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“…getting captain?” my roommate, Israel, asks. I grimace as I turn back to face him. It’s not my fault that I’ve been distracted by the cute man who just walked into Ma’s place with his even cuter kid.

Yeah, I know: I’m a twenty-two-year-old guy who likes kids. I can’t help it. It’s ingrained in me. I have a herd of nieces and nephews, for one thing, and for another…well, let’s just say I get along with little ones and leave it at that.

“Gabe!” Izzy kicks at my shin, obviously irritated by my lack of attention.

“Sorry, Iz,” I apologize, giving myself a mental shake. “What were you saying?”

Israel sighs dramatically and rolls his dark eyes, then looks to the others at our table with an expression that begs the question ‘why do we put up with this guy?’ Marshall and Noah just shrug back at him and bite into their burgers.

“I was asking who you think is getting captain this year,” Izzy repeats himself, still sounding frustrated.

“Of the football team? You’d know that better than I would.” I might be trying to press his buttons at this point.

Israel plays defense for our college football team.

He’s big, bulky, and grumpy as hell. He got a scholarship to play here, moving all the way to landlocked Arizona from Hawaii, and I’m pretty sure the longer he stays away from the ocean, the crankier he gets.

We’ve been roommates since Freshman year and, now that we’re Seniors, I am determined to take every opportunity I get to stir him up before we graduate and part ways.

I’m going to miss the big lug when that happens.

He growls like the bear he is and shakes his head. “I meant hockey and you fuckin’ know it.”

“Hey,” I hold up my index finger, waggling it at him in a ‘no no’ motion. “Language. There are children present.”

Seated beside me, Marshall sniggers. “Yeah,” he says, “ you .”

Marshall is…not the sharpest crayon in the box, but he’s a ray of sunshine and, though I don’t quite understand how or why, he’s one of the only people who ever gets a genuine smile or laugh out of Izzy.

Case in point: my roommate snorts. “Good one,” he says.

I don’t tell either of them that, no, the joke was actually really lame, because that would be cruel. But, across the table, I catch Noah’s glance and we share a look that says it all.

“Anyway,” Noah dips one of his fries into the puddle of ketchup on his plate, “who do you think is getting the C this year? Because Holland graduated last year.”

“Didn’t Bellport pick him up?” Marshall asks, then leans over the table and steals one of Noah’s fries.

“No, I think it was Pittsburgh maybe?” I feel a little bad that I didn’t pay all that much attention to the draft last year. But I’ve had other things on my mind. “We’ll see if he gets any time on the ice, though. He might just warm the bench for a while.”

“Cold,” Noah tells me.

“Yeah, because it’s ice hockey,” Marshall nods .

That was not a joke.

I’m about to open my mouth to finally answer Izzy’s question when a loud, petulant, “I want chocolate milk!” resonates through the dining space.

We all turn in our seats, drawn by the noise, and I suddenly remember my original distraction.

Cute guy with a cute kid. AKA: catnip for one Gabriel Tomas Nagy (that is, me).

The guy has unkempt light brown hair and hazel-green eyes.

He’s short —I know because he wasn’t any taller than Ma when she led him to his table earlier— and has a kind of rounded face that makes determining his age difficult.

He doesn’t look much older than me, but the kid —redheaded, but with the same color eyes— has to be at least four or five-years-old.

They both look a little rumpled around the edges. The guy himself seems tired and kind of…defeated? Well, he does if the slump of his shoulders is anything to go by, anyway. Plus, he has dark circles under his pretty eyes.

But he is kind, though firm, when he denies the kid his milk, which has me holding my breath. Tired, hangry kids aren’t known for handling the word ‘no’ with grace and aplomb.

It seems like the kid might actually be okay with the refusal, and I breathe a sigh of relief for the dude. Then Ma’s voice carries over to our table. “Oh, honey, I’m so sorry…”

She mouths something at the cute guy, and I can see the moment whatever she’s said registers. His face falls, and he sends a glance filled with trepidation in the kid’s direction. Then he closes his eyes, takes a deep breath, and leans down to murmur something gently in the kid’s ear .

The kid blinks, then his little face crumples as he lets out a loud wail. “But you promised chicken nuggets, Daddy!”

Cute Guy’s lower lip wobbles and he looks up at Ma helplessly before trying to soothe his kid. My heart goes out to him, because if I thought he looked tired before, it’s nothing on how absolutely exhausted he seems now .

“Uh,” Noah says as I push my chair back, “what the hell are you doing?”

I’m out of my seat and dropping my paper napkin onto my half-empty plate before I even know the answer. “I’m gonna see if I can help.”

“Damnit, Gabe,” Izzy huffs, “leave them be.”

Turning my back on my table, I ignore him and cross the space to where the little boy is still crying and begging for nuggets.

“I’m so sorry,” Cute Guy is telling Ma. He glances up at me, then back at her, “I’ll just…get something to go and we’ll get out of your hair. It’s been a long day, and I know we’re causing a scene, I just…” his breathing hitches, and my heart gives a squeeze.

I drop to my haunches beside the kid’s seat and make eye contact with Cute Guy to ask silent permission to interact with his kid. His eyes are wide and his expression torn between bewildered and cautious as he nods.

I gently touch the kid’s back. “Hey, bud,” I greet him, and the new voice is enough to startle him from his continued wailing. I smile as he goes quiet and looks at me with wariness.

He’s ridiculously cute, even with skin turned blotchy pink from crying, and his eyes look really green against the red, too.

“I hear Ma’s out of nuggets. But,” I hold up my index finger to forestall a relapse into tears, “I’ll tell you a secret.”

“D-Daddy said secrets are naughty. ”

I consider that. “Your daddy’s right. Secrets can be naughty.” I can’t help pausing to shoot Cute Guy a quick smile and a wink. Then I grin at the kid again. “But this one isn’t, I promise. In fact, it’s not really a secret. Everyone here knows it.”

The kid squints at me. “What is it?”

“It’s that Ma’s mini pizzas are the best in the whole state,” I tell him very seriously. “She makes the dough from scratch and everything.”

“She scratches the dough?” His innocent, horrified question has me struggling to keep a straight face.

Cute Guy laughs first, and the sound makes me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “No, buddy,” he tells his kid, “it’s a turn of phrase. It means that she makes the dough herself, she doesn’t buy a pre-made base from the store.”

“Oh,” the kid nods, “ you buy the ones at the store, Daddy.”

Cute Guy blushes as he glances over at me, then up to Ma, then looks at his kid again. He clears his throat. “Well, it sounds like we have to try the mini pizzas here now. What do you say?”

The kid bites his lip, then looks up at Ma. “Do the pizzas have pepperonis?”

She beams at him and nods. “They sure do, honey. I can make sure we put extra on yours.”

“Wow,” Cute Guy says with exaggerated excitement. He gives his kid a tiny nudge. “What do we say, Owen?”

“Thank you,” he replies dutifully.

“It’s my pleasure, sweetheart,” Ma says, scribbling on her notepad and then scurrying off to the kitchen.

Cute Guy slumps back in his chair, then looks at me. “Thank you,” he says emphatically. “I’m sorry we disturbed your meal. Like I said, it’s been a long day. ”

“Not a problem.” Instead of heading back to my friends like I know I should, I slide into one of the two spare seats at their table.

I extend my hand towards Cute Guy. The fact that he’s got a kid probably means he’s off-limits, but, just like when I’m on the ice, I’m going to shoot my shot anyway. “I’m Gabe, by the way.”

He arches an eyebrow at me but shakes my hand anyway. “Justin. And this one,” he lets go of my hand to pat his kid’s back, “is Owen.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” I cock my head. “How’d you stumble into Ma’s anyway?” It’s a tiny suburban diner, nowhere near the main part of town. “Did you get lost driving around Phoenix? That happened to me when I first moved here. It’s how I found this place, actually.”

“We walked here,” Owen answers for Justin. “It was hot.” He peers up at his dad. “When can I have my trucks, Daddy?”

Justin lets out a weary sigh. “After we unpack our truck,” he answers in a tone that tells me he’s repeating himself for the umpteenth time. Then he looks back at me. “We just moved here.”

“It was a long drive,” Owen pipes up. He picks up his napkin and starts playing with it, twisting the ends and scrunching it. “We slept in a motel.” The way he says ‘motel’, drawing out the ‘o’ and the ‘el’, is just the cutest thing ever.

“Hotel,” Justin corrects, “and yeah, we did, buddy. Daddy needed to sleep along the way.” He scrubs a hand over his face and mutters, “Daddy needs to sleep now .”

My curiosity gets the better of me, and I’m dimly aware of my friends waving their hands and trying to get my attention. I ignore them. “How much unpacking do you have left to do?”

“All of it,” Owen answers again. He turns to Justin and pouts. “We can’t sleep without our beds. You said I can have my bed. ”

Sensing another meltdown, I smoothly interrupt, “You’ll get your bed. My friends” —I finally swivel in my seat to wave back at them, and they all freeze and stare at me as if sensing that I’m about to do something they’ll hate— “and I will help you out.”

“Wait…” Justin blinks, jaw dropping as I turn back around to smile at them. “ What? ”

***

“Dude, seriously?” Izzy bitches when I slide back into my seat and tell my friends that I’ve volunteered their services to help Justin and Owen. “It’s like five thousand degrees out right now. I don’t want to be lugging some stranger’s furniture and boxes around. Especially not for free.”

I glare at him and push my plate, containing my half-eaten burger, towards Marshall, who leaps upon it happily.

“Iz, c’mon, man. Look at him” —I point towards Justin who, while he tried protesting, seemed infinitely relieved to hear that he wasn’t going to be unloading a moving truck on his own— “and tell me he doesn’t look like he needs it.

He’s just traveled cross-country with a five-year-old on his own. He’s this close to a breakdown.”

Iz sighs and folds his huge arms over his chest, arching a bushy, black eyebrow at me. “I get it: we’ve been voluntold to do this because you think he’s hot.”

“And,” Noah steals a fry from my abandoned plate, waggling it in the air between us, “you have a savior complex.”

“I do not.”

I don’t.

I have a Daddy complex.

Well, Daddy instincts. And when I see some cute, helpless guy desperately in need of someone to take over and help them with their adult stresses, I just can’t help myself.

“You do,” Izzy insists with finality. “Plus, we all know you’re a sucker for little kids.”

That accusation I can’t actually deny. I shrug. “I can’t help it if they all remind me of my nieces and nephews.”

He huffs. “You don’t have to spoil every single kid you see just because they’re like your horde of niblings.”

“Don’t have to, no,” I agree genially, “but I want to. It’s fun making kids smile.” I cast a glance over my shoulder and catch Justin’s gaze. His cheeks turn a little pink before he is drawn back into conversation with Owen.

I wonder what their story is….

“It’s not just the kid you want to make smile,” Izzy is like a dog with a bone. “And, I hate to break it to you, bud, but the likelihood of him being into guys is slim.”

“Why?” I counter, rising to the bait without thinking. “Because he’s got a kid? Bisexuality is a thing. So is experimentation, and pansexuality, and—”

“Okay, Google ,” Izzy rolls his eyes, cutting me off. He wipes his mouth on his paper napkin and balls it up, tossing it onto his empty plate. “I’m just sayin’, don’t go gettin’ your hopes up just ’cause you think he’s cute.”

“I just want to help the guy, is all. What were we going to do this afternoon anyway? Sit in our dorm room and drink?”

Noah scoffs. “ Pffft. You don’t drink,” he tells me, sounding affronted by the very idea. “Mister ‘my body is my temple’.”

“I do drink. Just in moderation. I train too hard to waste the work on empty calories and a hangover.”

“Sounds stupid to me,” Marshall declares, finishing the last bites of my burger. “Izzy trains, too, and he doesn’t mind the calories.”

“Izzy is supposed to be built like a brick wall. I need to stay lean and agile.”

“You calling me fat, Gabe?” Izzy asks, deadpan.

“It’s not like you to come fishing for compliments, Iz,” I tease back, enjoying the growl it earns me.

Before he can respond, I feel a tug on my sleeve and a cute little voice says, “’Scuse me, Mister Gabe?”

I turn my head to find Owen at my side, his chubby cheeks smeared with tomato sauce and half a piece of pizza held in his free hand. I grin. “Yes, Mister Owen? Is the pizza good?”

He giggles a little and nods. “Yup,” he pops the ‘p’. “But, um, Daddy said to tell you that we’re gonna take our food to go ’cause you’re all finished with your foods. But he says I can eat mine while we walk back ’cause it’s pot…um…porable.”

“Portable?” I ask as I look over towards Justin, wanting to tell him to sit down and eat his meal before he falls down, but I hold back the urge.

Owen nods. “Yeah. That.” He takes another bite of his meal as if to prove his point. Then, with his mouth full, asks, “Can we get my trucks now?”

He’s such a cute kid.

Nodding, I gesture to the guys. “Sure thing, bud. We’re looking forward to helping you.” I give my friends a pointed glare. “Right, guys?”

Despite being a grumpy asshole with us, Israel doesn’t turn his moods on small children. Even he musters a smile for Owen as he mumbles his agreement.

Owen cheers, then starts tugging at my shirt sleeve again. “Come on,” he urges. “Let’s go!”

I look at my friends and shrug. “You heard the kid. Let’s go.”