Page 19 of Delay of Game
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 halland 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.
