Page 38 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Sorry folks, our guy is scheduled to be somewhere else.”

I glance down at June, who stands a head shorter. “Have you ever thought about leaving the rec department and going to work for a professional football organization?”

She’s a ball buster. No nonsense, zero fucks given.

“Frequently,” she admits. “Do you realize how good I would be? But then who would keep the pickleball league from rioting? Those people are nuts.”

“It would be a tragic loss for them,” I say in all sincerity.

“Come on, Mr. Fielder.” She steers me sideways through a gap in the back of the tent that leads to yet another tent. “Volunteer space. Lay low. Hydrate. I’ll send your daughter in.”

I duck into another pop-up. Inside I find a green room of sorts: folding tables, folding chairs, a slow cooker of what appears to be chili, hand warmers, and boxes with zip ties, duct tape, and extension cords. An industrial-sized space heater hums in the corner. Another table has bags of potato chips and other snacks. Cider and water bottles. All the behind-the-scenes staples a small town needs to run a fall festival.

Suddenly, Benny bursts in. Skids to a stop, headset crooked, cheeks pink, Layla hot on her heels. “Dad! Emergency: The band is starving, Mr. Nibbles is accounted for, and I require three granola bars and a juice box, stat.”

Who the fuck is Mr. Nibbles? I hand her a juice box. “Slow down. Breathe.”

“Breathing.” My daughter lifts the lid of the chili-warming crock and gives it a sniff, before stuffing three of the granola bars into the pocket of the apron tied around her waist. She looks adorable.

The flap rustles again; a volunteer pokes in, shivering. “Layla? The cider sponsor is asking if the band can plug in to their generator.”

“Absolutely not,” she says frostily. “Everyone pays for their energy—they aren’t ‘borrowing’ it from someone else who paid.” She snorts. “Ridiculous.”

I watch the exchange. Layla’s spine has steel in it, even with a headset that’s slipping and hair that’s losing the fight. The volunteer nods, grateful to be told what the rules are and who will enforce them if she needs backup, and ducks back out.

Benny nips a chip from one of the bags and pops it into her mouth. “Mr. Nibbles would have opinions about that generator,” she says around the bite. “He is profairness.”

“Who is Mr. Nibbles?” I finally ask. “And why does he get a say?”

“He’s a ferret some tourist has on a leash, and he slipped out of his harness for too long and got lost in the crowd.”

A ferret on the loose? Jesus. Sounds like an absolute fucking nightmare.

“Welcome to Fall Fest, a.k.a.: my worst nightmare,” Layla says dryly. “If it isn’t weather or generators, it’s a ferret with a death wish.” Her sigh is loud. “I should walk the row of vendors to make sure the band hasn’t tried to hijack anything else.” She gives Benny a nod. “You coming?”

My daughter bounces on her heels. “Yup. Have to drop them their snacks.” She spares me a glance. “Dad, come with.”

My brows rise. “Do we think that’s a good idea?”

Layla wobbles her head as she debates. “Eh. I think you’re safe. I think now that you’re done signing, people will respect your time.”

Can’t hurt to try.

I’ve been in crowds larger than this, and everyone seems friendly, here more for the pumpkin spice and less for football receivers. Regardless, as I trail along after the two girls and we fade into the crowd, I remove the ballcap from my back pocket and pull it down over my hair. It’s not much by way of disguise, but it can’t hurt.

Main Street smells like fall.

People glance at me, clock me as being someone well known, and for the most part, keep the level to one of three polite small-town greetings: a chin lift, a “hey,” or a mittened thumbs-up. One guy mouths Good luck at me but keeps walking. No one shoves a phone in my face.

Cool. Good father-daughter bonding time won’t be a challenge.

Layla moves with purpose through the crowd, guiding us along, clipboard in one hand, radio clipped to the pocket of a jacket that’s not nearly warm enough for how crisp and damp the air is, but whatever. What do I care?

She stops to redirect a kettle corn vendor who’s testing the decibel limits on his Bluetooth speaker, thanks the cupcake truck for showing up early and nabs Benny a mini cake, and catches a kid before he darts away from his parents.

The woman is a human fireball—nothing gets past her.

I find it oddly satisfying watching her in action, and watching her laugh with my daughter.