All Mine
RILEY
Easton tells me about Emma on a Thursday, casual as anything, standing at the counter with his coffee already halfway gone.
Theo’s road trip childcare fell through. He offered. Emma will be with us Friday through Saturday.
“I should’ve asked you first,” he says. “I’m sorry.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I mean, it’s Emma. That little lady has my heart.”
“Thought so,” he laughs.
He finishes his coffee and rinses the cup. He corners me at the counter, caging me with both of his arms.
“Gotta run for practice, sweetheart. See you soon.” He kisses me, hugs me a little tightly, and he’s gone the next minute.
The smile he leaves on my face stays there for the rest of the day.
Emma arrives Friday at noon with a backpack shaped like a dinosaur, a stuffed rabbit tucked under one arm, and absolutely zero hesitation. She runs into my arms the moment Theo places her on the ground at the driveway.
I lift her and press a kiss to her cheek. “Hi sweetie.”
She giggles.
I drop her, and she walks straight into the living room like she owns the place. I look back to see she’s settled on the couch, her eyes fixed on the kids’ show on the TV. I put it on the minute I heard Theo pull into the driveway.
I have the whole day planned for our little house guest.
Theo stares past my shoulder into the living room and smiles when his eyes return to mine.
“Thank you so much for doing this, Riley. I owe you one.” His face is apologetic, but I wave it off.
“Come on, Emma is a lovely kid, and I honestly don’t mind. Easton is gone till evening, and she’ll keep me company.”
“If you ever need anything, or something comes up, please call me. I have your number on speed dial. I’ll be home as quick as I can.”
“It’s fine, Theo. Really.”
He nods.
He’s gone a few minutes later, and Emma has already constructed something on the living room floor that she informs me is a castle. I crouch down to inspect it. She’s used every throw pillow in the house, two couch cushions, and one of Easton’s training socks she found somewhere.
“It needs water,” she says.
“Where are we getting water?”
She thinks about it seriously. Then she gets up, disappears into the kitchen, and comes back dragging the large mixing bowl from one of the shelves. She sets it in front of the castle and fills it with the remaining cushions.
“Not wet,” she explains.
“Such a smart girl, aren’t you?” I lift her into my arms and ruffle her hair. She bursts into giggles, filling my ears with the melodious sounds.
A minute later, she crawls back to her work, and I quietly watch her.
Easton walks in from his afternoon meeting to find Emma sitting on my chest on the couch, squishing my cheeks between her small palms while she tells me a story about a frog who’s lost his hat.
“Hey… It’s my two favorite girls.”
We look up, and a grin is on his face.
My heart skips. The sight of Easton grinning from ear to ear, with eyes lighting up, has me grinning, and for a second, it feels so real.
Like it’s our own little family.
My chest squeezes at the reality of those words, but I don’t stay too deep in my thoughts. The sound of Emma giggling pulls me back.
He’s picked her up from my chest, settled into the couch beside me, and they’re now in the same position he found us.
I stay still, just watching them, and when our eyes meet, I immediately look away.
“I… need to get water,” I blurt.
I end up in the kitchen faster than ever because watching Easton Blake let a three-year-old mold his face like clay while he asks follow-up questions about a fictional frog’s hat situation has my head conjuring different images and thoughts I’m not ready to process fully.
Not today. And maybe not ever.
Maybe? Is it really that bad?
Okay, maybe I truly need that glass of water to set my head straight.
When I return, it’s with my camera. I tell myself it’s to distract my mind, but deep down, I want to keep the memories alive. Something to look back at when it ends.
And that’s how I end up with forty pictures of Emma and Easton in different poses, and a few of us taken by Easton.
Dinner time arrives, and it’s a whole negotiation.
Emma wants pasta. Easton starts making pasta.
Emma then decides she wants it with only butter, no sauce, and the butter has to be melted all the way through with no lumps.
Easton stands at the stove adjusting the heat with the same focused expression he wears watching game tape, and I have to press my lips together to keep from smiling.
He remembers, without being told, that she eats better when her pasta is cut into smaller pieces. He does it.
I turn back to the garlic bread I’m baking before he can catch me staring.
After dinner, we watch a movie Emma picks, which is forty-five minutes of animated penguins doing things that make very little sense but that Emma finds deeply entertaining and funny.
She plants herself between us on the couch with her stuffed rabbit in her lap, and about twenty minutes in, she leans sideways, puts her head on my arm, and goes still.
I look down at her.
Easton reaches over without looking and adjusts the blanket over her, tucking it around her small shoulders.
The penguin movie keeps going. Emma keeps sleeping. The house is warm and quiet. I stare at Easton. His eyes are on the TV.
He’s not bothered. He seems really comfortable, sharing a blanket with Emma and I. Like it’s the most natural thing to do.
God, Riley, you’re too emotional. You read into everything. You make something out of nothing every single time.
I breathe out slowly.
“You okay?” Easton says, low enough not to wake her.
“Yeah,” I say.
“Come here…” He shifts carefully and stretches his arm until it’s resting on my shoulders.
I lean closer, so Emma is lying on my legs, with her legs thrown over Easton’s, and I rest my head on his shoulder.
“You okay now?”
I nod. He kisses my temple, and just like that, all worries are gone, and we’re back to the movie on the screen.
Theo picks Emma up on Saturday afternoon.
She doesn't go quietly. She goes boneless in my arms the moment Theo reaches for her, becoming the deadest weight a three-year-old has ever managed, so that he has to essentially peel her off me while she stays completely limp and unhelpful about the whole process.
“Riley,” she says, very solemnly, from over Theo’s shoulder. I hear the hint of sadness in her voice, and it makes me smile.
“Your daddy misses you, Emma. We’ll see you soon, okay?”
She nods.
“Thank you so much, Riley. I appreciate it, and I owe you one.”
I smile. Easton walks them to the car.
“Bye…” Emma calls out, and I wave. She waves back, all the way to the car.
Theo straps her in, says something quietly to Easton that I don’t catch, and then they’re gone. The gate clicks shut. The driveway is empty.
We go back inside.
Easton starts picking up the throw pillows Emma had been playing with from the floor. He looks visibly tired.
The season is taking more of him. I’ve been watching it for weeks. The earlier mornings, the later returns. There’s an away game in a week. Chicago, then Detroit. Four days.
I have my own things now, which still feels strange to say.
A gig landed in my inbox three days ago, a local events company that found my arena photographs on my Instagram page, and wants me to shoot a private function. Small. Paid. Mine. I read the email four times before I believed it was real.
I’m thinking about the shot list when Easton comes back through the hallway with something in his hand.
A jersey. Black and silver, number seventeen across the back.
He holds it out.
“Away game’s in a week,” he says. “I want you to have this while I’m gone, or you can come with me, if you want. There’s a ticket on the bedside for you.”
I take it from him. I’m smiling before I even understand why.
“Am I your good luck charm now?” I tease, and he pulls me into him. The jersey is not between us.
“Maybe I got better at scoring when I looked up and saw you there, with your camera,” he winks.
The sincerity in those words hit me in the chest. I stay still, staring into his eyes wordlessly.
My brain stops working. I try to deeply process his words. He stares intently at me, not breaking eye contact.
“You don’t have to…” he breaks the silence. “I mean, you’ve got the gig to prep for, and it’s more important. Super glad you got it, baby.”
He kisses my temple, and my legs weaken.
“Can you do something for me, though?”
I stare on.
“If you decide to wear it, take a picture for me? So I can look at it after the game, or maybe before the game?”
His palms slide around my waist, and he pulls me even closer. His lips trail my cheek to my ear.
“Can you do that for me, sweetheart?”
A shiver travels down my spine.
“Hmm?”
He steps away. I nod
“Good girl,” he winks.
Then he heads to the kitchen and starts on dinner like he hasn’t just rewired my entire body to need him.
I stand in the hallway holding the jersey with his name on the back and his number on the front. I press the jersey against my chest.
It flutters, and I know I can’t deny it anymore.
I want him. All of him.
This… this was never part of the plan.
I stand there in the hallway for another minute.
I go to hang the jersey on the back of the bedroom door, and I return to the kitchen. I see him in full chef mode. He’s not typically a chef, but he can hold his end, and it’s good enough for me.
But my eyes are somewhere else.
Lost on his body. The way his biceps move… his back, the line of tattoos scattered along his arms…
“See something you like?” he growls, and I’m caught off guard. My cheeks heat up, and I walk into the kitchen to stand beside him.
“Want to help.”
“Not tonight, baby. Sit that pretty ass down and let me feed you, okay?”
The way he says the words, coupled with the look he’s giving me…
It’s too much. It makes my stomach coil so tightly that all I can do is nod for fear that I might shamelessly moan if I try to speak.
So, I sit and get a front-row view of this private show that’s Easton Blake in the kitchen.
All mine.