Chapter 2
AIR DOG
FORD
The second the timer on my watch goes off, I break my Shavasana. Sixty seconds of relaxation after twenty-nine minutes of yoga—done. I hit the button to silence the alarm, push up, stretch my neck from side to side, and yank open the sliding glass door to head inside.
Zamboni waits patiently in her dog bed, her part-German Shepherd, part-Corgi head popping up, tilting slightly as if to ask, How did it go?
“I kicked calm ass,” I say, patting her behind the ear as her black-and-tan tail thumps against the cushion.
I duck into the main bedroom, grab a pair of basketball shorts from where they’re neatly folded on the bureau, and tug them on over my compression shorts before heading into the closet.
After flicking through my options, I pick a gray T-shirt with my alma mater’s logo, then carefully slide the hanger out from the bottom to keep the neck from stretching.
Life’s too short for stretched-out T-shirt collars.
When I’ve pulled it on, I return to the kitchen, open the counter-depth fridge, and grab the pre-sliced frozen bananas from the freezer.
Next, the kale I picked up at the farmers’ market.
Then some frozen mango. All of it goes into the high-end blender sitting on the clean white countertop.
I hit blend on the perfect concoction—kale smoothies are a party in the mouth, and I challenge anyone to prove me wrong.
As the machine chops, dices, and liquefies, I mentally check in on my goals for the day.
My personal conditioning coach had me add yoga to my routine this season, so I’ve knocked that out first thing.
It’ll be time for the real work when I meet with her later today for a session.
She’s a hard-ass—exactly what I wanted when I signed with her at the start of the summer.
After ninety seconds—the ideal blending time for peak consistency—I stop the machine, grab a spatula, and scoop out a sample.
Yup. Perfect. Just like it is every day.
I hold out the spatula to Zamboni. “Come here, girl.”
She trots over, sitting before I even have to ask. “You are the best girl in the world,” I say, letting her lick the spatula clean. She asks for more, so clearly, she agrees.
“Don’t worry. When I open the best smoothie shop in the city, I’m naming it after you,” I promise, then send her back to her bed, where she’ll wait until it’s time for a walk.
I pour the smoothie into a stainless steel to-go cup, pop the lid on, then grab my earbuds from the case where I always set them. How people lose these things, I will never understand. Just put them in the same damn place when you’re done. Easy.
I put them in, leash up Zamboni, and say, “Let’s do it.”
We head outside, where I lift my face to the sky. The sun is shining—it’s warm for an October morning in San Francisco.
I take a sip of my kale goodness while Zamboni trots beside me, perfectly in stride. I toggle to my audiobook and hit play on a new book my sister, Hannah, recommended—Own Your Time. The premise? Treat your day like a resource and devote your hours to three main priorities.
For me, that’s a kick-ass final hockey season, my family, and—Zamboni, obviously. This girl has been my main squeeze since my marriage imploded spectacularly two years ago.
But thinking of that shitshow does not align with my priorities whatsoever, so I slash it out of my head.
As I listen, I mentally check off my schedule for the rest of the day, considering how each task aligns with my priorities. The session with my conditioning coach? That’s a no-brainer for goal alignment.
Another appointment with a potential decorator for the house I bought as a retirement gift for my parents?
Yup. I want the best for them, but that’s not easy.
My mother makes Moira Rose look low maintenance.
Mom’s already fired, oh, I don’t know, 478 designers, give or take.
Last night on the phone, I finally told her I’m hiring the next qualified one no matter what.
And I’ll stick to it. Hopefully I can hire the candidate today since we need to get this moving.
Also, I need to hit the sack early tonight and get a good night’s sleep because this year—my last year in the pros—will be my best. Screw everyone who said I should have retired last season. Hell, screw everyone who ever said I wouldn’t make it in the NHL.
I proved them wrong then, and I’ll do it again now. I’m thirty-six, and I plan to go out on the highest of high notes.
As I round the corner, Zamboni still in perfect heel, I catch a glimpse across the street.
Whoa.
That is one sexy, hot mess of a redhead.
Floral bathrobe. Red pajama pants with—wait, are those martini glasses?
Why the hell is that cute? It shouldn’t be cute. And yet she’s hard to look away from. Her coppery hair is piled into a messy bun. Actually, scratch that. The messiest of buns.
And she’s walking an adorable Doxie. Or really, the Doxie is walking her.
I slow my pace before I even register watching them, considering…saying hello.
Except, nope. Not today. I’m not going to go chat up a random woman walking a dog in my neighborhood. That does not align with any of my priorities.
I snap my gaze forward, the picture of self-discipline.
I turn on my block, and ten seconds later, a brown-and-tan Doxie rockets around the corner, trailing a long leash and beelining toward Zamboni.
My girl whips around with an apprehensive bark—a ladylike one—as the little dog yaps out an enthusiastic greeting right in Zamboni’s snout.
My pulse settles—the dog’s not attacking—but I’m still on my guard even as a voice calls from behind me, “I’m sorry! He likes dogs!”
I glance around.
Oh. It’s her. And damn. She’s prettier up close, even when arriving in a cloud of chaos.
Freckles dance across pale cheeks. Green eyes flash with amusement as her dog wags its tail so fast it’s practically vibrating. She lets out a low laugh and tugs on the tiny tornado’s leash without looking up at me. “I meant—he’s very friendly.”
“Yeah, I see that,” I say dryly.
“I should have asked first if they could say hi.” She turns around, looking up and meeting my gaze for the first time. “Oh. You’re the—”
She swallows her next words, leaving me guessing.
Maybe she’s a hockey fan. It’s rare someone recognizes a player when we aren’t wearing helmets and uniforms. But as she flicks her gaze over me, the inspection seems to satisfy her, as if it answered a question.
Still, I don’t fill in the abandoned sentence—I’ll feel stupid if I’m wrong.
The woman moves on. “I would have asked first, but as you can see”—she gestures to her haphazard clothes—“the day is kind of getting away from me.”
I nod at her ceramic cup. “At least you have coffee.”
“It’s lukewarm, but hey, it still works.”
“Caffeine doesn’t care about temperature,” I agree.
Then I realize—she doesn’t have a lid. What kind of maniac walks around San Francisco without a lid on their coffee cup?
But hey, some people like to take risks. Is talking to her a little longer a risk I want to take right now? I’m considering the question when, out of the corner of my eye, I see something I can’t unsee.
Her tiny dog is no longer licking Zamboni’s face.
He’s mounting her. Enthusiastically. He’s humping her like a deranged stuffed animal let loose in a strip club.
No. Just no. I point, stiff-armed, at the animal. “What the hell?”
The woman winces. “He’s frisky today.”
“No kidding,” I say sharply.
She laughs awkwardly, and I can’t tell whether she’s embarrassed or cheering him on. Her beet-red cheeks say, Oh no! But the chuckling says, Go get ’em!
“Just make him stop,” I say stiffly. “That’s gross.”
“Simon, no,” the woman calls. “Simon, that’s enough. Simon, stop right now, you naughty little devil.”
Her scolding would work better if she weren’t laughing. The cute voice calling him a naughty little devil is not doing the trick. Nothing is. The little horndog doesn’t stop. He grips my girl’s hips with his tiny paws and just keeps pumping.
It’s not even remotely funny. Balancing my kale smoothie, I reach for the dog at the same time the redhead does—
Bam.
Her elbow knocks into my cup. It shoots up a few feet, then plummets. I snatch it before it splatters onto the sidewalk.
Her coffee?
Not so lucky. Nor is sweet Zamboni.
The coffee spills. All over my dog.
“Seriously?” What the fuck has this sexy chaos demon done to my day?
“It’s not hot! I swear. Also, that stopped him so…yay?” She scoops up her dog, then tries to clean my dog with the end of her robe.
Why? Just why? I should stop her, but she’s mopping Zamboni’s back like the fate of the world depends on getting her clean. “I’m sorry!”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, grabbing her coffee mug from the sidewalk. The handle’s nicked, but otherwise it’s fine. “Now she’ll need a bath. And probably therapy.”
“Don’t we all?” The woman flashes a grin that is way too confident for someone who just spilled coffee on a stranger’s dog. “I got some off her, though, so double yay.”
“Thanks.” I hand her the mug and assess my dog. Surprise—my girl is still covered in her drink. I’ll have to take care of her myself. That’s usually the only way to get things done anyway.
“But nice reflexes,” the redhead adds in an upbeat tone. “Is that a smoothie in there?”
Is she going to ask me to make her one? “Kale smoothie,” I mutter.
“Good thing that didn’t spill then. Shame about my coffee, but I suppose there was nothing to be done.”
“Except use a cup with a lid?” I ask, bewildered. How can one person be both sexy and disastrous at the same time?
She shrugs, unbothered. “Why would I dirty another dish?”
“That logic doesn’t even make sense.”
“It’s more environmental this way. If I poured it into a to-go cup, that would mean more water, and so on,” she argues, adjusting the Dachshund mix in her arms.
Wait. I mean…the humping hound. Because the dog is still going, thrusting his little doggy hips as he dangles from her hands.
I stare at him. Then at her. Then back at him. “He’s still humping?” Because…holy shit. Her mutt is out of control.
She snaps her gaze to the pup, chiding him with, “Simon, you’re in air jail.” She shifts her focus back to me, lifting her chin. “It’s just excess energy. It’s something some dogs do when they’re excited…or overstimulated.”
I arch a brow at the last word. “Overstimulated?”
“It doesn’t mean that. It’s just a thing some dogs do.”
“They hump the air?” Where does she come up with this stuff?
She jerks back, as if she’s offended. “Are you actually critiquing his style?”
“His style of dogging it while he’s in air jail?”
She clutches the pup closer as he gives a final thrust, like a wind-up toy winding down. “He’s just…high energy,” she says defensively.
“He’s just…inappropriate,” I toss back.
She rolls her eyes. “Simon, let’s go.”
In a huff, she spins around, heading down my block.
Don’t want to be anywhere near her unchecked energy, so I turn the other way. My jaw tightens as I walk. So much for my neat and orderly day.