The Blind Date by Landish, Lauren (suggested reading .txt) 📕

right because there didn’t seem to be anyone overseeing practice. No worries, I’ll leave you to it.”

Mike’s still watching me carefully, which I can appreciate. At least these kids have proper supervision, though he’s got a point that I’m a scary looking bastard for not a single parent to have said a word. We live in a safe town, but nowhere’s that safe.

I hold a meaty fist out to Cooper, giving the kid a tame half-strength glare. “Watch that mouth.”

He bumps my hand with his own, a smirk curling his lips. “I will, but I can back it up, and that’s what counts, right?”

He says it like someone’s told him that before. I raise a brow, silently telling him to think again.

I offer my fist to Johnathan too, who returns the goodbye with a bit less cockiness. “Words first, then get it out on the field correctly. Head up, shoulders down, feet buzzing, drop into position, and shoot and rip.”

He nods like he took a mental note of everything I just said.

I toss a two-finger wave to Mike. “Have a good practice, Coach.”

I’m halfway across the field, almost home free to the parking lot to head home for dinner when I hear a voice behind me call out.

“Brutal?”Bruce

I turn around automatically, more used to the nickname almost everyone calls me by than the name my mom gave me when I was born. “Yeah?”

Mike’s eyebrows rise up to his hairline, or where it used to be, at least. His hair’s buzzed down, and based on the slight dips above his temples, my bet is he’s disguising an early receding hairline.

“You’re Brutal Tannen?” he asks, and I nod once in confirmation. He claps his hands once before sticking his hand out for another shake like we didn’t already introduce ourselves. “Why didn’t you say so?”

I shake his hand again, though I’m not sure why, and lift and lower one shoulder. “I . . . did?”

He chuckles like I said something funny. “No, you said your name is Bruce, like you’re not known around here for being one of the best football players to ever grace the grass in the whole city. Didn’t you play for State too? Figured you were going pro!”

He recites my history like he has a clue. I thought I was going to get drafted too.

Plans changed.

“What happened?” he pries.

I grit my teeth. It’s been years and I’m over it, but I don’t think it’s ever easy to expose your greatest pain for public consumption, especially to someone you don’t even know.

“Family stuff,” I say coldly, not inviting further discussion.

Mike seems to realize that he’s overstepped and retreats politely. “Yeah, I get it. Family’s everything. Anyway, I was thinking . . . since you’re here, you think you might hang out and help with practice? Like a guest coach or something?”

He looks hopeful, but I don’t feed into it. “Nah, sorry. Gotta get home, got dinner waiting.”

“Oh, uh . . . yeah. Of course,” he stutters, like my refusal was not at all what he was expecting. “I was just hoping you might . . . I mean, you’ve got a lot more knowledge about football than I do. I’m more of an armchair quarterback, if you know what I mean, but Evan wants to play and I was the only dad who would do it. Kinda got voluntold by the wife.”

He tapers off, not saying anything bad about his wife, and the smile on his face says he doesn’t mind being voluntold for this gig at all. Past him, I can see those same sets of eyes watching our interaction. All except one pair of icy blue ones that are fastidiously studying the laces of the football in his hands. Something about that hits me. This smart-mouthy kid doesn’t think for one second that I’m going to do this.

Has he been disappointed before and is protecting himself from useless hopes? Or can he see that I’m not cut out for helping kids figure out the game I know inside and out? Considering I said ‘the s-word’ within moments of walking up, it’s likely the latter. But lack of a filter aside, I could probably help them with football and the most important part of the game, being a team.

I gnaw on that for a quick second, dissecting my reasons and remembering my youth on the field.

Football was everything to me for so long, truly saving me. Mostly from myself. Could one of these boys need that opportunity to? Could I help with that?

Though that’s really bigger than what Mike’s asking right now, he just wants a couple of hours of my time. That, I can do.

I sigh, testing the words on my tongue. “Yeah, I could hang out for a little bit, I guess. Let me just send a text home.”

He smiles heartily. “Of course, thanks! I’ll just tell the boys.”

He steps away, and I fish my phone out of my back pocket. I remember a moment too late that I promised Shayanne I’d be home for dinner, but I feel like these boys need me more than she does today, especially for some special announcement she’s making that’s definitely not that she’s pregnant.

Hell, she’s probably just gonna tell us all that she and Luke are going on another trip. I don’t begrudge her that excitement, but I don’t need to be there to hear the blow-by-blow of their itinerary. Especially not the first time because she’ll talk about nothing else for days if that’s what her news is.

Still, even though I know she’ll be fine when I explain why I’m skipping dinner, I decide to not incite Shayanne’s wrath by texting her directly. I bypass her and text Brody instead.

Something came up, won’t be home for dinner. Tell Shay sorry.

I get back a middle finger emoji so I check that off my responsibility list and head over to the boys, who are all sitting cross-legged and listening intently to Mike, who’s singing the praises of my high school glory days.

“All right, Brutal . . . or, uh, Bruce. Which do you prefer?