Page 21 of Glitz & Goals

I do a double-take when I spot a familiar face in the lobby. “Abbott?” I call.

The guy whips his head toward me. Sure enough, it’s Viktor. “Hey, Coach.” His tone is wary, as if he doesn’t quite trust my sudden appearance.

I stride over to him, trying not to jostle my knee too much. “I know this is kind of an odd question, but… do you cook?”

Viktor blinks a few times. “Uh, sort of. I make a mean chicken piccata.”

“Like the stuff they make at Olive Garden? With the capers?”

He shudders. “Don’t compare my cooking to an Olive Garden. I know too many Italians, and they willalltake offense at the comparison.”

I rub my fingertips over my mouth. “Heard. Well, seafood would’ve been better, but that’ll do. How long does it take?”

“I guess about forty minutes, including prep time?” His bewilderment is obvious, but I have larger concerns.

“Great. Can you be at my place at 6:30 on Thursday night?”

Viktor barks a laugh. “Coach… you’re not really my type.”

My brows about disappear into my hairline. “I’ll pay you for the ingredients. And your time.”

His eye twitches. “Okay, but…”

“It’s for my mermaid,” I blurt.

Viktor rocks back on his heels. “Oh.Oh.Right. Yourmeeeeermaid. She must be something special.”

“She is,” I admit. “I haven’t felt this way in years.”

“And you need the help of my chicken piccata to win her heart.” Viktor claps a hand on my shoulder. “I understand, Coach. Don’t worry, you can count on me.”

I have the feeling I’ve made a deal with the devil. Ah, well. Involving Viktor in my plans has its downsides, but it’s not like I know that many other people in the area.

And if I’m going to have to rely on an Abbott for support, I’m more wary of the father than the son.

* * *

The second I walk through the door, Blade comes bounding off the couch and tries to headbutt my groin. It’s his signature move, and no matter how many times I try to dissuade him, he’s determined to knock his giant skull into my junk. He whines and wriggles, then runs for the back door.

Blade is a Cane Corso, although his fawn coloring makes most people think that he’s a really, really buff boxer. The chestand the proportions of his legs give him away to people who know the breed, though, along with his cropped ears. When I decided to adopt a dog, I figured I’d end up with a golden retriever or maybe an Irish Setter, something big but generally agreeable. Instead, I fell for this meaty knucklehead who’s an absolute baby with me… and who despises everyone else he’s ever met.

I let Blade out into the backyard to do his business and turn my attention to the house. I’ve moved three times since Larisse and I split, and I’ve never really settled into any of the houses I’ve landed in. There’s no way I’m going to make this place feel like home overnight, but at the very least, I can try to set the mood. I spend an hour rummaging through my stuff and putting things away. There’s less to do than I thought, given how little was worth bringing with me on a cross-country move.

Once that’s done, I put together a list of things to buy on my way home tomorrow. Wine, for sure. Salad ingredients, because evenIcan chop vegetables into a bowl. Candles. Maybe some nice napkins. After some consideration, I decide to pick up a new set of bedding as well. Something nicer than the sheets I usually use.

Just in case.

* * *

By the time six o’clock rolls around on Thursday, Blade is deeply suspicious of all my activity.

“Don’t worry, buddy.” I pat his head and try to project calm despite my own increasing nerves. Vivian and I have exchanged a few texts, but I’m still worried about making a good impression. “We’ll get you all squared away before Vivian shows up, okay? You don’t have anything to worry about. You’ll like her. She’s really pretty.”

Blade grumbles. Clearly, he’s not convinced.

To my surprise, Viktor shows up fifteen minutes early. Blade goes ballistic at the sound of the doorbell, and I have to drag him bodily through the back door. It’s easier said than done. This dog is a wall of muscle, and even though I have him on the pinch collar, I swear his brain turns off when he gets going. I hope I can get him to calm down once we’re more settled. Maybe I can start introducing him to people gradually, although looking at his spit-soaked jowls flapping with each furious bark, I have trouble imagining anyone wanting to take the risk. I slam the sliding door behind me, trapping him in the backyard with its solid adobe fence that looks more like a wall.

“Get your shit together,” I scold him before shutting the blinds.

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