Page 3 of Just One Season
As if in slow motion, I watch the players turn around to find the source of the barking and swearing.
Does that damn dog think there’s a squirrel in here? A car to chase? Something besides me running after him?
I remind myself to sign Waffles up for behavior lessons so I can actually leave that menace of an animal behind while I go to work, even though my boss insisted it’s fine to bring him in. Lots of people bring their dogs to work in Fort Collins. Weird.
I will my feet to move faster, but I have no hope of catching Waffles before he… oh god.
He’s zipping toward an entrance to the rink. Thankfully, it’s closed, as it should be during hockey practice.
But—oh no.
It’s cracked open just wide enough for a Boston terrier to squeeze through.
“Waffles! No! Zeus! MAX!”
But it’s too late. He squeezes through the opening and leaps onto the ice, heading straight for the Blizzard players. I take in Atticus, a wide smile on his face as he shakes his head dramatically, and at least two other players bending down to try to intercept the running dog.
Waffles attempts to stop a few feet away from one of the squatting men, but it’s literally ice so he slips and spins and hurtles toward the wall. He kind of looks like me trying to ice skate.
I finally make it to the entrance to the rink but stop there. No use in me slipping all over the ice as well, embarrassing myself further, if that’s possible.
“Nooooo,” I whisper-scream and bury my hands in my hair.
Atticus calls for my dog, and for a second I think it’ll work, but then Waffles, now sprawled against the rink wall, managesto get his feet under him and complete an ill-fated lap around the laughing players. Even the coach is grinning at the chaos with his arms crossed.
Okay. This might be okay. Maybe it’ll soften them up to me. No problem. Atticus will grab him and?—
Oh no.
Waffles makes it back to the side of the rink.
I know exactly what’s going to happen next.
“No, no, no!” I half step onto the ice, but it’s far too late.
Waffles lifts one of his hind legs and pees, the yellow liquid spilling down the wall and onto the frozen surface.
That’s it, then.
I guess I’m done here.
With the Blizzard. This job. Fort Collins. Colorado. The entire universe. I resign from life.
Atticus is laughing too hard to move, and I glare at him, throwing my hands in the air in the universalcan you helpgesture.
Another tall, broad player slowly skates toward Waffles—who’s sitting innocently two feet away from his yellow puddle—and manages to swoop him up in one pass as if it’s no problem at all.
“Someone clean that up,” the coach yells, then points toward one of the younger-looking players. “You. Get a skate and a shovel from the equipment manager. Scrape that pee off the ice and get rid of it. Go!” The player heads out another exit. “And that door should be shut at all times.” The coach turns to look at all the players. “At all times! It’s a major safety issue.”
The man holding Waffles gracefully skates toward me, stopping when he’s a foot away and holding my dog in the crook of his arm.
“This guy yours?” The player is sweaty and wearing a helmet. But his lips are plump, his exposed neck smooth, and dark hair falls onto his forehead above blue eyes.
And I know exactly who he is.
A forward and captain of the Blizzard. A star player. One of Atticus’s close friends.
Gorgeous.
