Page 7 of Delay of Game
“And Norwalk had options?” she asked, eyebrow raised.
“They had one. That’s all I needed.”
“Daddy plays football,” Mila said, opting not to sit next to me and pushing the seat closest to her teacher even closer, almost alongside her.
“Football?” Gracie turned her attention away from me and onto my daughter. “Does he? That sounds very exciting.”
She shrugged her tiny shoulders. “Not really. It’s too loud and people get fighty. And sometimes they say mean thingsabout daddy and his friends, and I got in trouble last season because I called one of them a jerk.”
“That doesn’t sound like much fun,” she murmured, shaking her head. “I didn’t even realize the parks and rec department started a football league. Last I knew, it was kickball and softball.”
I dipped my head. Apparently, she didn’t know what I did. “Ah, I have no idea about parks and rec. I’m on the Breakers. I play on the defense.”
She tilted her head, eyes narrowing for a fraction of a second. “Interesting.”
THREE
GRACIE
A playerfor the Norwalk Breakers.
I reframed my first interaction with Rob with this new information, surprised by how much it made sense. His giant frame, his strange work hours, his disconcerting stare. I bet he was terrifying on the field.
"It's not really interesting," Rob said gruffly. He fidgeted in his chair, uncomfortable with how the conversation turned in his direction.
"I just assumed you were a contractor. Or a developer. Professional football player, though? That's new. I had a student whose mother worked in the accounting department, but never a player."
He leaned forward, cradling this wine glass in between his massive palms, lowering his voice. "My job is the least exciting thing about me."
If I could forget the existence of the six-year-old glued to my side, that might have been the hottest thing a guy had ever said to me. Which ultimately was a terrible reflection on my own love life and had very little to do with the man across the table who clearly didn't give a shit about fawning football fans.
“We forgot the cheese!” Gloria said, breaking the tension as she emerged from the kitchen.
At the risk of making an absolute ass of myself, I turned my attention to the piles of food on the table. A lot for four people. Three normal people and a football player? Still a lot, though less than I anticipated.
While I pushed pasta around my plate, Rob mowed through two plates, three salads, and a full loaf of bread.
Mila talked nearly non-stop, pausing only for tiny nibbles of bread. Surprisingly, Rob offered to clean off the table as soon as dinner was over, and Gloria grabbed my elbow to show me her studio.
We slipped out the sliding door by the kitchen, walking down a cobblestone path to a cozy-looking cottage just past the grassy backyard. The flickering of a carriage light guided us to the front door, and Gloria slid a ring of keys out of her pocket, flipping through the stack until she reached a purple handled key.
She unlocked the door and flipped on the lights.
"Wow." My jaw hit the ground as I took in the studio. Three wheels on one side of the room, flanked by two farmhouse sinks. In the center of the room sat a large table, topped with canvas for wedging clay. A row of covered five-gallon buckets lined the opposite wall, the name of the glaze written on the chalkboard wall with test tiles hanging below. A patio door led out back next to a door to the bathroom.
“The kiln is in the backyard. Covered, but Rob was afraid of starting a fire if we had it indoors. I don’t really blame him.” Gloria waved her hand, as if having an outdoor kiln was some knock against her studio.
“This is amazing,” I breathed in, awestruck. The cottage studio was nicer than my house. Even the epoxied cement flooring had an intricate pattern hinting it was hand-painted.
I walked around the table, pausing to run my fingers along the boxes of clay underneath. Stoneware, porcelain, brownstone, white. More options than I’d been given in the weekend class.
“Do you rent out the studio?” I asked, almost grimacing at the question. I couldn’t afford a membership to a studio, even one run by my aunt’s friend.
Gloria laughed, brushing her fingers across her chest. “Oh no. I held a little hand building class here for the animal shelter. Rob does some work with them. But otherwise, it’s just me. Mila, occasionally, when I have the energy, or if Rob wants to use it.”
“He does pottery?” I asked with a raised eyebrow. I had a hard time imagining him hunched over the wheel or pulling up fragile vases.
She shrugged. “When he wants. Not often and then often. He prefers brewing beer these days, but when he’s stressed about a game or Mila, I’ll find him out here. He can’t help it. It’s in his blood.”
