12. Dog Years
12
DOG YEARS
Miles
Don’t look at her.
Do not look at her.
Do not fucking look at her.
That’s what I tell myself all morning as I pull weeds and plant pea shoots for The Garden Society at an abandoned lot turned community garden on the edge of the Mission District.
I’m here with a bunch of guys from the team and a few from the Renegades football team too. Everly set this up, and I know it’s part of her efforts to give our goalie, Max, a makeover. He’s grumpy as hell and needs an image boost, so she’s been tasked with that, and it looks like she hired Leighton to snap promo pics for this community outreach event.
I really should just focus on these clowns I play hockey with and not on the beautiful brunette. “Hey, Callahan, you thinking of planting some lucky coins here?” I tease, giving Asher a hard time. The winger is the walking definition of superstition.
“Maybe you should. Might help your prospects,” Max tosses back.
Ouch. He can’t know it hits below the belt. “Nothing wrong with luck,” I say. The older I get, the more I learn to happily take the days when fortune is on my side.
As Wesley digs a small hole for a plant, he tosses a wry look my way. “True, true. And since you’re older, Falcon, we should listen when you speak from the fountain of old-dude wisdom.”
I thump him on the side of the head. “Did that hurt?”
“That hurt, ” he whines.
“Good, it was supposed to.”
“Old dudes know how to hit,” Max deadpans.
I narrow my eyes at our goalie. “I’m only a few years older than you, asshole.”
Max shrugs. “But you know how it is for hockey players. Years are like dog years. So you’re…” He pauses, thinking.
“Twenty-one years older than you,” Asher supplies to Max, who’s thirty.
I point at Asher, who’s supposed to be the nice guy. “And you’re thirty-two, asshole. You’re closer in age to me.”
“Still seven years younger in dog years,” he says.
“That’s it. We’ll have a bench-press contest tomorrow,” I say, egging them on.
“So you can get enough sleep first, right?” Wesley asks, smirking.
I have no choice. I punch his arm, but then I hear the click of a camera. It’s Leighton, and she’s smiling serenely.
“Are you publishing that?” I ask, but my voice doesn’t sound like it’s coming from me. It sounds like I’m trying too hard to talk normally. Or maybe more like I’m trying too hard to keep it even, to talk to her like anyone else would. But how the fuck would my teammates talk to her? How the hell do they talk to the coach’s daughter? I’ve got to get out of my head around her. Especially since she’s here in a work capacity, and if she’s here now, she might be around again.
She tilts her head, an amused look turning her lips. “Don’t worry, I don’t publish everything I shoot. But it’s cute to get pictures of you guys clowning around. How would you feel about this?” She bends to show us a picture of us goofing off. “I’ll need Everly’s approval, of course, but I think it’s fun.”
She’s not looking at me as she says this, and I stay quiet too, because I don’t want to let on what I’m thinking about. My mind has wandered to the pictures she took of us. The ones she was supposed to send me. I can’t think of anything but the one time I stood right next to her, looking at pictures on the back of her camera.
Those images are lodged in my head the rest of the morning as we plant peas and other veggies. They won’t leave, and the more I think about them, the more I have to know. What did she do with those pictures?
Later, when the event wraps up, she’s packing up her gear. I walk past, then stop, unable to resist. “Do you need a ride?” I ask, my voice low but my eyes locked on hers so she can read my face if she needs to.
She looks around. Everly’s deep in conversation with a reporter, and Max is with her. “I can take the bus or ask Everly to drive me home,” she says, glancing back at them.
“But I’m offering.” I try to keep my tone casual. “It’s no big deal to give you a ride.”
She nods. “You’re right. ”
A minute later, she’s sliding into my car, and we’re leaving the parking lot like we’re escaping. Something in me relaxes as soon as we’re out of there, on the streets of San Francisco with my team far behind, and I can’t hold back. “What happened to the pictures?”
She glances at me, as if she’s feigning confusion. “Which ones?”
“You know which ones,” I say, feeling an uncharacteristic edge in my tone. There’s a part of me that thinks she might have deleted them, erased that day like it didn’t happen. The possibility’s been gnawing at me all morning. Even though we can’t be together, it’s like I need to know that we might have tried. That even in spite of both our relationship baggage—because I know I have plenty of checked luggage, and based on what she said the day we were together, I’ve got a hunch she has a carry-on too—we’d still have tried. The thought that I could be wrong about that is a bruise I can’t stop touching.
“Don’t make me spell it out.”
“You’re going to have to be more specific,” she says, arching a brow. “I take a lot of photos.”
At the red light, I turn to her, my irritation slipping through in my tone. “The ones from that day.”
She looks at me, her gaze calm, steady. “And I’m asking you— which ones ?”
Like she’s forcing me to admit I can’t stop thinking about all of them. Well, easy enough. “Every shot. What happened to them?”
A small, devilish smile plays on her lips, and it’s clear she has the upper hand and knows it, maybe even likes it. “I kept them.”
She has them, and I don’t. That’s not fair. She gets to revisit that day whenever she wants, and I’m left with nothing. I’m irrationally annoyed. “Why didn’t you send them to me?”
“You said we weren’t going to talk.”
Technically, we said date , but pointing that out would be a dick move. Especially since I never responded to her thank you text. And yet, I’m kind of a dick, when I add, “You said that too.”
“Yes, we both said that,” she corrects me softly.
And she honored that, and I have mad respect for her self-control. But still, I’m so tightly wound right now. Since the second I saw her peering at the back of her camera, it’s all I’ve been able to think about—the pictures. Except, no. It’s not even the pictures that are driving me wild. It’s what she might have done with them. That’s what I need to know. If she’s as affected by that day as I am.
The light flips to green, and I press down on the gas a little harder than before. “Do you look at them?” I ask, barely above a whisper but loud enough, I hope, for her to hear.
“What do you think?” Her voice is light but tinged with something more.
“Why aren’t you answering me?”
“Why are you dying to know?”
The answer bursts out of me. “Because I’d look at them if I had them. I wouldn’t stop looking at them,” I say, not bothering to play it cool.
Her gaze softens, but there’s something bittersweet in her tone as she says, “That’s why I held on to them. To look at them.”
The light ahead changes to red, and I slow down, the weight of her words sinking in. “I want them.”
She raises a brow. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure. Why? Are they bad photos? ”
Her lips twitch into a smile. “No, they’re good.”
“So I’ll like them,” I say, feeling…relief, but a wild excitement too.
“Maybe too much,” she adds.
I’ll consider myself warned.
That night, I’m dog-sitting for my mom and Harvey, so I’m walking their four rescue Chihuahuas—Bippity, Boppity, Boo, and Cindy—along Marina Green when my phone pings. It’s a message from Leighton. I know I should focus on these tiny terrors, let them get their walk, but every fiber in me wants to check. With each ounce of self-control, I ignore it while they finish up.
The second I get home, I unclip their leashes, send them off to their heated dog beds—because of course they have heated dog beds—and finally open the message.
I was not prepared.
Holy shit, I was not prepared for this. And I need to enjoy the fuck out of it. I head over to a dark oak cabinet next to the TV I rarely watch, grab a bottle of scotch from my collection of the finest vintages, and pour two fingers. With the amber liquid in the tumbler, I return to the couch and take a long pull that I savor, feeling the good burn. Then, I open the pictures again, ready to savor them. As I look, my breath catches, a fire starting, then blazing in my chest as I scroll through the shots, each one more intense than the last.
One by one, I study every frame: the way I looked at her, the way I wanted her, the way I moved behind her, my hands brushing her arms. Then, there it is—the moment I kissed her, my hand on her throat, the trust in her gaze, and her whispered desires captured in every pixel.
I can’t take it much longer. I’m rock hard and far too aroused while my mom’s dogs watch me staring greedily at the photos. Setting down the glass on the coffee table, I replay my memories of the day, then…fuck it.
It won’t be the first time I’ve done this to thoughts of Leighton. Probably won’t be the last. I unzip my jeans, take out my aching shaft, and tug.
It’s a relief, but only for a few seconds. I breathe out hard, giving in to the lust that grips me, the want I feel for her…my coach’s daughter.
For a few seconds, I freeze over those words— coach’s daughter .
Don’t go there again. Get it together. Stop fucking thinking of her.
But the dick is sometimes stronger than the will.
I ignore that voice because it doesn’t matter what I do when I’m home alone. It’s what I do when I’m with her that counts. I haven’t crossed the line again. And baggage or no baggage, we’re not going to be a thing. But her admission that she looks at the pictures too? It’s what I wanted. It’s what I needed. It’s also all I can have of her.
So what’s the harm in giving in tonight? Faster, my fist shuttling harder, I jerk to the pictures of Leighton melting in my arms. To her asking for what she needed. To me giving it to her.
To us knowing what was happening between us that one perfect day.
But really, I just need to finally, fucking finally , get that day out of my system.
That’s easy enough for the next couple months since I don’t see her. I don’t run into her at any more promo events. I don’t bump into her at High Kick, though I definitely try. But I’m never there when she’s taking her pictures for the week. I don’t spot her at any games. She doesn’t text me again.
I don’t text her.
Impressive, I know.
I keep busy with hockey of course, and geocaching with a local club of fellow cachers, and taking some classes at a local university when I have free time. I’ve always liked school, and I try to take a new class every few years, usually in psychology or something related. My teammates don’t call me The Professor for nothing. In January, I enter the Annual Win a Date With a Player auction, along with Asher, who’s determined to go for the highest bid to keep his streak alive. I’ve done this event since I joined the team. The proceeds go to local nonprofits—animal rescues, food drives, and our team’s support for libraries.
As I’m striding across the stage at a fancy hotel in the city, the color commentator for our broadcast partner touts my stats, then talks up my love of hiking, playing pool, and my affection for my hometown of Seattle. But when I spot Leighton, off to the side in the front row, snapping pictures, I falter, pausing for a step.
I do my best to tear my gaze away, and when the emcee mentions I like urban treasure hunts, my chest tightens. I know I won’t be taking the winner geocaching on a date.
When a woman bids sixty-five thousand dollars on me and wins, I figure that’s good money for a good cause. But something about it feels wrong, especially when Leighton turns her gaze away instantly.
At the end of the auction, after I’ve given Everly my info for the winner, she says, “We need a pic with you and the winner.”
Natasha, the woman who won, tells me how much she loves the Sea Dogs, how excited she is, how she’s followed my career from the start, and how glad she is that this team picked me up. She’s nice—really, she is. And she’s not the coach’s daughter.
But I still feel like a piece of crap when Leighton takes our photo backstage. She’s all business, entirely unreadable as she takes the pictures for socials.
“Thank you, Miles. Thank you, Natasha,” Leighton says, then spins on her heel and heads off. But she’s wearing those earrings—and that bracelet.
I can’t read her, but it feels vitally important that she knows my mind. I’m not even sure why, but maybe it’s this pressure in my chest. Maybe I can let go of it if I just… say something.
I loosen my tie but don’t head for the parking garage. I march down the hallway, searching for her, and catch her as she’s leaving the hotel. In the quiet hallway, I say her name but she must not hear me so I reach out and grab her arm. She startles.
“Sorry,” I say, looking around. Coast is clear. “I wasn’t loud enough.” I feel bad now.
“It’s okay,” she says, then shrugs like she’s saying it happens .
But I don’t want it to happen with me. I’ll have to do better with communication with her—make sure I’m speaking at a reasonable volume for her. But I also want to communicate well in this way. “I don’t want to go on a date with her,” I say because it feels important that Leighton knows where I stand.
She gives a resigned smile. “You should, though, Miles.”
My jaw clenches. I want her to be as annoyed as I am. I want to know she can’t stop thinking about me either. I want to know our one date fucked her up too. And I also want her to be happy. I drag a hand through my hair. “I’m not going to,” I repeat.
“She won a date. You should.” She sounds like she legit means it.
“I won’t like it,” I say.
“Maybe you should try.”
“What about you? Are you trying?” The words spill out before I can stop them.
“Are you asking if I’m seeing someone?”
The thought that she might be makes me want to throttle…well, the world. “Are you?” It’s like eating nails.
Gently, she shakes her head. “I’m not.”
“Me neither.” I don’t even know why this matters—we can’t be together. But maybe I can get the closure I need if I admit it to her. “I’m still hung up on someone else.”
I feel lighter. And then entirely thrilled when she says, “Same here.”
A couple weeks later, in February, I go on the date with Natasha, and we talk about hockey the whole time. It’s completely platonic—so platonic that I break my no-texting rule.
Miles: It wasn’t like going out with you.
Leighton: Good .
I try, I swear I try, to forget her. It would be easier if I didn’t see her at a game next month, hanging out with Asher’s temporary wife, Maeve. She’s become friends with Maeve, as well as Everly, who’s now with Max officially. So Leighton’s around more. I see her more.
During warm-ups, I catch myself staring at her, wondering what it’d be like if she were here to see me play. Asher catches me and gives me a look that says “Are you going to keep doing that?”
It’s a valid question and the answer really should be no.
And it mostly is no, until the end of the summer when I get a text from Asher inviting me to his wedding party. He and Maeve accidentally got married after the player auction and stayed married, falling in love for real over the last several months.
Now Maeve’s aunt is hosting an official party for friends and family.
Including Leighton. And the whole team. Which means Coach will be there.
I almost don’t go. But after one year in human years and seven in hockey-player-dog years, this will be my proof that I can handle it. I’ll go to this party and finally put her behind me for good.