Page 50 of Delay of Game
Mila bounded into the kitchen, outfitted in her cheerleader skirt and Grant jersey. She took the plate from my mother, setting it next to mine on the table.
“Were you in on this?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
She smothered her pancakes in syrup, jamming a bite into her mouth. “What?”
“Ms. Evans is taking you to the game today, honey,” Mom said off-handedly, as if she hadn’t arranged it all last night.
“Really?” Mila vibrated in her seat, a smile on her face so big I couldn’t bring myself to wipe it off.
“Yeah, I guess so,” I sighed.
I finished breakfast and kissed Mila and Mom goodbye before rushing out the door.
The pre-gaming had already started by the time I made it to the stadium. I drove past groups of fans in Breaker’s jerseys standing around barbecues, cracking open cold beers first thing in the morning.
I loved home games. It didn’t matter which team I played for or where in the country they were; I loved the consistency that followed the day. Show up at the stadium, change into workout clothes, stretch with the sports trainers, meet with my teammates, run a few plays, and wait for the game to start. Everything structured and meaningful. Everything the same, week after week, season after season. All of it leading up to game day, when the practice and the training came together on the field.
Or not, depending on the season.
I stashed my bag in my locker, pulling on my tattered high school t-shirt, the one I’d worn to my first championship game and practiced in every game day since. I walked to the gym and laid out on a massage table, letting the trainer push and pull my muscles until everything felt loose and easy.
By then, the locker room teemed with activity. All the coaches, players, and support staff clogged every room, forcing me out to the stadium.
The offense practiced on the field. Diego Salazar threw a pass to Trent Vogt. The casual fans still hadn’t taken their seats in thebleachers, but the tailgaters had made their way in, binoculars in hand to peer down from the cheap seats and watch the teams warm up before the big show.
I covered my face with my hand and scanned the box seats, unsure of which Mila and Astrid would sit in. I ignored the rapid thumping of my heart at the thought of Astrid watching me play. She’d seen me at home, in the studio, in her home, but not at work. Not goading opposing players into fights and talking shit on my way off the field. Not slamming guys to the ground and yelling at refs.
Mila accepted who I was on-field. She’d been around it since she was a baby. She knew that what I did for my job wasn’t who I was at home.
But Astrid had never seen me on field. She hadn’t been to the games. She hadn’t felt the pressure of the post-game press or the insidious nature of candid shots on a normal Sunday afternoon, my game day world seeping into the real world. And I didn’t want to expose her to that.
“Grant, time to get your boys together!” Coach Mills yelled across the field, whistle in hand and a scowl on his place.
My boys. I suppressed the urge to roll my eyes.
“Hey, defense,” I shouted to the players on the sidelines. “I need everyone here now.”
They ambled around me, boredom on their faces. Unlike Noa or Diego, I didn’t give pump up speeches. I wasn’t a Vince Lombardi or a Bear Bryant. Fuck, I wasn’t even a Tom Brady.
With a well-practiced edge of menace, I gave the same speech I gave every week. “Do your fucking jobs.”
NINETEEN
GRACIE
In two hundred feet,turn left.
“No, that’s not right.” Mila’s face scrunched as I pulled to a stop for a half-dozen Breakers fans to cross the street.
“What’s not right?” I asked, well aware that everything wasn’t right. Not the hilariously huge jersey Gloria pulled over my head on the way out the door. Not having a student in my car. Not navigating around an NFL stadium to watch a guy I definitely wasn’t dating but certainly knew what his dick felt like, play football.
“We drove past Nate.” She craned her head behind us as we passed yet another parking lot.
“Who’s Nate?”
In one hundred feet, turn left.
“He lets people into the box seat parking lot,” she said, pressing her tiny hand against the backseat window.
