Must Love Dogs...and Hockey

by Kelly Jamieson

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  “It’s fudiculous.”

  Lilly smiles. “Another good word.”

  My smile is wry. “Yeah.”

  I’ve told her what happened yesterday. We’re sitting in the back of a taxi on our way to Spyscape. It was her idea; I’ve never been there.

  She’s the one who calms me. Who always makes me feel like there’s hope. I need that. I need the distraction too.

  “How was your day?” I ask.

  “Great! I got three calls today from potential clients. I’m meeting two of them tomorrow morning, and another one next week after the holiday weekend.”

  “That’s fantastic.”

  She grins. “I think they see your name and they figure if Easton Millar trusts me to walk his dog, they can too. So thank you.”

  I wave a hand. “I’m sure your reputation is getting known.”

  “Aw, thanks. Anyway, with the other clients I’ve gotten the last couple of weeks, I’m getting really busy!”

  “That’s so good. You deserve it.”

  “Penelope and I were talking the other day.”

  I nod. I know Penelope is her friend at the animal shelter. She’s a dog groomer and she volunteers there too, providing grooming for the pets at the shelter.

  “I told her someday I’d like to expand from just dog walking to maybe a doggie daycare. And she wants to start her own grooming business. So we thought we could maybe team up.”

  “That sounds like a great idea.”

  “Right? It would be perfect. We get along great, and I know she’s good with dogs.” She sighs. “We have the same ideas about what we’d want to do with the business. It’ll be a while before either of us can afford it, though.”

  “Lilly.” I stop.

  She tilts her head. “What?”

  “I have money.”

  She rolls her eyes. “I know.”

  “I mean, I could help you start your doggie daycare, if you want to do that.”

  Her eyes fly open. “Are you kidding me?”

  “Uh…no.”

  “You can’t do that!” She gives her head a violent shake. “And I don’t want that! I’ll do it on my own.”

  I wince, remembering her reaction when I offered to let her use my name. “Right. I know that’s important to you.”

  Her face softens. “It is. But thank you.”

  At Spyscape, she wants to pay the admission for both of us, so I let her, after that conversation. We spend a few hours learning about spies and spy gadgets and doing interactive activities and we get to see James Bond’s famous Aston Martin. “I want this car,” I tell Lilly with a deep longing.

  Her eyes widen. “Seriously?”

  “Yes. Seriously. Okay, maybe not this exact one. I should check into dealerships.” A new car might cheer me up.

  She gives me a look like I just told her I can fly. “An Aston Martin. Just like that.”

  I scrunch up my face. “I, um, can afford it.”

  She closes her eyes. “Of course you can.”

  “Am I being a dick?” I don’t flaunt my money. I think.

  She opens her eyes and shakes her head. “No. I just can’t relate.”

  “Let’s not talk about money.” This never seems to go well. I get that she’s sensitive about the imbalance, even though it doesn’t bother me.

  “Fine with me.”

  We continue our exploration of the museum.

  “This place is sick,” I tell Lilly with delight. “We need to come back here.”

  She beams a gratified smile. “I’m glad you had fun.”

  After, we walk to a nearby Mexican place for sangria, chips and queso, and enchiladas. We sit in the bar where there are TVs playing sports.

  “Did that distract you from your worries?” Lilly asks, picking up a chip.

  “Yeah. It did. For a while.” I grimace.

  “That’s good.”

  “I’ll be more distracted shopping for an Aston Martin.”

  Her smile unravels more of the coil of tension inside me and I lean back in my chair. One of the big screen TVs on the wall is playing the Islanders versus Oilers game.

  “Who are you cheering for?” Lilly asks, nodding at the TV.

  “Oilers.”

  “Really.” She lifts an eyebrow. “Why?”

  “They’re not in our division. It’s Thanksgiving this week and that’s an important date for the playoffs.”

  She leans her chin on her hand, her elbow on the table, and regards me with fascination “How so? Playoffs are months away.”

  “I know, but statistically, about twelve out of the sixteen teams in playoffs spots as of American Thanksgiving will still have a playoff spot at the end of the season.”

  “Huh.”

  “So everyone’s looking at standings and how teams are performing as of that date.” I shrug. “It has some merit.”

  “And where are you in the standings?”

  “I can’t believe you don’t know that.” I shake my head in mock disappointment.

  “Sorry. I like hockey, but I don’t know all the stats.”

  “I’m kidding. The Islanders have a spot right now, but we don’t. So we need them to lose.”

  “Ah. I see.” Her forehead pinches. “Does that mean you’re out of the playoffs?”

  “Hell no.”

  “But you just said—”

  I grin. “Never mind that. It’s not over until it’s over.”

  She laughs.

  “We’re one point out of a wild card spot.” I grimace. “We can do it, but the truth is our defense is a problem.”

  She listens intently and I fucking love it. “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Last year we lost a few core members of our D, and—”

  “That sounds really dirty.”

  I pause. “Yes. Yes, it does.”

  She grins. “Go on, sorry.”

  “Early in the season we were scoring enough goals that our deficiencies on the blue line weren’t as obvious. And our goal tenderhas been stellar; he’s stolen so many games. But our numbers are dipping—possession rate, shooting rate. Five on five, our goals have been flat and we’re giving up way too many chances.”

  “Does that mean you need to score more?”

  “Well, scoring more is always good, but I think we really have to do something about our defensive shortcomings. We could still sneak into a wild card spot, but if we want any hope of surviving more than one playoff round, we need more depth.”

  “Does that mean a trade?”

  I shrug. “I think so. We’ve called a few guys up from the farm team, but they’re just not quite ready yet. We need someone with experience. There’s been talk…” I trail off, remembering the rumor that the Stars are looking for offensive power. And remembering who plays defense for them.

  “I have faith in you.”

  “Thanks.”

  She tells me about one of her new dog clients, Rusty. “We were walking along Seventy-fourth and there’s a little cigar shop, which is so weird—does anyone smoke cigars anymore?”

  “Yes,” I say.

  “Well, the old guy who owns it saw Rusty peeing on a tree near the shop and he yelled at him. He yelled at Rusty for peeing!” She shakes her head. “Crazy. I mean, I’m a responsible dog walker. I always pick up their poop. But they pee where they pee.”

  I watch her talk animatedly, gesturing with her hands, and I’m so amused and entertained, I’m just smiling like crazy. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. We just kept going. But here’s the best part.” She leans forward, eyes dancing. “The next day we went by there, Rusty saw the man, and he walked over to the same tree
and lifted his leg and peed again.”

  I bark out a laugh. “No!”

  “Yes. And he’s done it every day since!” She sits back in her chair. “I love Rusty.”

  Her smile glows, her eyes sparkle, and she tosses her hair back over her shoulder, so clearly delighted with Rusty. And I’m delighted with her.

  Chapter 16

  Lilly

  I picked up the ingredients for a dish I plan to make to take to the potluck dinner. Thursday morning, I get busy in Easton’s kitchen. I don’t cook much, but this recipe I found on Pinterest seems easy.

  I sauté chopped bacon until it’s crispy, then add some onions and garlic.

  “That smells fantastic.” Easton saunters into the kitchen. He’s wearing his gray sweatpants, which I love because he doesn’t wear underwear and I can catch a glimpse of the outline of his cock. Yes, I am a dirty girl.

  He steals some of the bacon which is sitting on a plate on the counter.

  “Hey, don’t eat that! It’s for the potluck.”

  “I have to eat it. It’s bacon. Bacon and onions.” He breathes deeply. “We could just eat that.”

  “I guess we could.” I stir the onions and garlic, then check the recipe on my phone. Time to add the corn. I have a couple of big bags of frozen corn, and I open them and dump them in, then add half the bacon, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. The pan is pretty full, and corn spills out onto the stove. “I’m making a mess.”

  “That’s okay. Thanks for doing this. I would have picked up a few bags of chips.”

  I grin. “That might be better. We don’t know how this is going to turn out.”

  I move the pan off the burner and turn to mix up cream cheese, milk, and some parsley I chopped up. Then I dump that into the big skillet. More mess ensues as I try to mix it all up, then turn it in to a big tinfoil casserole I purchased. I sprinkle the rest of the bacon on top and study it.

  “It looks like the dog barfed it up,” I pronounce.

  Easton guffaws. “No, it doesn’t.”

  “Yes, it does.” I wrinkle my nose. “Oh well.”

  “I’m sure it tastes good.” He goes to dig a fork into it, and I smack his hand.

  “It has to bake first.” I slide it into the oven and set the timer. “We’ll see how it tastes when it’s done.”

  He helps me clean up, even though I’m the one who made the big mess in the kitchen using multiple cutting boards and utensils and scattering food everywhere.

  “What time are we supposed to go over there?” I ask him, wiping the counter.

  “Some guys are going this afternoon to watch football. But dinner’s at six.”

  “I need to go see my grandma. It’s Thanksgiving.”

  He nods. I’ve told him about Grammy in the care home. “We can go there right after lunch.”

  “We?” I turn to him. “You don’t have to come with me.”

  He shrugs. “Why not? Grammy sounds entertaining.”

  “Are you sure? You can go watch football with your friends and I’ll come later.”

  He meets my eyes. “I’ll come with you.”

  I bite my lip. “Okay. We can even take Otis.” I pause. “As long as you have his vaccination records.” I know he took Otis to the vet to get him checked after he decided to keep him.

  “Yeah, I have that. Sounds good.”

  So that’s what we do. Grammy’s happy to see Otis again, and very interested in Easton.

  “Do you fight a lot?” she asks him.

  “No.” He grins. “I’m a lover, not a fighter.”

  “Well, that sounds promising.” Grammy winks at me.

  I cover my face with one hand. “Oh my God.”

  Then she frowns. “Does that mean puck bunnies?”

  “Grammy!” I drop my hand and stare at her. “What do you know about puck bunnies?”

  “I know you better not be one.” She points at me.

  My eyes widen. I look at Easton.

  “She’s not a puck bunny,” he says. “I had to convince her to go out with me. She didn’t think we were…what was the word? Compatible.”

  I bite my lip on a smile. “Okay, I was wrong.”

  Our eyes meet and hold in a loaded connection.

  “Nothing wrong with liking hockey,” Grammy says. “I like it too. As long as you’re with him for the right reasons, and not just because he’s a hockey player.”

  “I didn’t know you like hockey.”

  “I may or may not have waited outside the Apex Center after Bears games back in the day. The old arena,” she clarifies. The Apex Center was rebuilt a few years ago.

  “Grammy. You were a puck bunny!”

  She laughs. “What can I say? Hockey players are hunky.”

  “Hunky.” I press my fingers to my lips.

  Easton pretends to preen. “I’m a hunk,” he says. “Definitely.”

  Clearly, Grammy likes Easton. And most of our conversation is about hockey, if you can believe that.

  “Well, she’s a cool lady,” Easton says as he holds Otis in the elevator.

  “She loooooves you,” I say with an eye roll, but secretly I’m delighted. But then I have to remind myself it doesn’t matter. Shouldn’t matter. Because I’m not getting involved with Easton. Like, emotionally involved.

  We stop back at Easton’s place to pick up the corn casserole I made, along with wine and beer. We debate bringing Otis to the party, but in the end agree it’s probably better not to. So we say goodbye to him and leave his sad face to walk down Riverside to the building where Colton and Layla live. It’s just as nice as Easton’s, but their view from the twentieth floor is of the city looking toward Central Park.

  I’m excited and nervous about meeting Easton’s teammates. He talks about them all the time. I met Owen Cooke briefly one day at Easton’s, and I know Colton and Layla of course, but I don’t know anyone else.

  Loki greets me ecstatically, which is so nice. I give him pets and rubs while Easton says hi to Colton. We carry our food and booze over to the kitchen, where a buffet is being set up on the island. On one side of the kitchen, a modern hutch holds bottles, glasses, and an ice bucket.

  “What would you like to drink?” Colton asks.

  I soon have a glass of wine in hand. “This will need to be heated up before we eat,” I tell Layla, gesturing at my big casserole.

  “Not a problem.” She picks up her own glass. She’s gorgeous—a freakin’ Victoria’s Secret model, literally—tall, slender, with long, wavy dark blond hair, high cheekbones, and full lips. “I’m glad you came.”

  “Thanks for having me.”

  I have one of those moments I have from time to time with Easton, like when he said he wants to buy an Aston Martin—what the hell am I doing here with these people? I do not fit in at all. But Layla is so nice and friendly, and I try to relax.

  Easton beckons to me from the living room, where all the seats are filled with people watching a giant television playing a football game. I move to his side. “Everyone, this is Lilly. Lilly…” He waves a hand. “Everyone.”

  I laugh and lift a hand in greeting. “Hi, everyone. However will I remember all your names?”

  Eason nudges me. “That’s why I didn’t bother with all the names. There’s too many. You’ll get them eventually.”

  “You know me.” Owen waves a hand from a couch.

  “Yes.” I smile.

  We sit on the floor, leaning against the floor-to-ceiling windows. As we watch the game, Easton mentions names of the players there, along with a few wives and girlfriends. Some are cheering for the Falcons, and others the Saints, which makes for a lot of noise and good-natured insults.

  I watch the Saints get first down and pump a fist into the air.

  “Wait.” Easton stares at
me. “You’re cheering for New Orleans?”

  “Of course! Aren’t you?”

  He laughs. “I actually don’t care. I like football, but I never got invested in American football.”

  “American as opposed to…?”

  “Canadian. CFL. A much more exciting game.”

  “What?” Now it’s my turn to stare in shock.

  He laughs. “The field is bigger and the end zones are deeper, so there’s room to run more stunt plays.” He shrugs. “Also, another player on the field means more options for the quarterback and one more guy for the defense to track.”

  I blink. “Huh.”

  “I think it allows for more creativity on both sides of the ball. Just my opinion. And three downs means more offensive aggression is necessary, which usually means more passing and a lot less settling for plays that might only get you a couple yards. That means a more pass-and-kick-oriented game since there are fewer downs available for short-yardage running plays.”

  I purse my lips. “Really.”

  “The kicking rules are different too.” He lifts his beer to his lips and drinks. “In Canadian football, there’s no fair catch rule.”

  “Whereas in American football, if a kick returner thinks he won’t be able to advance the ball after recovery, he can signal for a fair catch and be immune from contact.”

  He looks at me with admiration lighting his eyes. “Yeah. And in Canadian football, no player on the kicking team except the kicker and any players behind him on the field can be within five yards of the ball unless it’s been touched by an opponent.”

  “I did not know this.”

  He shrugs. “Not many Americans watch Canadian football.”

  After a while, I go help Layla in the kitchen, along with another woman I learn is Charlotte, who is here with Ryker Murphy, a Bears center. Also helping us is Igor Barbashev and his wife, Nadia, who tell me, in their Russian accents, that they don’t really like football so they’d rather help in the kitchen.

  We heat up food and arrange platters and bowls on the island. “There’s enough food here for the whole team,” I say.

  Layla laughs. “You can never have too much Thanksgiving food.”

  She even roasted a turkey, which Igor carves and arranges on a platter.