Page 62 of Delay of Game
Diego raised an eyebrow. “So, that’s not a ‘I’m gonna change tactics immediately,’ is it?”
“Like I said.” Coach Simmons’ neck muscles bulged as he eked out the words. “I’ll take your concerns into consideration when I talk to the coordinators tomorrow morning. I’m not backing down from my belief that there are some problems in the starting lineup that need to be addressed. Until I can fully resolve those issues, there will be some tough practices. Until then, I suggest that, as captains, you resolve intra-personal matters within your teams.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Lakeland asked under his breath.
“It means he wants us to deal with his mess ourselves,” I responded, loud enough for Coach Simmons to hear.
If my comment annoyed him, he didn’t let it show. “Exactly. Lead, gentlemen. That’s what I’m suggesting you do. Have a great night.”
We filed out of Coach Simmons’ office, staying silent until we made it into the locker room.
“So, this is our problem?” Diego scoffed. “He knocks over the game and we clean it up?”
“He’s asking us to help him get our team ready for the playoffs.” Noa grabbed his bag off the bench and slung it over his shoulder. “He has a point. We’re the team leaders, and if we don’t have shitty attitudes when he changes things up, the rest of the team will follow suit.”
“My attitude is shit because Donovan kicked my hand.” Lakeland’s mouth twisted into a frown.
“So, you’re saying we need to motivate the team?” I asked, crossing my hands over my chest. “Because the defense didn’t pick me as captain because I’m motivational.”
“Seniority-based captains are still captains.” Lakeland swiped a t-shirt off his locker, throwing it over his shoulder.
I groaned. “I should have turned it down.”
“Just couldn’t turn down the stars on your jersey?” Diego laughed. “Rob is fancy like that.”
“Fuck you guys,” I swore, turning to the door.
“Get some beauty sleep, fancy boy,” Lakeland yelled after me. “So you can come back tomorrow and be motivating.”
TWENTY-THREE
GRACIE
ROB
Want to come over and throw bowls with me?
The first communicationsince he’d repaired the drywall in the pantry. I held my phone in one hand, a paintbrush in my other. Despite a long day at school, I worked up the energy to finish painting the kitchen. And in my inexpert opinion, it looked pretty good.
Now, with the final coat drying and at least a half hour of clean up in front of me, I still wanted to respond yes.
Are we throwing pottery or “throwing pottery?”
I typed and erased the question half a dozen times before finally sending it off, cheeks burning at even bringing up the last time we were in the pottery studio. I calmed my breath and straightened my shoulders when my phone pinged with a reply.
ROB:
On the wheel. I need to replenish my stash.
Give me thirty minutes.
My shoulders ached as I pushed myself up to standing and collected my paint-splattered supplies. Moving aside my breakfast dishes, I rinsed them off and covered the paint, wrapping the rest of the tray in a plastic bag.
I stopped by the bathroom, scrubbing the muted white paint from my face and arms. There was no saving my clothes, but in an hour, I’d be covered in clay rather than paint, so there was no reason to change. Rob had seen me wearing worse. Wearing less.
I grabbed my keys and my purse and drove to Rob’s. The lights outside the house were lit, waiting for my arrival. I looped around the cul-de-sac and wedged in between an old Ford beater that Rob kept around for hardware store runs and Gloria’s fancy SUV.
Light poured out of the studio. Rob sat at a wheel by the window, shoulders hunched as he wrestled a mound of clay. He furrowed his brow in concentration as his elbow dug into his side. He leaned forward, pulling up the clay and mashing it down again. Clay coated his fingers, and his face looked dreamy as he repeated the steps.
