Page 69 of Delay of Game
“Offense could make t-shirts!” Noa offered. “I worked with a screen printer on a brand deal last year, and he’d let us design something and use his shop.”
“Luke owns a brewery. Special teams can brew a beer,” Lakeland offered.
“You think Luke is going to appreciate you offering his brewery?” I asked.
Lakeland shrugged. “He’ll do it if I ask nicely.”
“I have a brewery,” I countered.
“Great. We’ll brew at Rob’s brewery. Special teams have beer.”
I sighed, shaking my head. “I meantdefensebrews beer. Special teams can find something else to do.”
“Too late, I called it. You’ve gotta come up with something else,” Lakeland said.
“Fine,” I relented. “Want defense to order catering?”
Sounded good to me. And it saved me from having to do anything other than make a phone call and an appearance.
“I think we could all kick in for that.” Noa said, the corner of his lip turning up in a way that made me wary. “And defense could make the team beer steins.”
“Beer steins?” Trent laughed. “How the hell is he gonna do that?”
I shot Noa a warning look that did nothing besides put a grin on his face as he continued talking. “Rob doesn’t just have a brewery. He has a pottery studio, too. His mom used to be a potter. You can hand build steins, right, buddy?”
“No.” The team knew enough about my home life. I didn’t need to add the pottery studio to the mix.
“Defense needs to contribute something, and you don’t need to leave the house. Win-win.” Diego nodded as if he’d decided for me. “Now all we need is a venue.”
“Wait, that’s not—” I closed my eyes and pinched the bridge of my nose.
Fine. Fucking pottery. I invite my teammates into my space one time and move on with my life.
“I found a ropes course just outside the city. I’ll call them and schedule it,” Fieste offered.
“Well, boys.” Diego held up his glass. “Seems like we have a team-building activity to arrange.”
TWENTY-FIVE
GRACIE
Gentle jazz musicfiltered through the mostly empty house. I sat back on the couch, letting the e-reader in my hand fall to my chest as my eyes slid around the room. Loneliness washed over me at the bare furniture and the pile of boxes in the corner of the room.
I exhaled and pushed myself up, setting the device on the coffee table on the way to the kitchen for a snack or a drink or some other distraction from another night alone.
I’d spent the afternoon with Aunt Mercy. She’d been in better spirits, even remembering my name without the staff prompting her. We spent an hour walking around the garden while she told me about her week. The shopping trip to the grocery store where she’d picked up cookies for a late-night treat. The bingo game in the morning with a pair of college-aged volunteers. Lunch with her new friends. She’d developed quite the social life.
Meanwhile, I had absolutely nothing on my social calendar except a self-care night.
After an overly long bubble bath that left me wrinkled, I put on my cutest pajamas, a red silk short and tank top set edged with lace, and painted my nails. Once they dried, I was stillunsure whether to keep reading my book or watch a movie, so I searched for food.
I raided the fridge, disappointed to find the same sad-looking jar of blueberries and salad remains from the week before. Living alone sucked for a variety of reasons, but losing unexpected snacks topped the list. My only solace was a half-empty bottle of red I couldn’t remember drinking. I pulled it out anyway.
Digging into the back of the pantry, I emerged with an unopened sleeve of crackers. A few slices of cheese, a handful of nuts, and the rest of a bag of baby carrots, and my charcuterie dinner was complete.
I wandered back into the living room to find my phone vibrating on the coffee table. My temporary panic that the nursing home had called to tell me Aunt Mercy was hurt melted away when I spotted the name on the screen.
“You called me?” I asked, incredulous.
