Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87536 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
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.
Epilogue
Benny
Summer, nine months later . . .
It’s summer, which means I smell like sunscreen and campfire smoke and run around all day in my swimsuit.
Our lake house has a squeaky screen door—which drives Dad bonkers—and a dock that wiggles when you run on it, and there was a bat inside the chimney three nights ago that put him over the edge, but all in all, who can complain?
This is our off season.
In the mornings Dad sneaks out of the cabin super early and jogs the roads around the lake and does pushups on the dock; sometimes I’m awake and he has me count laps and I add numbers, because once he’s done, we usually go to Loon Landing Café and get coffee to bring home to Layla.
Afternoons we swim until my lips turn blue and she burritos me in a towel and says my teeth sound like “maracas” chattering from the cold even if nothing can keep me out of the water.
Nights we make s’mores behind the cottage, and the smoke follows me no matter where I sit because the smoke loves me most.