Page 71 of Scoring Chance

Stan, my boss. Stan, the guy whose recommendation basically determines whether I get to call myself creative director or end up working under that smug pile of nepotism known as Kyle.

Tanner's house smells like lemon cleaner and mild panic. He’s been in a whirlwind all day, wiping down every surface, even the ones no human eye will ever see. I keep refreshing the time on my phone, wondering if maybe—just maybe—an unexpected blackout will hit the block and save me from this catastrophe.

I line up Tanner and his kids in the living room and strut in front of them like a drill sergeant.

“This is a make-or-break night. I need us all on our best behavior. No fighting with each other. Keep the volume at a moderate decibel level. No burping the alphabet.”

“Why are you looking at me?” Dean asks as a burp escapes his lips. “That was a coincidence.”

“Mr. Stan is a good guy, but he’s perceptive. He’s very observant. The man may be seventy-five, but he can spot an uncentered image from across the room.” I turn on my heel and pace back down the line. “What this means is he has a very strong BS detector. He has to believe that my marriage with your dad is real, that me living here with you is real. That we are an imperfect, but real, family. Can we do that?”

Lulu’s hand shoots up. “What’s BS?”

Tanner dips his head into his hand.

“It means bullcrap,” Davy says. “Except instead of crap, it’s–”

“It means something that isn’t real,” I explain. I’m enlisting a five-year-old for subterfuge. The depths to which I have sunk. I glance back at Tanner. Tanner, who I held in my arms last night, who begged for my cock, who found my imperfections beautiful and sexy. It’s not just a promotion. It’s his family in the middle of this.

We can’t mess this up.

Tonight may be the toughest pitch I ever have. Stan’s daughter is grown, and she lives in Seattle. He sees his grandkids a handful of times per year. He’s not used to being in kid chaos.

The doorbell rings, and my soul briefly leaves my body. Through the front window, I spot Stan waiting at the front door.

“Fuuuuudge. He’s early. Should I have him wait outside? No, I can’t do that.”

Tanner claps me on the shoulder, his bright eyes conveying worry, but also a dash of confidence.

“We got this,” he whispers.

Tanner pulls the door open. “You must be Stan!”

Stan holds a bottle of wine and wears a red polka-dot bowtie and blue suit.

“Evening!” Stan booms, stepping inside.

“Stan. Welcome.” I step past Tanner to shake my boss’s hand. Then I realize I need to start projecting husband and dad energy from the jump, so I throw my arm around my fake husband. “Come on in.”

“I hope you don’t mind that I’m early. I thought there would be traffic, but I managed to hit all green lights.”

“The universe wanted you here,” Tanner says, shutting the front door. Stan doesn’t rely on Google Maps after one experience where the app had him almost drive into the Hudson River.

To my utter relief, the kids remain in their line in the living room, making an excellent first impression. Orderly, calm, quiet. I stop and watch them for a quick second, and it hits me how adorable they all look.

“This is the family,” I say. Every ad campaign depends on a singular image. Tanner and I stroll behind the kids and put our hands on their shoulders. One big, happy family. Take that, Norman Rockwell. “We have Lena, our oldest. She’s a fantastic student.”

“Nice to meet you,” Lena says with a perfectly friendly smile. She steps forward and shakes Stan’s hand. Hopefully her siblings follow her lead.

“Pleasure, my dear.”

“And this is Davy. He loves playing hockey, just like his dads.” I tussle Davy’s hair.

“How’s it going, big guy?” Stan gives his hand a hardy shake. “What position do you play?”

“Left winger. Just like my dad. Uh, that dad.” He points at Tanner.

“A real chip off the old block.” Stan elbows Tanner.