Page 79 of Delay of Game
He opened the car door. “I have practice in the morning. Tomorrow afternoon, if I’m not busy. You sure I can’t come over tonight?” His eyes slid back toward the house, and he shook his head. “Never mind. Have fun and call me if you need anything.”
“Sure thing.”
He climbed into the car. I stood by the driveway, wondering if I shouldn’t have let him come over as he pulled out onto the street.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ROB
“Fuck!”
I scooped a collapsed vase off the wheel and chucked it across the room, the clay not even worth the effort to dry out and smash later.
“Fuck,” I swore again, softer this time as I remembered smashing cups and vases and plates with Astrid out back and how that led me here. Alone, stressed out, and in the studio, again.
I wiped the clay off my hands onto my pants, and I pulled my phone from my pocket. Nothing. What the hell did I expect? A text from Astrid? What the hell would she even text me about? She didn’t owe me anything. Not whether she made it home safe. Not whether Fieste walked her inside. Not if…
That line of thinking turned my stomach, and I stalked across the studio, hefting a thirty-pound bag of brown clay onto the wedging table. Finicky delicate pieces were clearly outside my capability tonight. Instead, I’d throw a dozen chunky cups. The type perfect for smashing on the ground in frustration later.
My grand plan of introducing Fieste to Astrid had worked. I should be elated. Astrid met someone her own age without mybaggage, and Fieste…well, Fieste took her off my hands. He’d buffer Astrid from me. He’d save me from myself.
“Everything okay in here?” Mom opened the door to the studio but stood at the entrance. “Everyone decent?”
“It’s just me.” I pressed the giant ball of clay into the table, rotating it slightly and repeating the motion.
“Oh.” Mom frowned, craning her head inside as if Astrid might be hidden around a corner. “Really?”
“Really. Astrid met my teammate at the party. He took her home.”
Her frown deepened, carving deep furrows into her forehead. “Wait, what? Which teammate?”
I picked up the clay, walking across the studio and slamming it onto the wheel with a satisfying thud. “Ethan Fieste. A walk on. You haven’t met him yet.”
She planted her hands on her hips. “The one who tackled you offsides?”
I huffed a laugh. “That’s the one. It’s fine. He took a bunch of linemen to dinner. We racked up an outrageous bill, and it’s water under the bridge.”
“Does Coach Simmons know you did that?” Mom asked, her frown refusing to melt.
“We weren’t on the clock. And I’m not stopping dumb rookies from covering dinners. Not my fault. He didn’t know how much we drink.”
“And so, Gracie and this man and just…what? Hit it off?”
I pressed the lever to get the clay spinning, planting my elbow in my hip and leaning over the wheel. “Apparently. What’d you do today?”
“And you just let her leave with this man?” Mom planted herself in front of the wheel, hands on hips.
I slowed the clay to a stop. “What the hell was I supposed to do? Force her into my car? Throw her over my shoulder and march her out of there?”
“You weren’t supposed to let her flirt with someone else.”
“Let her?” I raised an eyebrow. “She’s not my girlfriend, mom. She’s my daughter’s teacher.”
“So, you’re telling me that when you two stumbled out of the kiln yard with your hair all messy and your clothes disheveled, you were just discussing Mila’s education?”
A hot burning sensation raced up my chest and settled in my face. “No. Wait. That’s not how it happened?—”
She held up a hand, stopping me from digging myself deeper into the lie. “Gracie isn’t flighty. She doesn’t seem like the type to date multiple people, either.”
