Chapter 8 Hayes
Hayes
There are cameras everywhere.
I’m shocked. This tiny town has drawn such a massive crowd, it looks like a tailgate before a game, mixed with a seasonal market. Tents line Main Street in tidy rows; the air smells like roasted almonds and donuts and hot cider. Kids in warm layers run, faces painted with bats and goblins.
One of the vendors is selling knit hats with Shrek ears. An acoustic band is warming up inside the gazebo, the strums of the guitar warring with the bustle of the crowd.
Huh. Who knew?
Can’t remember ever attending a street carnival. Not even in my hometown, not with Benny.
I’m parked beneath a black canopy tent beneath a sign that says Meet Hayes Fielder, behind a table, Sharpie pen in hand if someone wants an autograph. There are glossy 8 × 10s I didn’t bring, and a stack of raffle tickets for a signed jersey I haven’t signed yet.
Dang. Layla has thought of it all.
June Wilder stands to my right like a general in the military, taking her job super fucking seriously. Clipboard. Earpiece. Stopwatch hanging from a lanyard to keep time.
“You are a sixty-minute commitment,” she informs me without preamble, barely giving a shit that people are listening. “We start at ten on the dot, and at eleven you are vapor. Poof. Then I march you to the east gate, and you’re free to wander with your”—she checks her notes—“daughter.”
“Benny,” I inform her.
“Benny,” she repeats crisply. “My job is to keep you moving so Layla can keep this whole place from setting itself on fire. Questions?”
I glance at the forming line. A kid in a Sentinels cap. A guy holding a football. Three teenage girls with glitter eyeliner wearing T-shirts that read Grumpy but Hot. I didn’t think this was possible, but seeing the crowd, I’m not so sure we’ll get to “wander.”
Shit. I wanted Benny to have a chill day of fun.
“Just one question,” I begin. “If this turns into a zoo—”
“It’s already a zoo,” June interjects cheerfully. “I am the zookeeper.”
I can’t help it; I like her.
I glance two booths down and spot Benny with Layla.
My brows go up when I notice my daughter also has a clipboard and a headset; she’s explaining something to Layla with the authority of a drill sergeant, tapping her clipboard with a pen that has a pom-pom on the end.
Layla’s laughing and adjusts Benny’s headset and smiles down at her affectionately.
Boops her on the nose.
My stomach does something it doesn’t even do on game day.
It flutters.
“Relax,” June murmurs. “She’s in good hands, and we can communicate with her with this.” She taps her earpiece. “One hour of playing nice. Think you can do that?”
I nod. “Yeah.”
One hour is what my publicist negotiated. Layla had originally requested four. Seriously, four fucking hours at a small-town festival? No.
I don’t mention that the Sentinels PR texted me at the ass crack of dawn with instructions: family-only optics, no snarling, be boring. I sent back a thumbs-up and a period. I can do boring. I’ve made a career out of it.
The line moves; June flicks her stopwatch. Showtime!
First is the dude wearing the Arizona ball cap. He looks like he’s trying not to freak the fuck out. “Hi,” he says, quiet voice betraying his nerves.
“What’s up, bro?” I give him a tilt of my chin. “What’s your name?”
“Evan.”
We do the photo, the signature, the shoulder squeeze that means “I see you” without grabbing hold. He asks about drills. I tell him shoes by the door, lunch in your bag, sleep like it’s your job. His dad’s eyes do the wet-glass thing. He thanks me twice.
Next: glitter-eyeliner trio. “Can you do the grumpy face?” one asks. “Like, the one from the meme?”
Ugh, that fucking meme. Last season someone in the crowd caught me mid-screaming at a ref like a fucking asshole and froze it into a single, unflattering frame: mouth like a bear trap, snapping teeth, thick brows furrowed.
Someone captioned it Grumpy Dad Says Rawr, and the internet did what it does: circulates and beats one bad moment into a pulp.
June intervenes before I can. “We’re doing smiles today,” she chirps at me. “For charity.”
I try not to smile at that and fail. Someone snaps me grinning up at June. Fine.
A kid in a puffer coat with shaking hands steps up next. “My coach says I’m too small.”
Your coach is a dickhead.
“Your coach can’t see the future, dude,” I tell him. “Eat, sleep, lift what you can lift, and run like you stole something.”
A volunteer jogs over with two coffees, cheeks pink. “Layla asked me to drop these,” she says, breathless, and sets one by my elbow. “One is a latte and one is straight-up black—let me know if you need anything else.”
I struggle to find Layla or Benny in the crowd, my eyes searching for my daughter’s pink winter hat, the glittery pom-pom on top usually a beacon so I can identify her quickly.
Nothing.
“Forty more minutes, Chief,” June lets me know.
I pose with a grandma who declares I am handsomer in person than I am on “the onlines,” then give another guy my best fake smile. I’m doing great with only a half hour left, my gaze constantly snagging toward the crowd beyond my line.
Then.
I find them. Layla standing near a farm cart stacked with pumpkins, Benny beside her with a clipboard and the self-importance of a girl given responsibilities during an exciting event. Relief loosens my chest.
I’m doing great.
“Twenty.”
The last run is a blur—handshakes, photos, many stories about how I’m having a kick-ass year. Shit tons of well wishes for the Super Bowl.
“Kick ass this season, man.”
“Chase the ring.”
“Smile more.”
I sit through another hour because—why not?
Benny is occupied and honestly? Probably having more fun bossing volunteers around with Layla orbiting like a mother hen. Why interrupt her fun?
Another hour disappears in signatures and small talk.
When I finally do stand however many hours later, the crowd still groans.
“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?