Chapter 33 Hayes
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?
“Are you injured?” He’s cutting to the chase because he doesn’t do small talk or excuses. “Is your kid okay?”
“She’s good. I’m good.” I inhale, then let out a breath. “She’ll be with her best friend for the next night because . . .” Pause. “I have something important I need to do.”
And I hope to God the press doesn’t find out about it.
Another beat.
Coach is deciding whether I’m worth the headache or if he’s going to tell me no.
More complaining in the background. This time, it’s his teenage daughter.
“Don’t make a habit of this,” he says at last. “And don’t turn this day into two days. And don’t show up late on Friday or I’ll fine you.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Bring your playbook on the flight.”
I nod. “Yup. Got it.”
He hangs up the way he does everything: with no fuss.
I pack a carry-on bag with a speed that would be alarming to anyone who didn’t travel often. Sweats, tee, hat. Underwear. That’s it.
I tuck away the drawing of Benny’s. Get on my phone and poke around the Delta website, booking myself a last-minute flight for today and a return flight for early tomorrow morning.
On the way to drop my daughter off at school, I feel her watching me from the back seat, catching her eyes in the rearview mirror. “Why are you smiley?” she asks.
“Me?” I growl. “I’m a serious man. A menace. Terrifying.”
“You’re smiling,” she insists. “Are we doing something fun after school?”
“You are,” I say, tapping the steering wheel with the tips of my fingers. “Sleepover at Madison’s. Is that cool?”
She watches me through the mirror. “Are you going to a game?”
“No, Benny—I’m going to see someone important,” I say, feeling the truth roll out of me like a warm wave. “I’ll be gone overnight. You’ll barely miss me.”
She reads my face like a book, with no patience for subtext, which is why kids are better than adults. “Are you going to see Layla?”
I shouldn’t be surprised. Benny’s radar would shame the CIA.
“Yeah,” I say. “I miss her, and there are things she and I need to talk through.”
“I miss her too,” she says, and just like that, the decision I already made slots into place like a key turning home. “Are you going to tell her I said hi?”
I nod. “I am—I’m also bringing her that drawing you made. I found it in the kitchen and have it in my bag.”
My daughter exhales as if a weight has been on her shoulder and she’s decided to shove it off. “Tell her I said sorry I told Madison’s mom she was going to be my mom. I got excited.” She slides a braided friendship bracelet off her wrist and dangles it in the air. “Give her this.”
I swallow the lump in my throat.
We pull into the school lane. She unbuckles, pauses, and leans forward between the seats to kiss my cheek, quick and loud. “Don’t be weird,” she instructs. “And don’t make her cry.”
“That’s my plan exactly.” I hop out, swing her backpack over one shoulder, and walk her to the doors. She’s buzzing—sleepover tonight, a secret mission assigned to her dad.
“Love you, Dad. I’m excited for your trip.”
I ruffle her hair. “Me too, kiddo. Love you too.”
On the plane later, I take the window and lean my forehead to the glass. The wheels lift. The city shrinks. Phoenix slides under us, desert to mountains that turn into clouds.
I let myself admit things out loud that I’ve never admitted in private—to myself, and to the woman asleep next to me with her mouth hanging open.
A snore escapes.
“I can’t live without you,” I tell the glass, voice low enough to disappear into the engine hum. Saying it out loud doesn’t fix anything; it just snaps every piece of me into alignment.
The ache under my ribs shifts—same pressure, new purpose.
I pull out my phone. A text thread with her name stares back, the last message unbearably polite. She never texted me to tell me how her date was.
Her date.
Ha! I snort, irritated.
Some dude from Star Lake? Someone from the town an hour away? Who the hell could she possibly have gone out with?
Jealousy prickles at me again, a feeling I’m growing accustomed to—then I snuff it out: I left town, I let her leave Arizona without a commitment. Never made future plans. I made it easy for her to stop messaging me. She doesn’t owe me updates or assurances or delicate handling.
She owes me nothing.
Want is not a contract.
I also don’t want to interrogate her about a date she went on. I want to give her reasons I’m the only one worth having a hundred more with.
Be the man who shows up from hundreds of miles away.
The pilot announces our descent. My stomach churns nervously, unsure about what I’m walking in to.
She’ll be happy to see me. I know she will.
Layla is crazy about me.
Whoever her date was, he can keep the memory of buying her fucking dinner.
I’m here for the future.