Page 2 of Behind the Net

Anxiety spikes in me, and this is why I shouldn’t have opened my fucking mouth. Now people want to get involved. Every instinct in my body revolts, and my shoulders hitch.

My schedule this year will be grueling. Eighty-two games, half at home in Vancouver and half away, with team practices, training with the goalie coach, and my own workouts. On top of that, I’ll have sessions with my physio, massage therapist, sports psychologist, and personal trainer.

Something flares in my chest, a mix of competition and anticipation. I’ve been competing at hockey since I was five years old, and I thrive on a challenge. Pressure fuels me. Years of training have made me into a person who loves to push my limits and win.

This year? Between how stubborn my mom is and how intense my schedule will be? It’s going to be a fucking challenge.

Nothing I can’t handle, though, as long as I stay focused.

“We’re good.” My words are clipped. “Thank you.”

It’s always just been me and my mom. I’ve got it handled. I always have.

* * *

After I shower and change, I leave the arena to grab lunch and head home for a nap before hitting the gym. I’m walking through an alley from the arena to the street when a noise by the dumpsters stops me.

A fluffy brown dog’s butt is sticking out of a box. As I walk past, the dog lifts its head out of the box and looks at me. There’s macaroni and cheese all over its snout.

The dog wags its tail at me, and I stare back. Her eyes are a deep brown, bright with excitement. Her breed is hard to tell. She’s forty or fifty pounds, maybe a mix between a Lab and a spaniel. One of her ears is shorter than the other.

The dog takes a step forward, and I take a step back.

“No way,” I tell it.

The dog flops to the ground, rolls over to expose her belly, and waits, tail sweeping back and forth over the pavement as she asks for belly rubs.

Where’s her owner? I glance up and down the alley, but we’re alone. My nose wrinkles as I study her. No collar, and among the macaroni, her snout is dirty and greasy. Her fur is too long, falling into her eyes, and even though she needs a haircut, I can see how skinny she is.

There’s a twisting feeling in my chest that I don’t like.

“Don’t eat that,” I tell her, frowning as I nod at the garbage. “You’ll get sick.”

Her pink tongue flops out the side of her mouth.

“Go home.”

My words come out stern, but she’s still waiting for belly rubs.

My heart strains, but I shove the feelings away.No. This isn’t my problem. I don’t do distractions. I don’t even date, for fuck’s sake, because I know from experience that people want more than I can give them.

I can’t leave her here, though. She could get hit by a car or injured by a coyote. She could eat something that could make her sick.

The SPCA will take her. I pull my phone out and, after some Googling, call the nearest location.

“There’s a dog behind the arena downtown,” I tell the woman when she answers. There’s only one arena in downtown Vancouver, so she’ll know where I mean. There are dogs barking in the background on her end. “Can someone come pick her up?”

The woman laughs. “Honey, we are so understaffed. You’ll have to drop her off at one of our locations.”

She lists the locations that are accepting dogs before hanging up. The ones nearby are all full, so I’ll have to drive a couple hours outside the city to drop her off. I stare at the phone, brow furrowed, before I look down at the dog.

She jumps to her feet, still staring at me, wagging her tail. It’s like she thinks I’m going to give her a treat or something. There’s an annoying pull in my chest.

“What?” I ask the dog, and her tail wags harder. Something in my chest warms, and I swallow past a thick throat.

I can’t just leave her here.

In the back of my brain, the rigorous, disciplined part of me scoffs. What about my insane schedule? I can’t handle a fucking dog. I can’t even handle having a girlfriend without fucking everything up. I sure as shit can’t take care of a dog. I’m traveling half the season.

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