Page 77 of Scouting the Single Dad

I wonder if we’re ever leaving this parking lot, pleased that I’m the reason he can’t get a grip.

“Want me to drive?” I offer, because I love the idea of chauffeuring a six-foot-three running back who has been emotionally stunted by my mouth.

He stiffens with fragile male pride. “No. I’ve got it.” A beat. “Probably.”

Chapter 17

Hayes

I can’t stop thinking about the blow job.

Was not expecting it.

Can’t get it out of my mind.

Not even as my daughter and her teammates scream on the sidelines of her volleyball match, their little shouts of “Side Out” echoing in the giant elementary school gym.

Rubber soles squeak. A ref’s whistle ricochets. A very aggressive mom heckles the referee like the team has a championship riding on this game.

They don’t; they’re nine, for fuck’s sake.

I clap when I’m supposed to clap, lean an elbow on my knee, and pretend I’m tracking rotations. What I’m actually tracking is the memory of Layla’s mouth, the warm weight of her palm on my bare skin, the way she looked up while she sucked my—

“She is so adorable,” Layla says beside me, chomping on popcorn, clapping for every point being scored by our team and the opponents. It tells me one thing: She knows nothing about volleyball.

I clear my throat and pass her one of the Gatorades I bought during the second set. “Are you cheering for both sides?”

“I want both teams to have fun.” She laughs, twisting the top off.

“Mm-hmm.” I pick up the popcorn from the bleacher in front of me so I don’t kick it with my foot onto the parents below us. “When our side serves, you want to shout ‘out’ only if the ball lands out. Otherwise, we like ‘in.’”

She squints at the court. “Explain the whole rotating song and dance.”

“They rotate when we get the serve back.” I show her with my finger on the palm of her hand—little clockwise taps that make sense but probably don’t. “Setter, middle, outside—”

The metal bleacher welds a cold line into my thigh through my jeans.

Layla nods. “Uh-huh.”

Our knees brush, and my dick tingles.

What the fuck is my problem? Guilt racks my gut.

We’re at my daughter’s volleyball game, and all I can think about is—

“Yay! They won!”

Benny and her junior teammates jump up and down, chanting their victory cheer, no longer having to play a third set. We’ll do something while they have a team meeting before heading back home for dinner.

We hang around for ten minutes, rise from the bleachers.

Layla stumbles. “Oh shit, my calf.”

I hesitate, then reach for her elbow. “Still hurts?”

She nods. “I should take something for this.”

“I’ve got ibuprofen in the truck,” I say, steering us toward the doors to wait for Benny with a hand at her back. “Athlete-dad starter pack. Also pink Band-AIDs with Barbies.”