Page 60 of Power Play

twenty-two

. . .

Riley

The aquarium was a big hit with Al, who looked around the place with wide eyes and a smile on his face. Much less so with Emmy. She was not a fan of the touch tank. As much as she enjoys splashing in the bathtub, she hated every second of the petting pool, and she let everyone know. I think people three miles away could hear her displeasure. My eardrums are still ringing.

Back at the house, he takes over the childcare so I can have some time to myself. I don’t go far, though. He’s curled up on the couch, the baby sprawled on his chest and playing with his beard as he reads books to her, and I settle on the floor beside them to paint my nails. It’s something I got out of the habit of doing, but I can’t deny the sparkly gold glitter polish makes me happy.

There’s laundry that needs doing, and I should probably unload the dishwasher, but sitting here like this—like a family—feels so nice. I would never want to intrude on Al’s time with Emmy. He includes me, though, and has never made me feel like I’m not welcome.

I just don’t know why. I don’t belong here, not really. Even with his ring on my finger, I know my role is temporary. As soon as Al’s officially on the amended birth certificate and custody has been awarded, we can get divorced. I know he says he won’t keep Emmy from me, but he’ll have to get bored of being married sooner or later. He’s a young, hot, soon-to-be single dad and a hockey player. I’m sure he’ll have women falling all over themselves to be a mother to his child.

… Kind of like I did.

He might need me right now, while I have temporary custody, but as soon as the ink is dry, I know he’ll kick me out. Nobody ever wants to keep me. I can’t expect him to be any different.

Emmy sits in her high chair and babbles at him as he feeds her. Most of the time, we let her pick up the food directly from the tray table, but tonight he’s making airplane noises as he feeds her a veggie puree with a hot-pink spoon.

All of her toys and accessories are pink. Anything that can come in gendered color profiles, she has the pink version. Even her diaper bag. I didn’t pick it, Carter did, and the presents from the team were all pink, too. My personal preference is a more neutral color scheme, but he’s never shied away from the pink. If anything, I think he’s embraced it more than she has.

“Do you mind handling bath and bedtime tonight?” he asks as he guides the spoon to her mouth. “There’s something I’ve got to take care of.”

“Oh. Sure.”

I thought he’d like to do it, since he doesn’t get to most nights, but it’s not surprising he’s all babied out. Even on his days off, there’s usually practice and other things filling up his time. Today has been all Emmy, all day.

Once her belly is full, I take her upstairs and clean her up. She snuggles close to me, clutching at my arm as I read her stories until she finally drifts off. She doesn’t stir when I transfer her into her crib or tiptoe downstairs.

The heady scent of garlic perfumes the air. Tyler’s meals don’t typically come with a lot of garlic. Maybe he tried a new recipe?

Dim light shines from above, and candles flicker on nearly every surface, casting a soft, romantic glow throughout the room. I count at least seven dancing flames before a sound from the kitchen draws my attention. Al stands in front of the stove, stirring something in an enormous pot. A bottle of white wine sits on the counter next to two glasses, and he’s flipping tortillas on a flat skillet.

“What are you doing?” I ask, and he jumps.

“Shit. I’m not ready.” He winces. “I need, like, ten more minutes.”

“What is all this?”

“I’m making us dinner. Do you want a drink?”

“I can get it. I mean… this.” I wave at the candles, the low lighting. “You have prepared meals from Tyler. Why are you cooking?”

“Felt like it.” He shrugs, not looking at me. “Is that a problem?”

“No. Just… unexpected.” I take a seat at the kitchen table, my eyes roving over his burly body.

He’s wearing a dark blue long-sleeved T-shirt, the sleeves pushed up his thick forearms, and a pair of slutty gray joggers with white socks. Casual, comfortable. Gorgeous. I have to force myself not to stare at the impressive dick-print in the front of his sweats.

Al pulls down two bowls from the cabinet. He dishes brown rice into each one, then adds a generous helping of a green stew and tops them both with avocado slices. He brings them to the table, setting one in front of me, before darting back into the kitchen and returning with a tortilla warmer and a bottle of white wine.

“Would you like a drink?” he asks, lifting the bottle.

“Sure.” I’m still not sure what’s going on. Wine should help.

He pours us each a glass, then settles across from me at the small Formica table. Our knees brush, and I sit up straight, pulling my legs away.

“Smells good,” I say, reaching for my silverware. He’s even laid out the little fork alongside the little spoon. How does he know I don’t like the big silverware, preferring the little salad fork and dessert spoon? We’ve only shared a few meals together…