Page 40 of Delay of Game
Diego’s response surprised me. He’d come into the NFL hot, a top draft pick with a killer agent. Usually, those stars burned out within a season, but not Diego. He lived up to the hype, even if he hadn’t yet cemented that hype with a Super Bowl ring. But it was coming, even with bad vibes.
“Early season jitters. Happens to the best teams,” I said, placating Noa with a hand on his arm. “And I’ll back off Fieste. A little. If that’ll help.”
“It’s literally the least you could do,” Noa muttered. “But fine, if you both agree there’s nothing wrong, I’ll drop it.”
He stalked off to the locker room. Diego lingered behind, tilting his head at our normally calm and collected center’s retreating form. He exhaled. “He’s sort of right.”
“So, you do sense bad vibes?” I scoffed, drawing a smile from him.
He raked a hand through his hair and shrugged. “Maybe. But Coach Simmons just got off my case.”
“You don’t want to rock the boat?”
“Not after last season. I’ve kept my head down and stayed out of trouble,” Diego said. “I hate to march into his office talking about gut instinct and vibes when there’s not a problem.”
An unspoken “yet” hung in the air, but Diego’s unease at involving Coach Simmons was palpable.
Over the past four years, I’d avoided Coach Simmons notice. When he reached out about transferring to the fledging NFL team, I negotiated through his second-in-command, a legendary coach named Lionel Mack. He’d flown out to my house in St. Louis, played with Mila, charmed my mom, and convinced me that transferring to Norwalk was the best decision for my family and my NFL legacy.
A fat contract and a promise to keep me out of the limelight certainly sealed the deal. I hadn’t regretted the move once since I’d joined the team, but I also hadn’t tangled with the head coach. Other than some post-game notes and the occasional check-in, we stayed out of each other’s lanes. He didn’t force a second defensive captain onto the team or care that my captain position was an “in name only” title.
I had no intention of breaking our unspoken truce by barging into his office to yap about bad juju. And I couldn’t fault Diego for wishing the same.
“I’m with you, man.” I clapped Diego on the back. “Whatever weirdness is happening on the field, it’s temporary. We’ll be back on track come week three.”
He studied my face, wavering for a second before agreeing with a curt nod and a tense smile.
I retreated into the showers, rinsing off the turf and sweat from the day’s practice. My back ached and even a trip to the massage therapist table didn’t ease the dull pain. The constant flood of workouts and game film and play calls swirled in my mind, and I shifted my focus onto something else.
Mila.
My daughter was an easy mental escape. She’d flourished since her first day in kindergarten. The fear had melted away within a day, and she’d come home chattering on about new friends and activities and what she’d learned.
And Astrid.
Hot water scalded my back as she flooded my thoughts. The gentle lilt of her voice and the way her plump lips pursed together when she held back even a touch of exasperation. The gentle swell of her hips and the way her dresses hugged her curves.
I turned off the hot water, changing the temperature to freezing cold. Astrid sure as hell was distracting, but I didn’t need that kind of distraction. Certainly not in the team showers.
Astrid was too young, too sweet, and too involved with Mila and Mom.
Still, my original plan to pass her off to Fieste stayed firmly on the back burner. Introducing the two of them meant meeting Fieste somewhere other than the field. At least, that was the excuse I told myself. In reality, that asshole didn’t deserve Astrid. Besides, he probably sucked at repairing shit, and I didn’t need him taking up space while I worked.
I’d introduce them…when I finished more of Astrid’s list.
Grabbing a towel, I wrapped it around my torso and made my way back to my locker. Most of the guys had already gone home. No one hung around to catch up. No one offered to grab dinner somewhere. No movie night in the game film room.
Not that I’d ever taken part in those activities, but I noted their absence. For a fleeting moment, I connected the lack of bodies after practice to our performance on the field.
Not my concern.
I had bigger problems on my mind: a six-year-old with a host of new friends, all of which wanted play dates, a batch of beerthat needed to be kegged before next weekend, and a dilapidated house to repair.
I pulled on my clothes and reached for my phone, checking the calendar. Mila had dance until six-thirty, which gave me almost two hours.
I texted Astrid.
FIFTEEN
