryer and started piling them on the table opposite. “I warned her to toss her extra clay in the pile outside and not to clog the pipes with it.”

Mom rolled her eyes as she slid the mound of clothing into the middle of the table, quickly folding a shirt. “I’m not asking about instructions. What did you think of her?”

I turned a pair of shorts inside out before folding them and stacking them on the shirt. “Nothing much.”

“Rob!” Mom’s jaw dropped before her eyes narrowed. “Don’t be hateful. Tell me the truth.”

I shrugged, tension tiptoeing up my back and settling in my shoulders. “She’s fine.”

Mom’s lips curled into a line. Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”

“Fine, I’m holding out,” I sighed. “I think she’s the most brilliant potter in the world and best teacher. She’s maybe the voice of her and every other generation.”

“Don’t get sassy with me.”

“I’m not being sassy,” I chuckled. “I just don’t know what you’re looking for. You obviously like the girl. Or her aunt. Or maybe both.”

I matched a pair of socks, tossing them beside the rapidly growing stack of clothes.

Mom’s lips twisted into a pursed lip glare I got as a kid. “I sort of thought there might be something between the two of you.”

I scoffed. “When did you think that? When I made her cry?”

“Obviously not then.” Mom rolled her eyes as she tucked my practice jersey under her chin and folded over the sleeves. “But during dinner.”

“I barely spoke during dinner.”

“More than you usually do around company. And you didn’t get too upset when I suggested she stay.”

“I made her cry. You and Mila already thought I was being a monster. I wasn’t going to deny her dinner, too.”

“Gracie mentioned how helpful you were with the glazing. And according to Mila, you spent at least four episodes of The InBestigators out in the studio.”

I shook my head, “Mila really needs to learn how to tell time by some metric other than TV shows.”

“You could have shown her what to do in a half-hour, maybe less.”

“Maybe she’s just a really slow learner,” I countered.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She has her Master’s, for Christ’s sake. Simple dip glazing isn’t graduate level stuff.”

“I already told you I’m not dating. I’m not interested in dating. And I’m certainly not interested in dating Astrid.” I winced as her name escaped my mouth.

“Astrid?”

Too late to backtrack, I barreled in. “Gracie is her middle name. Astrid is her first name.”

Mom’s face scrunched up. “Really?”

“Why would I make that up?”

“I like Gracie better.”

“Gracie is the name of a kindergartener.” I scooped up a pair of shorts wedged between the table and the wall.

“So, Astrid…” A grin bloomed on Mom’s face. The type of grin that made me regret opening my mouth. “You call her Astrid?”

“I didn’t like Gracie.”

“Hm,” Mom hummed under her breath.

“Nothing’s happening, and you can get that idea out of your head.” My shoulders tensed, and I slid them back down with an exhale. “Seriously. She’s barely twenty-five. Besides, I have a kid, and I’m on the road half the year.”

“As a professional football player. Don’t act like that’s not attractive to some women, Rob.”

I was all too aware of how attractive my profession was to some women.

Women who liked an idealized version of my life that included first-class plane tickets, Michelin-starred restaurants, and five-star hotels.

Women who wanted late nights at club openings and weekend jaunts into the city or to a private island.

And some of my teammates were willing to give them just that.

But I wasn’t some young buck straight out of college.

I had years in the NFL. I had injuries. I had a kid.

My diet and exercise regime required strict diligence.

During the season, I aimed for macros over taste.

I got my eight hours of sleep and spent more time in the weight room than with my own kid.

“And I have to focus on Mila. I can barely manage what’s on my plate. I’m not adding another person to that equation.”

Mom tutted, shaking her head. “How about a friend?”

“I have Noa.” I invoked my best and only friend like a cloak. Sure, he was also my teammate, but where the hell would I meet anyone I didn’t work with? “That’s plenty of friends.”

“Noa has a newborn.” She sighed. “You remember what that was like?”

How could I forget? The late nights, the crying, the lack of sleep, the endless Internet searches convincing me I was the worst parent ever and had no business raising a kid.

“A kid doesn’t make him less of a friend.”

“A kid certainly makes him less available as a friend. And besides, I’m not sure Astrid,” Mom elongated the name, her eyebrows lifting, “has many friends. She’s spent a lot of time taking care of Mercy these last few years. I bet she could use someone.”

“Haven’t we had this conversation? Besides, I’m a shit friend. Ask Noa. You don’t want that for Mila’s teacher. Better yet, you two seem to have a hobby in common. You be her new friend.”

“I’m too old to be her friend,” Mom said, like she hadn’t been hiking over the weekend and had drinks with friends twice that week.

“So am I,” I argued.

“You’re not too old. You’re too stubborn.” Mom tilted her head back and released a huff. “I’m asking you to do me a favor. She’s in that big old house all by herself, trying to get it ready to sell.”

“Does she need a friend or a maintenance worker?”

“Both, probably. Teachers don’t make much, and if you’re helping with home repairs, you don’t need to talk that much.”

“So, I can get you off my back if I cross some shit off her to-do list?”

“I’d love if you could just extend a branch of friendship to the girl and help her out a little. It’d be a nice thing to do.”

I eyed her, all too aware of my mom’s manipulations.

The house repairs were secondary to what she really wanted: more face time between me and Astrid.

And stacked up against my reasons to say no, I also had one giant reason to say yes.

If I said yes, Mom would be off my back, at least for the season.

“And if I agree to that, you stop pushing your delusions about a future daughter-in-law on me?”

She nodded. “Absolutely. Just give her a hand with a couple of things around the house. Oh, even better, introduce her to some of your teammates. Or their girlfriends. Cassie and Lena would like her. She’d probably get along with Trent’s new girlfriend, too. What’s her name again?”

“Kit.” I’d only met Kit a handful of times, but she put up with Trent’s bullshit and didn’t talk my ear off, so she ranked as one of my top ten favorite people.

“Right. She’s sweet. She and Gracie would get along like a house on fire.”

“Sure,” I agreed, surprised I hadn’t thought of the idea sooner. I paint a couple of rooms, fix some leaky faucets, and then hand her over to my younger teammates, people more in line with Astrid’s age and social needs. “I’ll shoot her a text.”

“Now?” Mom’s eyes lit up as I placed the stack of laundry into a basket.

I shook my head. “Absolutely not. You’re going to suggest I send a bunch of emojis and gifs. I’ll text her later, when you’re not hovering over my shoulder.”

“This week though?”

“Maybe this week.”

Mom smiled despite the soft promise, kissing my cheek before holding the laundry room door open for me as I brought the basket upstairs.

Mila had her toys splayed out across the floor, two sets of teacups and pots arranged on a center blanket. I glanced at a clock over the fireplace. Half-past eight.

With school only a few days away, I’d have to enact an earlier bedtime.

“It’s late, girl,” I said, startling her. “We need to get ready for bed.”

Her face crumpled into a frown. “But I’m not even tired.”

“You’re not tired now.” I navigated around the safari in my living room and scooped Mila off the ground. “We’ll clean this up in the morning.”

She didn’t put up much of a fight on the way upstairs, half-heartedly pawing at my arms until I set her down in the bathroom.

“Want a song to brush your teeth to?” I asked, pulling my phone out of my back pocket and navigating to my playlist of Mila-appropriate songs.

She nodded, pigtails bouncing as she sloppily squeezed toothpaste onto her pink unicorn toothbrush. The familiar chords of an upbeat pop song about oral hygiene filtered out of my phone, and I navigated away from the music app and into my contacts.

My fingers scrolled past “A” and then “G,” and then back up again before finally finding her number under “E” for Evans. My thumb hovered over the text button but choose “Edit contact” instead.

Astrid Evans.

My thumb hovered over the star symbol, but doubted I’d need to use her number for long. I’d swing by her house, make a couple of repairs, and then introduce Astrid to the crew of players and girlfriends her age.

Mom says you need some help around the house. Want me to swing by and see what I can do?

That sounded dumb as shit. I erased the message.

I heard you have a dilapidated house. Need some help?

Alright, that sounded rude even to me.

I heard you need some help with home repairs. I’m actually pretty handy.

Another erased message. I raked a hand through my hair, covering my face.

“What’s wrong, Daddy?” Mila peered at me through the mirror, toothpaste dripping from the corner of her mouth.

“Nothing,” I answered as the final chords of the song came to a close.

Mom said you needed help selling your house. What time should I come over to check the place out?

I pressed send and pocketed the phone before I second guessed myself. Third guessed myself. No, fourth guessed.

“What are we reading for bedtime?” I asked Mila, mouthing along when she replied immediately with, “ The Pigeon HAS to Go to School! .”

“You sure I can’t talk you into something else?”

She shook her head with a smile. “Nope.”

Great.