Page 37 of Scouting the Single Dad

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.