Chapter 40 Layla
Layla
Sunday night . . .
It’s warm.
The air is warm, thick with the smell of grilled hot dogs and spilled soda. The bleachers vibrate under my feet, the crowd alive with chatter and bursts of cheers. I fan myself with the crumpled program, wishing I hadn’t worn a damn sweatshirt.
Then again, what the hell do I know about football games?
Benny doesn’t notice my fidgeting.
She’s too busy leaning forward, elbows braced on her knees, eyes laser focused on the field because she was practically born in these stands. She’s got her hair up in a ponytail, a soda at her feet, and a running commentary ready for my benefit.
“Okay,” she starts, turning to me with that know-it-all sparkle only a nine-year-old can pull off. “See those guys in the huddle? That’s the offensive line. They’re basically Dad’s bodyguards. If they don’t do their job, he’s toast.”
I squint toward the field, where a bunch of helmets bob in a tight circle. “They all look the same to me.”
“That’s because you don’t know what you’re looking for.” She grins. “Don’t worry, I’ll teach you.”
I laugh under my breath, because she’s serious. Dead serious. This is her world, not mine, and I can feel her excitement buzzing like static between us.
“Now,” she says, pointing. “See Dad? Number twenty-two? He plays running back. That means when the quarterback hands him the ball, he gets to run it as far as he can before someone tackles him.”
Oh crap. That sounds serious. I had no idea.
Hayes, helmet in hand, waits for the snap. He looks huge out there, impossibly strong and sooo so sexy. Rawr.
“Tackling sounds dangerous.”
“Yeah, it is,” she says proudly. “But he’s really good at it.”
Her faith is so absolute it almost knocks the breath out of me. I glance down at her—gangly legs stretched out, mismatched bracelets stacked on her wrist—and wonder if she has any idea how much she sounds like him. It’s adorable.
The whistle blows.
The team jogs into formation; at least, I think that’s what it’s called when they do that. No idea. Ha!
“Okay, watch,” Benny instructs. “This is first down. They’ve got four tries to go ten yards.” She points to the number ten spray-painted onto the turf. “If Dad gets the ball, everyone will start screaming.”
I nod. “Got it.”
The snap echoes across the field, and suddenly the play is in motion—helmets crashing, cleats digging, the ball whizzing through the air from the quarterback’s hands as he sends it flying toward Hayes.
The crowd leaps up, sound deafening.
Beside me, Benny jumps to her feet, screaming as loudly as her little lungs can manage, hands cupped on the side of her mouth. “Go, Dad, go!”
I clap, too, adrenaline sparking in my veins even though I have barely any idea what just happened.
“That was a good thing, right?” I blurt out.
Benny nudges me in the hip. “Yup!”
I snap my eyes back to the field just in time to see Hayes hauled down by a wall of defenders, dragged to the turf less than halfway to the end zone.
The crowd lets out a collective groan, disappointment rolling through the bleachers like a wave.
Some fans boo. Others shout about holding, pass interference, and a dozen other words I don’t understand, all aimed at the refs.
“He is so amazing,” I say, breathless.
Benny rolls her eyes. “That was only like twenty yards. He can do way better.”
I laugh, shaking my head, because of course she expects greatness. Of course she believes he’s unstoppable.
I kind of believe it, too, and not just because I love him.
I know, right?
I Love Him!
Of course I do! Hayes and his steady hands and his stubbornness and the way he looks at me like he’s lucky to have found me.
The crowd roars again as the announcer shouts his name, but it’s just a blur. My palms sting from clapping, my throat is raw from cheering, but all I can feel is that truth expanding in my chest:
I love him. And if I’m brave enough, this—these bleachers, this girl, this man on the field—could be my whole future.
On the field, Hayes jogs back to the huddle, glove tapping his thigh, eyes cutting to the sideline. He resets wide and gives a quick hand signal, then the snap—crowd noise swells. He sprints, cuts hard, and the ball is on him in a blink.
Whoa, what on earth is Happening?
It’s a blur, going fast and slow at the same time.
“See?” Benny crows. “What a pro. That’s our guy.”
Our guy.
“That’s our guy,” I repeat.
Down on the field, Hayes peels off his helmet and looks up into the stands as if he can find us in this mess of faces. Benny waves both arms up over her head. I lift my hands too.
He can’t possibly see us in this crowd of red and white, but he smiles in our general direction anyway before sitting on the bench, one of the assistants spraying water into his open mouth.
I have a lot to learn—not just about football, but about Hayes. And Benny. What it means to be in a relationship with a single dad. What it means to love a man who belongs to a team and an entire city before he belongs to me.