Page 38 of Delay of Game
Rob’s job spread like wildfire around the school. The Norwalk Breakers were a young team, barely established in the NFL. Most of the players had been drafted straight out of college and lived in the city center, not the rural northern part of the city. We’d had a few coaches’ kids and a couple of people who worked for the team, but never a student of a player. Certainly not a starting player.
And Mila didn’t shy away from talking about her dad. She also didn’t hesitate to loudly berate anyone who said anything against her father’s team. She narrowly avoided a trip to theprincipal’s office when she told a little boy with a Panthers’ jersey that their players played like shit last season.
“Renovations are going slowly,” I admitted.
The ambitious to-do list I put together before moving Aunt Mercy now seemed impossible, but that didn’t seem to stop Rob, so I followed his example.
“Rob’s been a big help. He finished the stairs and gave me a couple of things to do that would help him replace the floors.”
“He’s such a sweetheart,” his mom sighed with a soft smile. “A lot of people don’t know that. They see his on-field persona and think he’s just a jerk.”
“Isn’t there a video of him yelling at a reporter?” I asked cheekily.
“Okay, he’s a bit of a jerk, but he’s good to the people he loves. He just doesn’t love reporters. Or the press.”
I opened my mouth to ask a question about his hatred of the press and swallowed it back down. Despite my better instincts, I’d done some light Internet searching on Rob. Initially, a search with an express interest in finding more about Rob’s on-field performance. But then curiosity got the better of me. I searched back to his high school career and college, shocked at the difference between his college interviews and his most recent appearances.
On the field, he’d been a beast since middle school. His tight-lipped glare proved just as effective for him as a gangly pre-teen as well as a muscled college student. I pinpointed the change to his third year in the NFL, when he showed up to a new team with an infant car seat tucked under one arm.
He shielded Mila from the press, threatening a photographer who swiveled to get a clear shot of her through the gauzy cotton blanket draped over the top of her seat. After five quarterback sacks in a single game, he sat at a post-season press conference where he fielded question after question about Mila and noneabout his plays. His responses started out terse but devolved into stony glares before standing up from the table and leaving mid-interview. For the rest of the season, he barely answered the press. And the next season, the team told reporters that Rob Grant was no longer taking part in team interviews.
From then, any information about Rob Grant that wasn’t a stat sheet or a dry play-for-play recount of a game came from various gossip sites and celebrity magazines. And even then, only thinly veiled blinds and candid pictures.
The candids revealed nothing interesting. Pictures of Rob and occasionally Mila going about their normal lives: a trip to Disneyland, a summer at the beach, walking out of the stadium post-game.
The blinds weren’t any betters. Despite years of speculation, all the burning questions about Mila and Rob remained unanswered. No one ever tracked down Mila’s mom, and Rob never appeared to date. Besides the head of a local animal shelter, he was rarely photographed with another woman outside the Norwalk Breaker’s staff.
“Rob has been through a lot. After his dad died and Mila’s mom…” My ears perked up at the first mention of Mila’s mom, but Gloria waved her hand, shrugging apologetically. “Well, after she left, he just didn’t open up like he used to. He’s holding on tight to what he has. I sometimes wonder if he’s waiting for someone to open up to or waiting until his NFL career is over.”
“He seems like he’s under a lot of pressure,” I said, unable to meet her eyes.
“He makes a lot of money, and he’s outlasted some very talented players. He’s lucky, and I sometimes wish he’d let go enough to realize as much. But he’s stubborn. No idea where he gets that from.”
“Probably his dad,” I joked.
“Must have been.” Gloria stood up from her stool and hefted up the giant pot with two hands, tilting it back to get a good look at it. “Well, I’m happy with that one. I think it’s time to call it a night. How about you?”
FOURTEEN
ROB
Isaiah Cooper launchedacross the line of scrimmage, wrapping me up around the waist and knocking me back on my ass. Before Coach Mills could even blow the whistle, Cooper bounced up, wincing.
“Damn it,” he apologized, extending a hand. “I jumped the clap.”
“Again.” I took his hand to get back up. We’d won our first pre-season game handily. Barely eked out a second win and lost the third by a field goal. Maybe it was new players or new plays or bad calls, but regardless, we were on a downslide. And if we wanted a chance at a post-season championship run, we needed to pull ourselves out of it fast.
Cooper wasn’t doing shit to help. He’d racked up two offsides calls during the last game and at least three this practice alone.
“I wanted to draw a false start.” He shot me a charming grin that didn’t work one bit.
“But you didn’t. The offense stayed in place. You jumped into the neutral zone.” Coach called over one of the practice players, so I pulled off my helmet and raked a hand through my hair. “Cooper, you suck at drawing players offsides. You sucked incollege. You sucked your rookie year. And you continue to suck now.”
“You don’t want to give me any lessons?” he asked.
“I’m not wasting my time. You’re a shitty chirper. Your trash talk sucks. But you’re a serviceable tackle. Focus on that.”
He clapped me on the back, undeterred. “Thanks for the pep talk, Captain.”
