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Abby laughed and shook her head. “Oh no, one Gen is enough for me!”
“I want a Gen,” Dylan announced.
“You have to hit the three or the five for that one, man,” the kid explained.
Scott waggled his eyebrows. “I think I can manage.”
He was poised. Assertive. He knew his own abilities when it came to his sport, his passion.
Abby smiled softly as he bantered with the kid. Several more people stopped, his enthusiasm catching, but beneath the easy-going exterior, Abby couldn’t miss the genuine love. Helovedplaying football. Loved it as much as he loved Dylan.
He clowned a bit more, chatting with his son, with the kid, and with a couple of people watching. Then, barely looking at the target, he turned and flicked his wrist. A cheer went up around them as the ball sailed neatly through the five-point target a third time.
He gave some high fives, then turned to the counter, where the kid had already brought down the over-sized stuffed dog. Several more people stepped up to the counter and a second worker scrambled to put up more footballs.
The kid leaned forward, half-hidden behind the enormous toy. “How’d you do it, man?”
Scott shrugged and smiled. “Got lucky, I guess.”
“Nah, man. The hole is only seven inches. No one gets that lucky.”
Scott winked. “I do.” He pulled the stuffed dog across the counter and presented it to Abby.
She tucked it under her arm, then wrapped both arms around it, then handed it back to Scott. “Here, you won it. You carry it.”
“I’ll carry it,” Dylan hollered, taking it from Abby, then shoving it into Scott’s arms. “Oops, gotta go. I see Neveah.”
He took off through the crowd, weaving between the other groups at a full run.
Abby glanced at Scott, whose lips were twitching in amusement. “Guess I’m carrying Gen Two, then. Hungry?”
Abby’s stomach growled as the scent of fried food drifted in the wind. “I could eat.”
“Come on,” Scott caught her hand. “If I know Dylan and Neveah, they’ll find us as soon as we sit down.”
Abby thought about tugging free, but the way he held on, firmly, but gently, reminded her of the way he’d held the football. As though he wouldn’t let go until he chose to. The pressure enveloped her fingers, safety and warmth traveling through them, up her arm, and lodging in her chest, somewhere in the vicinity of her heart.
He left her at a picnic table, the giant stuffed toy seated beside her, and she watched as he made a round of the food stalls. Sure enough, as he returned with two trays piled high with food, Dylan and a girl with deep umber skin and tightly curled coils bounded up to them.
“Thanks, Dad. I’m starved!”
“Thanks, Mr. Edwards,” the girl parroted.
“No problem. Is your brother around?”
“Jimmy’s in the dunk tank.” She shoved a fry into her mouth, then glanced side-long at Scott. “He said you were too scared to sign up.”
“Maybe we’ll have to make our way there next.”
“Abby, have you had garlic fries?” Dylan asked around the nest of fries poking out of his mouth at odd angles.
“Dylan, manners, son. Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
Dylan’s cheeks bulged, then he swallowed hard. “Sorry, sir.”
Abby grabbed a couple of fries loaded with minced garlic. “I love them.”
Dylan nodded decisively, as if he expected nothing less. “Good. Oh, there’s Mrs. Rosalind. I want to talk to her about Abby and Gen visiting.” He jumped to his feet, waved, then took off again.