Page 56 of Delay of Game
“That is bullshit,” Mila repeated solemnly.
Astrid sucked in a breath.
“Hey, Mila, baby? No swearing,” I warned her before turning to our quarterback. “And he’s just trying to scare everyone into playing better. No one’s losing their spot, especially not you.”
I, on the other hand, might. Still, Astrid’s hug calmed me down enough to talk Diego off the ledge rather than commiserate with him.
“I have a rhythm going. I don’t want anyone switched out.” He grew tense, shoulders taut and eyes narrowed to slits.
I shrugged. “There’s not much we can do. If Coach Simmons wants to shake up the starting lineup for a couple of days, that’s his right.”
“So, you’re just going to step aside while Fieste plays in your spot, huh?”
My body went rigid. “He’s at least two slots behind me. That won’t happen.”
“I hope, for your sake, that’s true,” Diego said, tipping his head back toward the door. “Let’s get out of here. I need to not think about the game of football for the next twenty-four hours.”
“Good luck with that,” I snorted.
Cassie waved goodbye as Diego led her out the door. I blew out a breath, envying Diego for having a partner at home.
“How are my stairs looking?” I asked Astrid as I tousled Mila’s hair.
“Not bad.”
“I should probably stop by and make sure the cement set like it should. Could I maybe come by later?”
She nodded, green eyes sparkling. “Sure. I’d like that.”
Inviting myself over was clearly a bad idea. Removed from Astrid and the stadium and a million thoughts running through my head after a loss, I could see that a little more clearly now. Did that stop me from accepting Mom’s offer to put Mila to bed and driving myself to Astrid’s house? Absolutely not.
The front porch light glowed as I pulled in front of her house. The patched stairs took my weight just fine as I walked to the front door, knocking loudly before I lost my nerve. I wiped my hands on my jeans. I should have brought something. Maybea bottle of wine or flowers. No. What the hell kind of message would that send?
Regardless of what had happened the night before, this wasn’t a date. I didn’t know what it was. Not a hook up. Not really a friendship, either. A mistake, for sure, but one I walked into willingly.
“Hey, you’re early!” She answered the door with a smile that left me breathless. She’d changed out of my jersey into a plain black tee and a pair of jeans that hugged her curves and made it damn near impossible for me to think about anything else.
“Yeah, too early?” I tucked my hands in my pockets, eyes skirting to the faded paint on the porch.
“No, not at all.” She shot me an inviting smile, stepping aside so I could come inside.
A stack of boxes littered the living room, piled under the bay window with labels like “donate” and “Mom” and “???” She’d cleared out a bunch of furniture, making room for flooring and sheets of drywall.
“Looks like you’ve been busy,” I said, pointing to the pile.
“Yeah.” She planted a fist on her waist with a frown. “Time’s running out, isn’t it?”
There was a lot of work left to be done on the house before it would sell. For the first time, I had questions about what would come next. Where she’d go. If she’d stay. Questions that wouldn’t and shouldn’t affect me at all, but I couldn’t help wanting to know the answers to.
“And then…”
She shrugged. “And then I make whatever repairs we need to make sure it doesn’t go to some scummy house flipper.”
I bit back a grin. “No developers?”
“No developers. They’d gut the charm out of the house.”
And in her defense, the house had a ton of charm: old oak, bay windows, crown molding. Touches that suggested a levelof craftsmanship no one offered anymore. The type that came along with faulty wiring and pockmarked drywall.
