Page 5 of Scouting the Single Dad

Relax, She’s a tweenager who doesn’t require a babysitter, but I doubt he’d bring her if he was able to make it. Callum will have to check with Hayes and I’ll get back to you.

Me:

Alright. I’ll be staring at my phone until you do.

Facts.

Annabelle:

I’ll get back to you as soon as I can!!!

Me:

Thank you so much, you have no idea how much I needed this glimmer of hope LOL Angelina is terrifying and doesn’t feel the least bit sorry for me.

Annabelle:

LOL glad I didn’t have to work with her in the office. Ha!

We end the conversation there; if I express any more of my panic, she’s going to think I’m unstable. Which I am. But that’s beside the point.

I am willing to beg for help, already overwhelmed.

I toss my phone on the desk, curiosity gnawing at me, like a raccoon in a dumpster, at the idea of a professional athlete coming to my rescue.

“Hayes Fielder, Hayes Fielder . . .” I mumble as I crack open my laptop and type his name into Google, and boom—there he is: Arizona Sentinels running back. Six foot three. Black hair. Arms the size of oak trees. Dark brows, permanent scowl. Square jaw. Sharp cheekbones.

So good looking.

My eyes drink him in: Hayes Fielder in his uniform, helmet tucked under one arm. A scowl carved into his face like into marble.

“Honestly, if he cracked a smile, women would probably faint.” But judging by the search results, smiles are rarer than unicorns.

I click the link on a headline: Is Hayes Fielder the Nfl’s Coldest Player?

The piece opens with a photo of him mid-game, helmet off, jaw clenched, yelling at someone off camera. The caption below the photo reads: Fielder fined $50K after sideline outburst.

Outburst? How charming.

Known for his colder than ice demeanor with the press, Fielder has built a reputation as one of the league’s gruffest players. While his stats are record breaking, his people skills on and off the field leave much to be desired.

Translation: The man can tackle anything but can’t manage a polite conversation.

There’s almost nothing about his personal life.

Not even the woman he had his daughter with.

And then I stumble onto a handful of paparazzi shots: Hayes with a girl. Ten? Maybe nine? Long braids, a backpack slung over her shoulders, rolling her eyes in that universal way preteens do. Another picture of him walking beside her, holding an umbrella over her head, carrying books in the other—towering over her protectively.

The kind of man who looks like he’d bulldoze a mountain if it got in her way.

My heart flips. For half a second, I soften. Then I snap the laptop closed before I start composing a mental list of all the reasons he turns me on . . .

“Jeez, Layla. You’ve been single way too long.”

The last time I had anything close to a relationship was six months ago. Long before that, one of my exes dumped me after three months because he was spooked I was way too into him and was ready to meet his mom.

Meet his mom? The horror! We’d barely started having sex at that point. Our schedules did not align, what with him being a cop in the neighboring resort town.