Page 21 of Delay of Game
“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.”
EIGHT
ROB
