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)
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.
“Sorry folks, our guy is scheduled to be somewhere else.”
I glance down at June, who stands a head shorter. “Have you ever thought about leaving the rec department and going to work for a professional football organization?”
She’s a ball buster. No nonsense, zero fucks given.
“Frequently,” she admits. “Do you realize how good I would be? But then who would keep the pickleball league from rioting? Those people are nuts.”
“It would be a tragic loss for them,” I say in all sincerity.
“Come on, Mr. Fielder.” She steers me sideways through a gap in the back of the tent that leads to yet another tent. “Volunteer space. Lay low. Hydrate. I’ll send your daughter in.”
I duck into another pop-up. Inside I find a green room of sorts: folding tables, folding chairs, a slow cooker of what appears to be chili, hand warmers, and boxes with zip ties, duct tape, and extension cords. An industrial-sized space heater hums in the corner. Another table has bags of potato chips and other snacks. Cider and water bottles. All the behind-the-scenes staples a small town needs to run a fall festival.
Suddenly, Benny bursts in. Skids to a stop, headset crooked, cheeks pink, Layla hot on her heels. “Dad! Emergency: The band is starving, Mr. Nibbles is accounted for, and I require three granola bars and a juice box, stat.”
Who the fuck is Mr. Nibbles? I hand her a juice box. “Slow down. Breathe.”
“Breathing.” My daughter lifts the lid of the chili-warming crock and gives it a sniff, before stuffing three of the granola bars into the pocket of the apron tied around her waist. She looks adorable.
The flap rustles again; a volunteer pokes in, shivering. “Layla? The cider sponsor is asking if the band can plug in to their generator.”
“Absolutely not,” she says frostily. “Everyone pays for their energy—they aren’t ‘borrowing’ it from someone else who paid.” She snorts. “Ridiculous.”
I watch the exchange. Layla’s spine has steel in it, even with a headset that’s slipping and hair that’s losing the fight. The volunteer nods, grateful to be told what the rules are and who will enforce them if she needs backup, and ducks back out.
Benny nips a chip from one of the bags and pops it into her mouth. “Mr. Nibbles would have opinions about that generator,” she says around the bite. “He is profairness.”
“Who is Mr. Nibbles?” I finally ask. “And why does he get a say?”
“He’s a ferret some tourist has on a leash, and he slipped out of his harness for too long and got lost in the crowd.”