Page 78 of Scouting the Single Dad

“Thanks.” She limps along with me, and I’m tempted to sweep her off her feet again—she was so very appreciative the last time. Ha!

Several minutes later, my daughter returns, her best friend in tow, skipping toward us with a look I’m familiar with; they’re about to ask me for a favor. Beg for something.

“Dad—can I go with Madison and her parents to Chicken Shack? Please, please, please?” She takes a deep breath. “Please, Dad?”

Gee, alone time with Layla? Twist my arm.

“That’s fine. No pouting when you get home and have to immediately jump in the shower and get ready for bed.”

Benny and Madison cheer.

Madison’s mom strolls over, keys jangling in her hands, doing that apologetic wave parents do when they know you’d rather have them home but feel guilty telling them no.

“We’ll have her back by seven thirty,” she promises. “We’ll probably hit Target after we eat. I’ll text when we leave.”

“Perfect.” I dig two twenty-dollar bills out of my wallet and begin to hand them to Madison’s mom.

She waves them off. “Nope. We offered.”

Fair enough.

She eyes Layla curiously, hand thrusting forward. “Hi, I’m Skylar, Madison’s mom.” Her gaze shoots curiously between Layla and me, thirsty for information. No doubt she’s going to light up her mom group chats with the gossip.

“I’m Layla. Visiting from Washington.”

When she offers no other information, I can see the disappointment in Skylar’s eyes as her smile tightens, hungry for more. “Washington! Wow. Long way from home.”

Not really.

“Mm-hmm.” Layla twists the top on her Gatorade, smiling politely. “It’s so much warmer here.” A master class in saying nothing.

Skylar laughs because she has to. “Right. Well. We’ll take great care of Benny.”

“I know you will.” I give my daughter’s braid a tug. “Rules?”

She recites, bored, “Inside voice. No running. ‘Please’ and ‘thank you.’ Don’t ask for anything.”

“And?”

“Shower when we get home.” She sighs, then pops up and hugs my neck hard enough to crack something. “Bye, Dad.”

“Love you. Have fun.”

Layla hobbles toward the exit, and my hand remains on her elbow, despite the curious eyes I can feel watching us as I push through the door and we walk to the parking lot.

“Do you mind the gossip?” she asks. Limp, limp . . .

“Comes with the territory.” I say. “Single dad, professional football player. People fill in blanks.”

I toss Benny’s backpack into the back seat of the truck, then dig in the center console for the bottle of ibuprofen, rooting through phone cords, a crushed granola bar, and a tangle of hair scrunchies. I shake out two pills and pass them over.

“We’ll ice you at home. I also have one of those wrap things if you’re interested.”

“Of course you do.” Her mouth turns wry.

“Comes with the territory.”

I drive with one eye on the road—and one on her calf—anxious to get home, relieved when we finally pull into the drive.