Total pages in book: 111
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 107453 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 537(@200wpm)___ 430(@250wpm)___ 358(@300wpm)
Ledger reaches for my hand and squeezes it. His steadiness settles my nerves. I need his steadiness just like I need Dev’s exuberance.
Doctor Lennox pets Puck Fitzgibbons’ head. I mean, the dog’s head. The potentially-owned dog’s head who I shouldn’t keep calling by the name I might not be entitled to give him.
“I’m checking. Sometimes these microchips roll around,” Doctor Lennox says, cool and confident, and friendly as he talks to the dog. “What’s your story, little buddy? You gonna tell me?”
I have no chill. “Tell us.” I can hear the desperation in my tone.
“They’re a little eager, Doc,” Ledger adds while rubbing my arm.
“I can tell.” Doctor Lennox turns off the scanner and looks up from the table. The vet has golden brown hair, fair skin, a trim beard, and kind eyes. He’s empirically good-looking, the hot vet and all, but all I can think is I need dog details now. Right now.
“He’s not microchipped,” he announces, and it’s like he’s telling new parents, Your baby is healthy.
I beam, I soar, I fly. “That’s great,” I say. Or maybe I shout it.
Dev spins to face me. “Can you keep him?” Then, before I answer, he turns back to the vet. “Can she keep him? Can we keep him?”
He’s plowing through the pronouns, but the change to we isn’t lost on me.
“You might want to check with Little Friends next door and make sure no one has listed him as missing,” Doctor Lennox says.
Dev nods, turning serious. “Right, right. That’s our plan. We’re already going over there next.”
“Good, because if he were my dog, I’d be looking for him,” the vet adds.
“Do you have a dog?” I can’t resist asking about people’s pets.
“I have two.”
“Are they microchipped?” I ask, when I really want to shake him and say, “Tell me my dog would be microchipped if he belonged to someone.”
“Yes, neutered and spayed, microchipped, and they have GPS trackers. I kind of like them,” he confesses in a whisper. “The dogs.”
“You picked a good profession,” I say. “We’ll stop in at Little Friends. But otherwise, how is he? Is he healthy? What is he? How old is he? How big will he get?”
I have a million more questions, but I hold them back as the doctor studies Puck Fitzgibbons, who’s sitting on his little butt on the table now, behaving like a good boy. He’s black and white—with black socks and white gloves, a harlequin face, and a standard-size snout. He’s strong for a little critter. The vet runs a palm down the pup’s haunches. “I’d say he’s a cocktail. Some Border Collie. Some Chihuahua. Some hound.”
Ledger pats the dog’s head. “I’m not a vet, but it sounds like you’re just covering your bases there.”
The vet’s eyes twinkle. “I am.” He scratches the dog’s chin. “You’re a good boy.”
“And you’re a good vet.” I catch the doctor’s eyes and say sincerely, “You saved my friend Trina’s dog a couple years ago.”
“Nacho, right?”
“Yes, that’s him.”
“The goodest three-legged dog around. That was quite a story when he ate those panties,” he says.
“It sure was,” I say.
Five days that feel like five years later, Little Friends has good news. Puck Fitzgibbons is mine. Or ours, really. Both guys are out of town at games, but I text them right away.
Aubrey: Puck has a new home.
Dev: Yes, he does.
Ledger: And you will soon too.
I think I know what he means. But I don’t even feel rushed from the veiled suggestion.
Over the next few weeks, we see each other as often as we can, given our schedules. We’re dating, and somehow, it’s all working out. In fact, it’s going so well that a few weeks later, when they’re at practice and I’m walking my cocktail dog, I text Trina and Ivy and ask them to join me on a special errand this weekend.
58
GAME TIME
Ledger
December…
I’m not a superstitious guy. But lately, since Aubrey’s been coming to the games, I’ve become a man of habit. When I hit the ice, I look to the stands, find her in her usual seat, then wrap my gloved hand around my other wrist ever so briefly.
A sign. Just for her.
She wraps her right hand around her left wrist, making the gesture back.
Then I play my heart out. Not for a place in the hall of fame, or for the next phase of my career, or for a top rank in the sport.
Just because…I love the game.
Tonight, when the puck drops, that’s how I play. The crowd roars as we win the face-off, then as I move fast and aggressively down the ice, weaving in and out of the Phoenix defense, angling for the puck.
I miss the first shot.
But so does Chase when it’s his turn.
I grit my teeth, narrowing in on the opportunities with every line change, dodging the bloodthirsty D-men on the other team. Then, near the end of the first period, Chase spots an opening and passes to me, and just like that, I’m flying on a breakaway. My heart rate speeds up as I get closer to the net.