Page 129 of Scouting the Single Dad

We kiss and breathe and move—nothing but hands and heat and the soft, obscene sound of fabric shifting. He doesn’t rush it; he checks in with his eyes, with his touch. When I start to chase more, he steadies us, kisses me softer until the urgency melts into a deep, delicious throb.

Hope blossoms wide open.

I can do this.

I can get over Hayes, and I’m starting right now.

Chapter 33

Hayes

I tell myself to focus. I’ve been telling myself that for days.

Focus on reps. Focus on film. Focus on getting a rookie center to stop snapping as if he’s shot-putting a live grenade. Focus on Benny’s English worksheet. Focus on anything that isn’t the ache under my ribs with a certain someone’s name on it.

The refocusing works the way a cheap Band-AID works on a deep cut: Not.

At.

All.

I see the drawing Benny drew and left on the counter, and the smile falls off my face; she’s been on a Layla kick, and she doesn’t even realize it.

The page is brimming with curls of script, the way only a little girl writes when she’s trying to be fancy. A figure with long hair, big eyes, a crown that’s clearly a hair clip. Next to her a stick version of me, taller, ridiculous. A smaller stick that’s Benny—lopsided heart on her shirt because she’s always herself in her art. And above the three of us: Home.

Fuck!

I stand there like an idiot, staring down at it, letting the piece of paper tell me what I already know: I am not okay without Layla.

How fucking ridiculous is that? It wasn’t love at first sight; I don’t believe in that shit.

So what is this?

Longing? Loneliness?

I try to logic my way out of it: Preseason nerves. Responsibility. Parenthood. I list all the reasons this isn’t love, but every argument dies when I picture Layla’s mouth tilting when she’s amused or when she looks at me, or the way she knotted herself into my life by being herself.

Soft. Sweet. Bundled in a sweatshirt.

Maybe it isn’t love yet. Fine. Whatever. Call it the start of something I’m not going to lose my goddamn mind over.

Too late.

“Fuck it.” I pull the cell phone out of my pocket and dial the one person who’s going to be pissed I’m bailing on practice tomorrow, needing at least thirty-six hours to do what I’m about to do.

“Coach,” I say when he picks up. It’s abundantly clear I’ve interrupted something, because I can hear pots and pans banging in the background and his wife complaining about him taking a call during family time.

“Make it quick,” he says without greeting me back.

“I need to take a personal day tomorrow.” Tomorrow, a.k.a. practice before our game on Friday night, which is in three days’ time.

Silence.

Not the good kind.

“It’s a family emergency,” I add, which is true in the way I intend to make it true. “I’ll be back for the scrimmage on Friday. I’m taking the red-eye, and I’ll lift before walk-through.”

I’m nervous and I’m babbling. Who Even Am I?