The Blind Date Landish, Lauren (read a book TXT) 📖

good. Johnathan’s just mad that I can actually create a play, not just go where I’m told like a dog. Woof, woof!”

He smirks at Kicks-A-Lot, I mean Johnathan, like a badass. Little Guy’s got big brass ones, I’ll give him that. Something tells me it’s not because he’s got me for backup, either. If I had to guess, judging by the prepubescent testosterone floating through the air, Little Guy might’ve earned that tackle. Just a little bit.

And don’t that just change the whole situation.

“I’m Bruce. What’s your name?” I ask him, not sure what I plan to do with the information, but it seems like the proper thing to do.

“Cooper, but most folks call me Coop.” He shrugs like he kinda wishes he hadn’t said that part.

Johnathan’s buddy pipes up, “Because you’re a chicken, Coop. Bok, bok, bok.” Several of the kids laugh at that and Coop flushes. No, not Coop, because that ain’t right if they’re nicknaming him to be cruel.

I turn my full attention to the gaggle of boys, stroking my beard like I’m thinking mighty hard about something. “Seems to me that the only chickens here are you bunch. Cooper,” I say his full name with a bit of extra emphasis, “took a hit and got up swinging, verbally, at least. Took the whole lot of you to mob up on one little guy. That don’t seem much like the chicken you’re talking about.”

They look suitably chastised, a couple of them even rubbing their toes in the dirt. But I’m not done. “Besides, you wanna know a secret?”

Twelve sets of eyes look at me with curiosity and I swear a couple of them lean in. I lower my voice like I’m imparting great knowledge, rumbling, “Chickens are mean as hell. They’ll peck your hands even as you’re feeding them. Yep, mean little things.”

I nod sagely, pointing at some of the rough scars on my working hands. None of them are really from chickens, but these kids don’t know that.

“My brother’s got a whole flock of them, and a rooster too. He’ll wake you up long before the sun even peeks over the horizon, and his girls lay enough eggs that she can feed our whole family breakfast every day. All the while pecking the sh-stuffing outta ya.”

I correct my language at the last second, thinking Mama Louise would be proud.

Somewhere from my left, a voice cracks out, “How many eggs is that? You got a big family or a small one?”

I tap my temple, winking. “Smart question, kid. I guess it’s a big family, but mostly because we’re all big guys and big eaters. There’s six of us like me, my sister, two other women, and one of them’s got a baby but she don’t eat much yet, and then Mama Louise. So we get enough eggs for ten people to eat breakfast, I reckon.”

Rattling off the attendance roster of breakfast brings home just how much my life has changed in the last few months, because damned if it doesn’t seem like those folks are something to me. Maybe not family, exactly, not really, but I’d do anything for Mama Louise and most things for the rest of the Bennett boys, which is a far cry from our previous pointless feud that was based on Dad’s whims. I’m glad that’s done and over with, even if it took his passing to make things right.

The same kid whistles. “That is a big family. You say you got brothers the same size as you?”

I can feel those same sets of eyes measuring me, so I go ahead and broaden my shoulders back out but keep my lower profile on my knee. “Well, let’s be real, there’s not a lot of folks as big as me. But my brothers are close enough.”

They laugh like that was funny. I guess it might’ve been. “Hard to believe that once upon a time, I was as small as you guys.” I hold my arms out wide, showing off my wingspan and the big paws attached to my wrists. “Eat your veggies, work hard, play right, and you can be a big motherfu— I mean, a big guy like me one day.”

The boys start flexing, working their lungs more than their biceps as they hold their breath and try to show off to one another. And to me, I realize with a hint of humor.

From across the field, a voice calls out. “Hey, guys, I’m here.”

I look up to see a thirty-something-looking guy hustling across the field, eyes locked on me. “Who’s that?” I ask the kids.

Cooper says from beside me, “Coach Mike. He’s Evan’s dad.”

There’s the smallest, tiniest hitch beneath the words, something most folks probably wouldn’t even hear. But I do.

When he gets close, I can see his eyes darting from me to the boys, like he’s checking each one of them over and head counting his ducklings while never taking his attention off the interloper. He’s a good dad, I’d bet.

He holds his hand out. “Mike Kauffman, Evan’s dad. And you are?”

I take his hand, careful to walk the fine line of a solid handshake without breaking his hand accidentally. “Bruce Tannen. I was just happening by and saw some roughhousing. Thought a little intervention was warranted.”

I purposefully don’t say any names, feeling like I’ve handled what happened well enough and hoping it made an impression.

Mike looks behind him to the parking lot and then shakes his head. “There’s literally six or seven moms sitting over there in their cars or at the playground with little brothers and sisters, and you’re telling me that you just walked up to the boys and no one said a word to you? Stranger-danger mean nothing these days?”

Seems like he’s asking that of the boys as much as the universe.

I hold my arms out wide, showing I’m no threat. “Look, man, didn’t mean to cause problems. Just saw a dirty tackle, a bad fall, and some overzealous afterplay. Wanted to make sure everyone was all