Page 4 of Delay of Game
“No need to explain,” she interrupted, sucking in a breath before she dropped her hand.
“What’s going on out here?” Mom rounded the hallway from the kitchen, barely glancing at me before her eyes landed on the teacher. “Are you okay? Oh, sweetie!”
Mom had the teacher encased in her arms, glaring at me over her head and mouthing. “What did you say to her?”
“Nothing,” I mouthed back. Okay, almost nothing. Not quite nothing. “I forgot?—”
“He just startled me. I’m so sorry,” the teacher said, voice wavering.
“He’s very growly,” Mila said gravely, tucking herself between Mom and Ms. Evans, helping Mom usher her away from the big, scary defensive back.
I swore under my breath, letting the trio of women retreat into the kitchen. Clearly, nothing I could say would help. And fresh off the field, I smelled horrible and looked worse.
Rather than face the wrath of Mila and Mom, I bounded upstairs, stripping off workout clothes on my way to the shower. Worst case, I wouldn’t have to repeat my apology reeking of sweat and covered in dirt.
Best case, Ms. Evans would leave and I’d be spared from attempting another half-hearted apology. She was a stranger skulking around my house, and I was the bad guy?
Still, I’d made a shit first impression. And if Ms. Evans left, I’d have to talk Mila down off the ledge. The kid was already terrified about her first day of school, and making her teacher cry wouldn’t help her anxiety.
Ready to face the consequences of my short temper, I returned downstairs. The faint conversation in the kitchen definitely included an unfamiliar voice. I edged closer, listening for more sobbing.
“Come on in, Rob,” Mom called.
As a kid, I’d sworn she had eyes in the back of her head, and nothing she’d done in the years since convinced me any differently. I’d expected as a parent, I’d develop some superhuman sixth sense about my kid too, but so far, no dice.
I winced but forced myself inside. Ms. Evans stood in the center of the kitchen, flanked by Mila and Mom. She had stopped crying, but her tousled hair and puffy cheeks pointed to that being a recent development. My stomach pitted.
I didn’t mind being terrifying on the field, but when it bled into my home life, things got messy. And before Mila, I didn’t mind the messiness.
“I’m sorry I scared you,” I rushed out in a single breath. “And swore at you, I guess.”
“I’m sorry I cried.” I ignored Mila’s glare as her teacher approached. She had clear blue eyes and a soft confidence that I had to respect. Most of the people I made cry weren’t so eager to face me afterwards. “We got off to a bad start. I’m Gracie Evans, Mila’s teacher.”
I held back a frown. Gracie. The name better suited one of her students.
She held out a hand. I took it, enveloping her hand in mine. “Rob Grant.”
“She’s staying for dinner,” Mom announced loudly with a finality meant the order wasn’t up for discussion. “Pasta and meatballs. I made homemade garlic bread too, and a side salad.”
I nodded, not bothering to argue that while the season hadn’t officially started, I needed to lay off the carbs if I wanted to keep my spot as defensive captain. “Sounds great.”
“I really don’t want to put you out—” Ms. Evans winced.
“No.” Mom held up a hand. “I won’t hear it. It’s late, and we have plenty of food. Stay for dinner.”
“Please?” Mila asked. She clasped her hands, widening her eyes and batting her eyelashes.
Ms. Evans eyes darted toward me, Mila’s and Mom’s following right afterward. If I wanted to keep the peace, I better put on my game face.
“Please, stay for dinner. It’s literally the least we can do,” I said, the overly formal request coming out tight.
Her shoulders loosened. She exhaled. “That sounds nice. Thank you.”
“Rob, can you take Gracie to the dining room while I finish dinner? The wine is on the table.”
When Ms. Evans stood to follow me, Mom shot me an exaggerated wink. I scoffed, shaking my head. Even if she was my age, nothing about meeting Ms. Evans pointed towards a romance. I’d made the woman cry, for fuck’s sake.
“Mila, set the table,” I said, adding. “Please.”
