Chapter 16

There was nothing that amazing about my texting conversation with Layla last night, but the picture she sent me of Margot feels amazing, and I have a spring in my step on the field against the New York Empire. Maybe some oil got on my jersey, because it's like no one can hold me. We run a play where the offensive line is supposed to make a hole up the middle. It's so tight I shouldn't be able to squeeze through, but I do, and the defenders are so sure that I'm down that when I break out into the field, it takes a beat to realize that I've gotten away. I run into the end zone dragging a couple of guys. It should've been a three- or four-yard gain for a close first down, but instead I got thirty yards and the TD. That's my favorite play of the night, obviously, but I get a bunch more runs just like it—slipping through spots and getting extra yards like Oprah's handing them out. You get extra yards on THIS play and THAT play and ALL the plays. Hurley even sends me an Oprah gif when we're all on the bus headed back to the hotel. I'm taking a later flight than most of the guys so I can have dinner with my parents before I leave. As soon as I sit down at the table of the hotel restaurant (it was the easiest to arrange), my mom eyes me in a knowing way. "Looks like love has you playing better than ever."

I halt the slice of bread I was about to take a bite of and widen my eyes at her. "Love, Mom?"

She nods excitedly. "That woman. Layla? The pictures that were all over the place on Friday. Why didn't you tell me about her?" Luckily, she's too excited to be hurt about it. When I told my social media manager that I didn't care about the speculation as long as Layla looked good, I didn't think about my mom seeing the pictures.

I chuckle. "Because we're just friends. We set up the other two people on the date and went along to make sure things weren't awkward."

Mom scowls. "You don't look like just friends."

I shrug, and it's Dad who laughs. "Layla. She's the one that works at that bakery truck that Eli Dash's sister runs?"

Mom and I both swivel our gaze to him. "Yeah, that's her," I say, and heat fills my face. I talk to my parents on a regular basis, and I have probably mentioned Mila's bakery truck before. I probably told my mom about the food poisoning fiasco too, even though I didn't mention Mrs. Van Buren was involved, but how has Dad connected it with Layla?

Dad looks meaningfully at Mom. "The food truck that Linc goes to every morning."

"Not every morning," I protest. It was closed several days last week. And sometimes I miss a day. Every once in a while. Also, sometimes I go in the afternoon.

It doesn't stop their now-matching smiles as they turn back to me. "So tell me about your friend, Layla," Mom says.

I stuff a large bite of bread in my mouth, hoping that they'll get bored with waiting for me to answer and start their own conversation. Maybe about the food. Except they're not even looking at the menu. They're both still staring at me.

I pick up my menu pointedly and begin studying it. No conversation resumes. Not even about if Dad should get the alfredo or the club sandwich. (It's always one or the other.)

"What are you guys getting?" I ask. "This rib eye looks good." I pretend to study the description, although there's not much to it. Mostly that it's served with a choice of potatoes and in-season vegetables.

"She's very pretty," Mom says to Dad. They do look down at their menus, at least.

"She's an actor," Dad reminds her.

"Used to be," I can't help saying.

They both turn back to me, with triumph written all over their expressions. Why am I even surprised? These people raised me. I'm an only child. They honed their skills to precision for just one personality.

"Oh?" Mom says, turning her gaze back to the menu. They were here about ten minutes before me, so I wouldn't be surprised if they decided their meals a while ago and this is all for show right now. Pretending not to put the pressure on when I balk.

"Well, she works with Mila Dash," Dad says, and Mom nods in an oh, of course way.

They're not judging her job. I know they're not. But the words spill out anyway. "She has a baby. A daughter. So she needs to have some flexibility right now."

Mom's eyes turn into the big, round emoji eyes. "A baby?"

I'm about to turn into the face-slap emoji. Possibly grandchildren. Instant ones. This is a lost cause. I pull out my phone to show them the picture that Layla sent me last night of Margot laughing.

"Oh my goodness, how precious!" Mom snatches the phone from me to click on the picture so it takes up the full screen of my phone. "My, I could just kiss those cheeks all day long. Honey, look at these cheeks." She turns the phone to my dad. He smirks at me. Mom sighs and then reluctantly hands the phone back, although she stares at the picture the whole time. "You know," she says, trying to return her tone to normal, "I was just saying to your dad that I wanted to come out for the game against Seattle?—"

"Mom, are you serious?" I put my phone back into my pocket.

"What?" She's all innocence. Dad is still smirking.

"I have to take things slow with Layla—yes, I like her, Mom." A lot, but I need to manage some expectations here. Mom just brightens even further. "Her ex burned her, and she's very wary of relationships and also wants to focus on her daughter. I don't want to ignore her boundaries."

"Of course not." She reaches over and squeezes my arm. "We can wait for the Blues game."

It's all I can do not to roll my eyes. That's the very next week. "You know you guys can come out whenever you want," I say instead.

"I know." Mom squeezes again and then sits back. "But she does like you, Linc. Even if she's saying she's doesn't, she does."

Despite myself, my heart does a little celebratory dance similar to the hip shake I did in the end zone earlier today. "She doesn't," I insist. We're friends, and that's fine for now. Eventually I'll get past her defenses too, only I won't be slipping through. No trick plays to win Layla's heart. I will run right over the very big linebackers she's got guarding her heart. It's a play that works because this is a metaphor and not real life.

Mom shrugs, but I hear her murmur to Dad, "She definitely does," before the waiter arrives to take our orders.