Scouting the NFL Single Dad

Prologue Layla

Prologue

Layla

But hers isn’t the message that stops me cold.

My eyes drop to the subject line: Congrats! You’re in Charge of Fall Fest.

I click it open. Skim it, stomach dropping into my butt.

Read the email again because surely this wasn’t meant for me.

Hi Layla,

Great news: the Events Committee unanimously agreed to appoint you as our Fall Fest Chair for this year’s celebration. Your calm under pressure, creative eye, and knack for getting people excited made you the clear choice.

Dates someone in the Parks if I express any more of my panic, she’s going to think I’m unstable. Which I am. But that’s beside the point.

I am willing to beg for help, already overwhelmed.

I toss my phone on the desk, curiosity gnawing at me, like a raccoon in a dumpster, at the idea of a professional athlete coming to my rescue.

“Hayes Fielder, Hayes Fielder . . .” I mumble as I crack open my laptop and type his name into Google, and boom—there he is: Arizona Sentinels running back. Six foot three. Black hair. Arms the size of oak trees. Dark brows, permanent scowl. Square jaw. Sharp cheekbones.

So good looking.

My eyes drink him in: Hayes Fielder in his uniform, helmet tucked under one arm. A scowl carved into his face like into marble.

“Honestly, if he cracked a smile, women would probably faint.” But judging by the search results, smiles are rarer than unicorns.

I click the link on a headline: Is Hayes Fielder the Nfl’s Coldest Player?

The piece opens with a photo of him mid-game, helmet off, jaw clenched, yelling at someone off camera. The caption below the photo reads: Fielder fined $50K after sideline outburst.

Outburst? How charming.

Known for his colder than ice demeanor with the press, Fielder has built a reputation as one of the league’s gruffest players. While his stats are record breaking, his people skills on and off the field leave much to be desired.

Translation: The man can tackle anything but can’t manage a polite conversation.

There’s almost nothing about his personal life.

Not even the woman he had his daughter with.

And then I stumble onto a handful of paparazzi shots: Hayes with a girl.

Ten? Maybe nine? Long braids, a backpack slung over her shoulders, rolling her eyes in that universal way preteens do.

Another picture of him walking beside her, holding an umbrella over her head, carrying books in the other—towering over her protectively.

The kind of man who looks like he’d bulldoze a mountain if it got in her way.

My heart flips. For half a second, I soften. Then I snap the laptop closed before I start composing a mental list of all the reasons he turns me on . . .

“Jeez, Layla. You’ve been single way too long.”

The last time I had anything close to a relationship was six months ago. Long before that, one of my exes dumped me after three months because he was spooked I was way too into him and was ready to meet his mom.

Meet his mom? The horror! We’d barely started having sex at that point. Our schedules did not align, what with him being a cop in the neighboring resort town.

Before him there was Brandon, who thought a “date night” meant splitting a twelve-pack of Coors Light while we sat on the end of his pier, doing nothing. I once showed up to his house in a dress and heels, hoping he would take the hint and take me to dinner.

He didn’t.

And don’t get me started on my latest ex.

Spoiler alert: I can no longer go to Star Lake Dentistry on account of him cheating on me with the town’s only dentist.

So yeah, maybe the sight of a grumpy but sexy NFL running back shielding his daughter from the rain is enough to make me wet my underwear the tiniest bit.

Or maybe my bar is too low. It’s not like Star Lake is a thriving metropolis of single, available dick. Slim pickings, if you will.

My dating pool is less a pool and more a birdbath. A shallow one. With many dead, crumpled leaves floating on top.

Blah.

My options are limited—and I do not count tourists.

With a sigh, I reopen my laptop, close out of the browser, and reopen my emails, scanning for anything new. Anything exciting to cheer me up. But come up empty handed. Just a complaint from Elenor Winfred about a pothole on Main Street, which is not my department!

I write the activity guide! I’m the cool, hip substitute teacher!

Rubbing my temples, I resist the urge to bang my forehead against the desk until either the stress goes away or I knock myself out cold.

Both sound like the perfect solution to my predicament.

I glance at the clock: Ten o’clock.

“Great. Only five more hours until I can leave.”