We’re past the point of playing games. We’re both adults here. Seeing as how we each have a kid, there’s not a lot of reason to be coy.
Especially after the other night.
All I want to do right now is kiss her, but I don’t want to do it in front of the kids. Even if they aren’t paying any attention to us right now, they don’t need to see that.
Spinning out of her arms to keep myself from doing what I want, I call attention to the two tiny balls of energy still running around.
“Are you guys ready for dinner?”
Lydia stops before running up to me.
“Mommy said we could get pizza.”
“Were you really good during the game?” I drop down onto one knee to get on her level.
Lydia crosses her arms and pins me with a stare that only a six-year-old can wield.
“I was very good and cheered really loud and cheered loudest for the big dog.”
“You like our mascot?”
The bulldog is a crowd favorite, always getting the crowd into games no matter how we’re doing.
“I like dogs. Mommy said maybe we can get our own puppy someday.”
“I didn’t say that.” Sutton rests a hand on my shoulder as she kneels down next to me.
“Yes, you did. Because I like the ones on TV so much.”
“Those are my favorites too,” Troy agrees. “Maybe Daddy can get us a puppy and we can share.”
“I didn’t agree to that,” I tell Troy.
“But I want one.”
The sound logic of a child. Because they want one, they think they should automatically get it.
“We’ve talked about this. Daddy is busy with football, so maybe later.”
“Promise?”
“Only if you’re really good.”
“Yes!” Troy pumps his arm as I stand up, my knees cracking. I feel every bit my age on nights like this when I’m working with the team.
“You have quite the negotiator on your hands.” Sutton laughs.
“Don’t I know it.” I go to her door and open it for her. “C’mon. Time for some pizza.”
Antonio’s is hopping.In our sleepy suburb of San Diego, it’s one of the few places that stays open late after the games.
Garlic and the sweet scent of marinara cling to the air. White paper tablecloths, made for coloring, cover the tables. A salad bar is set up against one wall, while a window opens to the kitchen to see the chefs tossing the pizzas. Neon signs for different kinds of drinks decorate the walls as overhead lights hang above each booth.
We’re tucked away in the corner of the restaurant, empty breadstick baskets sitting in front of us as Troy and Lydia create masterpieces with the crayons on the table.
While they’re busy, Sutton and I have been playing a mean game of Tic Tac Toe—with bets on the line of all the things we want to do to each other. Of course we didn’t say that around the kids, them having run off immediately for a few minutes once we got here to watch the chef make the pizza.
“Miss Sutton,” Troy pipes up. “Do you like my daddy?”
