"How was class?" I ask, not taking my eyes off the game, adjusting myself before I spring a chub in my sweats.
"Fine." Her voice sounds strained. "Lots of reading."
"You need help with anything?"
A pause. Then: "No. I'm good."
I glance at her. She's standing by the kitchen island in leggings and an oversized sweater, her backpack still on one shoulder. Her curls are loose today, framing her face. Her cheeks are flushed.
She's staring at my sweatpants.
The ones I threw on after my workout this morning because I didn't think she'd be home until later.
Her tongue darts out, wetting her bottom lip.
Christ.
I turn back to the TV, willing my cock to cooperate and stay soft. "Game's almost over if you want to watch something else."
"No, it's fine. I'll just—" She doesn't finish the sentence.
I hear her walk toward her room, then stop. The apartment goes quiet, except for the announcers commenting on Liverpool's third goal.
"Tucker?"
"Yeah?"
Another pause. "Never mind."
Her bedroom door closes.
I drop my head back against the couch and stare at the ceiling.
More weeks pass in a haze of tension and restraint.
Sloane’s belly has bloomed, and it’s so fucking sexy. But it’s also my babies in there, and all I want to do is feel them and talk to them. I’m trying to keep my distance like a good co-parent respectfully. Lord knows, I’m trying.
Sloane is full-time at school, determined to prove she can handle it. I watch her leave in the mornings with her backpack, watch her come home tired but animated, talking about her professors and assignments.
Sometimes she has Mel with her, and they roll around the apartment talking about my uncle and uptight lawyers. Mycousin Pete, Tim’s oldest, is back in town after his fellowship and he’s been working with Mel, so sometimes he comes over to rag on me for becoming boring.
Like, Pete hasn’t always been boring.
He doesn’t seem to think it’s boring to get a law degree, and write for some law journal, and move back to Pittsburgh to write boring contracts.
I should be grateful that boring people like Pete and Mel exist, since they tell me they’re making progress with the hockey players’ association and getting me some parental leave in my contract. Pete keeps pointing out that Stag Law has a good record with this sort of thing for women’s pro sports already.
Meanwhile, Sloane seems less exhausted. The second-trimester glow everyone talks about is real—her skin looks amazing, her energy is up, and her belly is finally starting to show.
She's beautiful. She's always been beautiful, but now?—
Now I can't stop staring at her.
And she can't stop staring at me.
The apartment is thick with want. With everything we're not saying, not doing.
I think about asking her to come to a game. Want her there, want her to see me play, want to look up in the stands and know she's watching.
