Page 15 of Power Play

six

. . .

Riley

On Tuesday, Al left for his road trip, and the next day, an endless stream of deliveries showed up. The crib and high chair arrived before he left, but I should have known that wouldn’t be the end of it. Between the changing table, rocking chair, five boxes of diapers and wipes, and nearly every age-appropriate toy stocked by the upscale baby boutique, I think Emmy will be set for a while.

It took three loads of laundry to wash all the baby clothes and blankets he bought—everything is pink and frilly, and undeniably adorable. She’s going to hate it. But I can’t deny I admire the way he’s dived in headfirst.

I’ve organized the living room the best I can, but the place is small, and there are a lot of toys.

Emmy is on a play mat for tummy time, and Al is lying on his belly beside her, cooing at her. I refuse to melt for this big, burly hockey player going gooey over his baby.

He came home around three o’clock in the morning. I was changing her diaper when he stopped in the doorway, still in his suit, and I swear my heart nearly melted out of my chest when he took over, wrapping her in her sleep sack and rocking her to sleep.

I expected him to sleep in, especially after his late arrival. But to my surprise, he was downstairs with her, making her bottle and preparing a mashed banana, by the time I woke up.

We can do this. We can raise Emmy together, give her the life she deserves.

Right as the thought crosses my mind, a knock thumps on the door, and I blow out a breath, wiping my hands on my pants.

“You ready for this?” I ask.

Al groans under his breath as he lumbers to his feet. “Not at all.”

He opens the door, and somehow, my hand finds its way into his. I don’t know who needs the support more, me or him.

Joanne, the social worker, looks around the cramped Mattapan townhouse with a pinched look on her face. She’s in her late fifties or early sixties, small and hunched over, with her gray hair cut in a bob.

Immediately, I think of every inexperienced, overworked social worker I’ve ever come into contact with, every single person who has let me down in my life, and I shiver. She has the power to take away my baby—to destroy all of our lives.

I won’t give her the satisfaction.

“I hope you’re not expecting special treatment,” she says right off the bat.

Confusion flashes across Al’s face before he raises an eyebrow. “I’m not. Why would I?”

She scowls. “Your job and your money don’t matter to me. What’s important is Emilia.”

“Emmy,” I correct helpfully. “We call her Emmy.”

Joanne squints at us, her gaze dropping to our joined hands. “Right.”

Hastily, I pull my hand free, then hold the door open. “Come on in.”

“And you are?” she asks, brandishing her clipboard.

“Riley Lucas. I’m the temporary guardian.”

“In Arizona.” The distaste on her face makes my stomach clench.

“Yes. But Emmy’s father lives here. So we’re here.”

“Interstate adoptions are… tricky.”

“But it’s not an adoption,” Al says. “I’m her biological father.”

“Except you’re not on the birth certificate.” Joanne looks almost victorious. “I see here that you’re suing for custody.”