Page 20 of Delay of Game
“Over here, daddy!” Mila patted the couch beside her.
The space wasn’t nearly big enough, but her huge smile lured me over. Mila shuffled closer to her teacher, standing up to sit half on my lap and half on the couch.
“Look at the duck!” She pointed to the book, and when I leaned closer to see the picture, my shoulder brushed Ms. Evans’.
She stiffened, back ramrod straight and body listing away.
I leaned away, painfully aware of how much space I took up. How even a large couch, specifically purchased to comfortably fit defensive linemen, couldn’t contain an exuberant six-year-old and two adults.
“Yep,” I agreed tersely. “That’s definitely a duck.”
The arm rest dug into my side. I shifted to relieve the pressure.
“He doesn’t have any friends.” Mila shook her head, her voice dipping low and sad.
“Why do you think that?” Ms. Evans cocked her head toward Mila.
“He looks scared.”
I stifled a laugh. “He’s a duck. How can you tell?”
Mila’s face screwed up in a frown, directing her displeasure at me. “He’s frowning.”
“Ducks have bills. Bills don’t frown,” I snorted, clocking her teacher’s frown, one that mirrored my mom’s when I said something not “age appropriate.” “Okay, yeah, his eyes look sad. He’s a sad duck.”
“A very sad duck,” Mila clucked, shaking her head. “And the pond is empty. He doesn’t have any friends.”
“So, what should he do?” Gracie prompted.
Damn, she was good at engaging Mila. Good with kids. Mila hadn’t interrupted her with a million questions or wandered off to play with dolls. Mila tracked her fingers as she ran them under the words and studied the pictures as if there’d be a test at the end.
I kept to my side of the couch, only allowing myself an occasional shift to let the pressure off my hip. The book concluded with the duck finding a friend, and Mila bounced away to play in her room.
“Ready for a glaze tutorial?” I asked.
Ms. Evans lips tilted up into a smile that disappeared just as quickly. “I don’t want to put you out.”
“It’s not a big deal,” I said with a shrug. Then, her face fell, and I backtracked. “Or, if you’d rather, you can come back tomorrow, and Mom can show you.”
Her cheeks blushed a dull red as she ducked her head. “No, it’s fine. Your mom said it shouldn’t take long and as long as you don’t mind.”
“You really don’t know anything about pottery, do you?” I didn’t doubt her claims about only having a basic knowledge, butthe offhand comment cemented that hunch. “Everything about pottery takes forever. Let me tell Mila that we’ll be in the studio.”
With Mila plopped in front of the TV in the living room, I marched outside, Ms. Evans following in my wake. I half hoped that Mom would show up, her date a bust and eager to spend another four hours in the studio. Only half hoped.
“So, in addition to starting for the Norwalk Breakers, you also dabble in pottery?” she asked, her voice a soft hum above the crickets and owls making noise in the night.
“I prefer brewing beer, but yeah,” I admitted. “I make pots and shit, too.”
She huffed out a laugh. “Pots and shit?”
“Mugs, plates, tea sets for Mila.” I stopped at the door, fumbling with the keys in my pocket, embarrassed I admitted to doing as much. Other than Mila and my mom, no one knew I played with clay. Not my fellow players, not my best friend. “It’s not important.”
Ms. Evans’s soft green eyes searching me up and down. Her lips tilted into an amused grin. “Teacups?”
“And a tea pot. Mom got sick of making them, and she’s more of a production potter, anyway. She doesn’t want to make one thing. She wants to make one thing twenty times.” I shook out my hands, skimming through the ring of keys and selecting the wrong one. Metal bounced against the lock. A flustered annoyance grew my chest.
“So, if she’s a production potter, what does that make you?” she probed, leaning her shoulder against the door frame.
