Page 3 of Delay of Game
“Well, I really appreciate you taking the time out of your summer to come meet her.” She paused, pressing two fingers to her mouth. “Oh, how rude of me. It’s getting late. Why don’t you stay for dinner?”
The faint scent of bread wafting out of the oven made my mouth water. The only thing I had waiting for me at home was a microwave dinner and a dying monstera which made the offer of dinner and company tempting. Unbelievably tempting.
“That’s so nice, but I couldn’t,” I said with a demure smile.
Even if Aunt Mercy didn’t remember my evening phone call, I still made it each and every night. And I spent the hour after that call curled up on the couch, wondering whether sending her to a memory care facility was really the right thing to do, or just the easy thing.
Unsure if I could turn down Gloria’s offer a second time, I plowed ahead. “Next Thursday at nine A.M., we’ll have an informal school tour for all the kindergarteners. Mila can meet her classmates and get acclimated to the layout of the school before all the other kids get there. I hope I’ll see you then?”
“Sure thing,” Gloria said, wiping her hands on her apron. “Let me walk you out.”
I eyed the bubbling sauce on the oven. “No worries, I remember the way. Good night.”
I turned and threaded my way through the kitchen, living room, and hallway, relieved. I had made it through the meeting. Seeing Gloria had stirred up a host of memories about Aunt Mercy, memories from before she became fearful at sunset and saw people who weren’t there.
My social battery spent, I reached for the doorknob, but it turned beneath my loose grip. I stepped back, confused, as the door opened.
The setting sun backlit a man who filled most of the doorway. His broad shoulders nearly brushed against the door frame.He peered down at me with a sneer and steely brown eyes reminiscent of the little girl in a princess costume upstairs. His brown hair was wet, clinging to his forehead in the humid late-summer air. He would have been wildly handsome if he wasn’t so intimidating.
I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, voice booming, the low pitch gripping my chest.
And then I had the same reaction to everything I’d had ever since I moved Aunt Mercy out of her home.
I burst into tears.
TWO
ROB
I openedthe front door to my house, relieved to be away from the stadium.
Pre-season sucked.
New players, new staff, new problems for the same sport I’d been playing for over two decades. I wanted a warm dinner, a recap of the day from my kid, and an early bedtime.
Instead, I found a curvy blonde standing in my hallway and promptly caused her to burst into tears.
Who the fuck are you?
Okay, not my best introduction, but certainly no reason for the waterworks. My hand hovered over her shoulder as she sucked in a shuddered breath. I weighed the pros and cons of making physical contact with this stranger and decided against it.
“Daddy!” Mila yelled, her brown eyes huge as she stood at the top of the stairs, surveying the scene in the hallway. “What did you do?”
“I’m fine,” the woman insisted, her head down. She shielded her eyes with her hand, the light pink polish catching my attention.
Mystery blonde took a step toward the door, but I stood smack dab in the middle of the doorway, feeling like a fucking jackass and unable to move.
“You made my teacher cry?” Mila’s voice teetered on the edge of hysteria.
Ms. Evans.
My stomach dropped. I had imagined some elderly school marm, gray hair pulled into a bun, wearing a collared shirt buttoned to her neck and a plaid skirt. Not a knockout in a floral sundress.
A knockout I immediately brought to tears.
I groaned. “Listen, sorry. I’ve had a?—”
