Numbers are swimming in my head. Costs, percentages, losses, gains, potentials, revenues, and monies. This is the part of my job I like the least, yet am often most praised for. It’s my anxiety that wakes me up in the middle of the night in a cold sweat from fears of doing something horribly wrong and being fired that have led me to quadruple-check everything I put out that has any type of figures associated with it.

Days like today where I’m completing the financial side of the proposal are ones I loathe. I wish so much that I could handle the creative aspects of marketing and leave this to some mathematician genius who doesn’t struggle with anxiety and break out into a sweat each time they’re asked about figures. But unfortunately, that isn’t how my job works. Instead, I am responsible for each intricate part of the process, and for the next several days I will be drinking my own weight in coffee as I attempt to ensure that this proposal—which could be the largest game changer of my career thus far—is completed.

I slide my chair back from my desk with the intention of getting a fresh refill of coffee when my phone vibrates, indicating an alert. I flip it on, hoping to see a message from Rachel … or maybe something from Coen again. Monday night when he came over, I grilled chicken which I made a point not to burn, along with some vegetables and cornbread that was coated with honey. We don’t know each other well enough to warrant the ease between us, yet that’s exactly how the night had been—comfortable, and he stopped by again last night with a bag of snacks that were all peanut-free and a pep talk which he gave to Hayden while practicing some more pitches.

The dating site indicates a message.

Sitting back in my chair, I consider how to respond. I hate when people don’t ask their own questions. It makes it feel even more like an interview, like Rachel had mentioned, rather than a conversation.

I consider writing him off and just selecting someone else to respond to since there were several new messages in my inbox this morning that I haven’t taken the time to look through. Then I remember my resolution to get over Patrick and hit reply.

“Though he has the name of an eighty-year-old man and probably stinks from sleeping outside and swimming in the lakes…” I mutter to myself.

Feeling accomplished on a personal level, I stare at my double monitors, and the numbers on the graph I had been idly staring at begin making sense, so much that I forget about the coffee and don’t pause when I get more notifications that I know are only messages and nothing from Hayden.

My stomach grumbles, reminding me that I forgot to break for lunch. I’ve spent the entire day creating a single chart. Massaging my temples, I glance at the time and see it’s already past 2 PM. With Hayden’s game this afternoon, I’ll need to leave in just forty minutes, making the chance of grabbing something to eat impossible. Most days, I enjoy my job and am always grateful for the flexibility and all it gives me, but my co-workers are constantly watching me, judging me for each of my actions, including when I leave early. So while it’s Thursday and I’ve already put in more than forty hours, I remain seated at my desk.

I go through my emails, which have gone neglected today, but still have an additional fifteen minutes. Pulling up the dating site, my inbox reminds me of the new messages. Ignoring the ones from men I don’t know, I click on Outdoorsyman’s to see his reply.

I discover a private smile is curving my lips in the small mirror kept on my desk for days I eat my lunch while working and need to ensure I don’t have anything stuck in my teeth. He seems funny. Charming. He loves his family. He loves his dog.

Thoughts of filing emails or other busy work I really should be doing are out the window as I reach for my phone to text Rachel about my exchange with Outdoorsyman.

Within seconds, she replies.

I sit back in my seat, shocked to see that number.

I’ve effectively wasted fifteen minutes, and since it will take me another ten to save everything, close out, and pack, I begin the process.

On the way to the park where Hayden’s baseball game will be held, I wonder about Outdoorsyman. Questioning what kind of music he likes, if he’s an aggressive driver, if he knows how to cook or do his own laundry. Things I haven’t spent much time considering about a guy in a very long time. In fact, not since Patrick. I haven’t even met him, and I get caught wondering if this could be fate.

Parking, I glance at my reflection in the rearview mirror. I wore my glasses today because working on spreadsheets all day dries out my eyes too much to wear contacts, and my dark hair could really use another pass with the straightening iron thanks to the high humidity, but Hayden won’t notice either, nor care. The fact has me getting out of my car and heading toward the field.

The bleachers are already filling up with parents as I take my seat on the bottom bench and find Hayden among his teammates doing warm-up drills. Other parents greet one another, sharing jokes and stories of school and their jobs. At times it feels isolating to sit here and wait for the game to begin, but today I’m not worried about how they work to sit as far from me as possible because my thoughts are consumed with how I’ve managed to go out on so many dates and not like any one of them. Maybe my standards are too high. Maybe I haven’t given some a fair shot. Perhaps I should be trying harder to be more accepting.

I’m considering each of my dates and how I could have changed my outlook or the conversations that took place when a shoulder brushes mine. Normally this wouldn’t warrant more than a friendly smile to let the other person know there are no hard feelings, but in this small town where people avoid me like patient zero, it has me turning my head to see who has dared to sit so close.

He’s smiling, but it isn’t his usual friendly grin, and his hands are shoved into the pockets of his jeans even though it’s ridiculously hot outside today. Another T-shirt is stretched across his broad shoulders; this one is bright red and has the name of a ski town in Utah across it, one I only vaguely know of from a family trip when I was twelve.

“Is this weird?” he asks, and once again I’m caught off guard by the deep rumble of his voice. “I have to admit it feels a little strange to be here, but yesterday Hayden asked me if I’d come, and he’s got one of those faces that you just can’t say no to. I hope if I’m ever pulled over for speeding again, he’s in the car with me. There’s no way I’d get a ticket with his big ol’ puppy eyes.”

I stare at Coen, still struggling to realize he really is beside me. My mouth feels dry and my palms itch as I attempt to divert my attention from his biceps or bright eyes or his mouth, or any other part of him, because it’s so strange to have him here. “I think you just made things a lot stranger by telling me you’re hoping my son is in your car if you get pulled over for speeding.”

Coen laughs heartily, looking amused rather than embarrassed, once again reminding me he isn’t a parent. “Don’t worry. I know all the officers in town, and they won’t pull me over.” He leans closer and winks.

I’m pretty sure he’s expecting me to laugh or maybe to swoon, I really can’t tell. And it draws me to my conclusion that regardless of how many times I look back on my dates and consider what I could or should have changed, it may just not be possible for me because I am the worst flirter in North Carolina … or possibly the entire continent. Or worse—the world.

“I’m scaring you, aren’t I?” Coen asks. “I’m sorry. I’m just in a strange place today, and being here feels a little weird, like I mentioned, and when I’m uncomfortable, I fall back on sarcasm. My mother tells me that’s why I’m thirty and single.” He pauses as though considering the possibility and then shrugs. “She might be right. But that’s beside the point because I picked up some…” He reaches between his feet and lifts a bag that I’m not sure how I missed, especially with the heat pronouncing the scents of grease and fried chicken. “Bojangles,” he says.

I’m praying he’s going to offer me some because if he starts eating it beside me, I may end up digging through my car in search of an old, squished granola bar or strawless juice box.

Coen scoots closer to me so his thigh presses against mine, then he rips the bag open like it’s a present and lays it on his jean-clad thigh. My stomach begins to ache I’m so hungry, and then I see the fries with extra Cajun seasoning, and my stomach loudly grumbles its plea to be fed.

“Dig in,” Coen says, pushing his leg even further against mine.

It smells like heaven, but I keep my hands in my lap.

“Come on,” he says.

Swallowing, I look to him. “Thanks, but I couldn’t.”

“I got extra for you and Hayden. I had hoped he could eat something before the game started, but it looks like that isn’t going to happen.” He looks up to where the boys are still doing their warm-up drills. “Maybe next time.”

Next time?

“Seriously,” he says, breaking me from my thoughts. “Dig in.”

“Thank you.” Mentally I go on to tell him how I missed lunch and am incredibly grateful he brought food, but my thoughts are distracted by the sight of chicken strips, fries, and the warm biscuits they’re famous for. I don’t know what I want to dive into first, but apparently my stomach does because I grab a biscuit and take two bites before Coen hands me a packet of honey and a napkin. Barely slowing down to thank him, I tear the biscuit in half and douse it with a fine layer of honey, providing me the sweet and savory I was desperately in need of.

Coen eats while watching the boys for several long minutes, allowing me to finish my biscuit and a chicken strip before he turns to look at me. “Hayden’s one of the best players out there. Why’s he so nervous?”

“He’s a people pleaser,” I explain. “He never wants to let anyone down.”

Coen looks at me, and for the first time, I pay attention to the details of his eyes, and notice how light they are in the middle, as though gold is woven into his irises which are surrounded by a much deeper hue of brown, capitalizing on the many hazel shades.

“Hayden gets a lot of great qualities from you.” His voice is somber as if to convey his honesty. It warms a special place in my heart, one that people don’t get near when they congratulate me on a job well done at work, or a good meal or even volunteering at Hayden’s school. No, this spot is reserved solely for comments like this one that make me feel like I’ve done something right as a mom. That I am worth being Hayden’s parent, and that while he makes me the best version of myself that I can be, maybe I am helping him find his best self too. His thoughtful comment makes it difficult for me to maintain eye contact with him, not used to the praise. Shifting my eyes to the field, I catch Hayden’s arm waving in our direction. I smile and wave back to him. I’d like to blow him a kiss since I can’t go give him a hug or kiss, but the time for that being acceptable ended about three years ago, much to my dismay.

Hayden’s wave becomes bigger, wider when he sees Coen is beside me. I can’t help but laugh because it’s so outside of his Mr. Cool façade that he often portrays in front of his teammates and friends.

“I think he’s excited you’re here,” I tell Coen, glancing over to steal a fry.

My hand freezes midair, noticing Coen’s matching expression of excitement as he waves both his arms in a windmill motion to ensure Hayden sees him. That same spot in my heart that warmed when Coen complimented me doesn’t just heat up, it expands. Somehow growing bigger and stronger like it does when I watch Hayden do something driven by kindness and courage.

Coen’s arms drop to his sides and he turns to me, his smile still enormously wide, which triggers my own smile to broaden.