Page 32 of Scoring Chance

“One more,” she mumbles.

“Nope,” Tanner says, planting another kiss on her head. “You’ll turn into a pumpkin.”

“I already am a pumpkin,” she replies.

“Then you better sleep before someone turns you into pie.”

She giggles, and I watch as he tucks the blanket higher up her chest, folding it like he’s done this a thousand times. Which he probably has. His movements are automatic, practiced. But not rushed. There’s a care to it. A kind of devotion I’ve never had to offer anyone.

It’s intimate in a way that rattles something loose in me.

He turns off the lamp, slips out the door, and jumps when he sees me standing in the hall.

“Jesus, Des. You good?”

“I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” I say. “I was just heading back to the couch.”

He shrugs. “You can crash in my room, and I’ll take the couch. You should get a good night’s sleep. You’re the one with the stressful job.”

“You hate that couch. You said it’s like a torture device out of Saw movie.”

“That was very poetic of me.”

“Why haven’t you replaced it?” I ask.

Tanner leans against the doorway to his bedroom. “Oh, braces for Lena…hockey clinics for Davy…a broken dishwasher that needed to be replaced…”

He could go on all night, but I stop him. Tanner needs his rest. My job is busy, but I see how wrangling kids is taxing on a whole different level.

“I’m fine,” I say, walking toward the living room. “I’ve endured worse.”

We start unfolding the pull-out bed together. I have a flash of PTSD at the scene of the family picture debacle. Tanner throws a fitted sheet on like he’s racing the clock in a laundry competition.

He looks tired. Not physically—he always looks good, in that low-maintenance, easy charm way. But there’s a heaviness behind his eyes. Something a shower can’t rinse away.

“You okay?” I ask.

He pauses mid-pillow fluff. “Yeah. Just thinking.”

“Dangerous,” I tease.

“I’m worried,” he says, finally. “About the kids. This whole fake-marriage thing… I don’t want them to get confused or hurt.”

I sit on the edge of the bed, the metal frame groaning beneath me. “You’re not giving them enough credit. They’re sharp, resilient.”

“How resilient should kids have to be? They’ve been through so much,” he murmurs. “Losing their mom. Me losing my job. Now this weird setup. I just… I don’t want to make their lives harder.”

I nod slowly. “They’re going to be okay, Tanner.”

He gives me a skeptical look.

“You know why?” I add. “Because they have you. And you’re a great dad.”

His face softens. “You don’t have to say that.”

“I don’t say things I don’t mean.”

We sit in silence for a moment, the soft whirl of the dishwasher humming from the kitchen.