Page 19 of Shootout Daddies
“Team vet,” I say, pulling out my phone. “We have a parrot. He’s not theofficialmascot—Frosty is—but Max takes care of the bird. He helps out with the guys’ dogs, too.”
She raises a brow. “You’re kidding.”
“Nope. Parrot’s named Biscuit. Max is a genius. Total grump. But good with animals.”
I call Max, who answers on the third ring with a groggy, “This had better be worth it.”
I explain. He grumbles, but agrees to check out the puppy after I offer him five tickets for each game next season.
I’m not even sure how I’m going to pull that off, to be honest.
We load the puppy into the car. Ivy insists on holding him, curling him against her chest like a baby. He snuggles into her, muzzle resting on her shoulder.
My freshly detailed leather seats are now smudged with dirt and stray fur. I sigh and buckle Ivy’s seatbelt for her since her hands are full.
When I reach toward the puppy, he growls.
“Okay,” I mutter. “You’ve got her. I get it.”
She smiles. “He likes me.”
“I can tell.”
Max’s clinic is tucked into a little stucco building off Biscayne. Inside, the lights are bright and sterile. Max meets us at the door in scrubs. He barely glances at me, just zeroes in on the dog and motions for us to follow.
Tests. Scans. A lot of grumbling. Ivy never puts the pup down unless she has to. She paces. Watches every move. Speaks to the puppy like he understands.
“You have a name?” she whispers. “You poor baby. Did someone dump you? You got out? Are you hurt?”
Max eventually steps out with a clipboard. “He’s underweight, but no major injuries. No chip. No collar. Probably dumped.”
Ivy’s face crumples slightly. She doesn’t cry. But I can see it—this quiet, fierce grief that settles behind her eyes.
“What happens now?” she asks.
“If he’s not claimed, he gets processed. Likely sent to a shelter. Most likely… he’s from a breeder who dumped him.”
“And if he goes to the pound?”
Max exhales. “Not a great outcome. You could take him to the shelter on 162nd Street, but it could be a problem for a dog this underweight.”
“What do you mean?” I ask.
He looks at Ivy then back at me before he continues. “An underweight puppy wouldn’t do well in most shelters because of the competition for resources and all that. This little one needs someone who can foster him and nurse him back to health.”
She presses her lips together. “I could ask Brooke if I can bring him home, but she has the twins, and Jackson, and the new project, and a dog—fuck! What happens when I leave? Can I bring him to Brooklyn? I would need to find an apartment that’s pet friendly and?—”
She’s stressed and blubbering and maybe that explains why I say what I say next.
“I’ll do it. I’ll keep the dog with me.”
What the fuck is wrong with me?
It’s her magical kisses and her touches and her cunt. It has to be the reason I’m talking out of my ass because I don’t even like dogs.
She looks at me. “What?”
“I’ll adopt him. You’re heading back to New York, and you can’t take him with you. But I can. I’ve got the space. The time.”
