50. Cock-A-Doodle-Doo
COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO
Asher
Maeve isn’t just secretly pleased five days later when a local rescue tells us no one has claimed the pup. We’ve scoured Petfinder, lost and found boards, and nearby shelters, even after the vet confirmed the little cutie has no microchip.
Maeve’s outwardly thrilled. She calls while I’m in Vancouver, right as I’m leaving the hotel to head to the arena for tonight’s game.
After giving me the “cutie update,” as she calls the dog, she launches into how well-behaved the stray has been at the arena.
She’d planned to bring her to a nearby dog daycare but decided to take her to work instead.
Eleanor insisted on it when she learned Maeve had found a dog.
No surprise there—this is the same woman who dresses her own dog up for portraits.
“She stays in a dog bed or sometimes a crate, and she’s practically perfect in every way. She was even pretty good when I took her in the Lyft to work. Sooo…can we keep her?”
Can we?
The two-word question tugs on my heart. Like it’s a we thing. Like it’s up to us.
“Maeve, I’m not in charge of this,” I say.
“Oh please, you love being in charge,” she teases.
“In bed,” I point out.
She scoffs. “Asher, you love control in general.”
I bristle a little—maybe because it’s true. “Fine, but that has nothing to do with keeping a dog.”
But deep down, I’m secretly thrilled she’s asking me if we can. Every time she says we, this romance feels more real, more permanent. A life with her. Like we’re inching closer to the moment when I’ll finally tell her I love her. But I hold back. I won’t scare her away.
Adopting a dog feels like a commitment, even though I know it’s Maeve’s dog—she’s the one taking care of her while I’m on the road, arranging vet visits, and walking her.
Still, that we is pulling me closer to what I’ve wanted for a while now.
To find that perfect moment to tell her she’s the love of my life.
I’ve been trying to show her for the last several weeks. Maybe she’s finally ready to hear it.
“I can’t say no to you,” I admit.
She cheers. “You can stay, girl,” she says to the dog, who makes an unusual sound in response—one that sounds strangely like a rooster’s crow.
“What was that?” I ask.
“Oh, she has a weird bark.” There’s a pause, then an excited gasp.
“That’s it! Her name is Rooster.” I laugh as Maeve continues, “She cocked her head—yup, it’s her new name.
Actually, hold on. I’m getting a message from the goddess of dog names…
wait for it…Her name is Ruby Rooster! Since she was red–thanks to our paint–when we found her, and she barks like a rooster. ”
The Vancouver arena comes into view as I say, “Or maybe it’s because you really like…roosters.”
She snort-laughs. “I really like your rooster.”
I grin, then ask about the mural. She updates me, telling me more about the love lessons mirrors, the night market, and she suddenly brightens.
“Oh! And this coffee shop called. It’s called High Kick Coffee—they have an art gallery run by a former Vegas showgirl.
She saw the piece in California Style earlier this week, and she loves to support women artists and wants some of my paintings on the walls. They sell a lot of art there.”
I think about that for a beat. “You know, now that you mention it, you do see a lot of art in coffee shops these days.”
“Exactly! I think they’ve become the new galleries, making art more accessible,” she says. I can picture her sinking into the couch, feet tucked under her, wearing one of her signature T-shirts, hair in a messy bun, and the image nearly makes me blurt out, I love you.
“Funny thing is,” Maeve continues, “once upon a time, I really wanted my art in galleries like the Frieda Claiborne or Julien Aldridge galleries—you know, the really fancy ones I used to cater for.”
I like where this is going. “And now that’s changing?”
“I think so. The idea of my mirrors being in stores, my paintings at coffee shops—it just feels right. I finished that tree mural at the vegan café, and I’m working on the moon and stars at the yoga studio.
Maybe this is what it was supposed to be all along.
Maybe it was never about fancy galleries.
Maybe it was about getting my art in front of people every day, where they can enjoy it.
It doesn’t have to sell for five thousand dollars to make me happy.
If regular people get to see it, that makes my dream come true. ”
“And you’re making art for, well, everyone. Not just rich people.”
Her voice catches. “Yeah, I am. And I think that’s really what matters to me.”
I smile to myself. She’s finally finding her footing, figuring things out. Selfishly, I wonder if this newfound certainty about her career might help my cause. Maybe if she’s sorting out these parts of her life, she’ll be more open to the biggest question of all: Do you think you could love me too?
I’m nearly at the arena when she adds one more thing. “Oh, my aunt wants to take us out again when you’re back in town. She said she has exciting news for us. I have no idea what that means, but is that okay?”
“Of course,” I say, though a small knot of suspicion forms in my gut. With Vivian, “exciting news” could mean anything—from a surprise dinner to something far more complicated—like she’s giving Maeve her catering business and needs her to take it over right now.
But it’s a good thing I’ll be there—I can protect Maeve from whatever curveball Vivian throws.
I’m walking up to the arena now, and the noise of the city fades into the background as the game looms closer.
I should be focusing on the matchup, running through plays in my mind, but the conversation with Maeve lingers.
Balancing hockey and this thing with Maeve—it’s getting more complicated.
And soon, really soon, I’m going to have to tell her I’m madly in love with her.
It’s on the tip of my tongue. I’m just waiting for the right moment. I’ve been romancing her slowly so I wouldn’t scare her away. So I wouldn’t lose her.
And maybe, just maybe, she’s finally ready to hear that I love her.
But for tonight, I have a game to win. I shake off the thoughts of the woman of my dreams as I near the doors.
* * *
It’s early in the afternoon the next day, and I’m in the deadlifts zone at Beckett’s gym, when he hops off the elliptical and strides over, motioning for me to take out my AirPods. I set down the weights and turn off the music. “What’s up?”
We already lifted together earlier. I’m just doing extra sets now.
“When are you going to, you know, tell my sister you’re madly in love with her?”
I blink, stepping back. He’s more direct than I’d expected.
I’m not entirely sure what to say to him about Maeve.
I guess I figured I’d be risking our friendship if I ever did anything about the way I felt, but I also never truly thought he’d have an issue with it.
That’s just not his style. He trusts me.
“How long have you known?” I finally say.
“Dude, you’ve had it bad for her for years.”
Okay. So before I did. Great.
“Now’s your chance. Figure it out. Treat her well. And don’t forget about me. Got it?”
I swallow. Nod. “I won’t. And thanks,” I say, wondering if it’s as obvious to the world as it is to him.
Or, more importantly, to her.
* * *
About a week later, we’re getting ready for Vivian’s dinner, and Maeve’s twisting her hair into a clip while Ruby Rooster sits at her feet, thumping her tail as she watches Maeve get dressed.
I understand this dog so much.
Maeve checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I notice it again—the twist of her wrists.
My brow furrows. “You okay?”
“Totally,” she says with a bright smile, but I can’t take my eyes off her wrist as she grabs the ibuprofen. She tosses back three pills this time. I count.
“You’re not okay,” I say, sharper than I’d intended.
“I am,” she insists, her smile dimming a little. “They’re just a little sore. Like I said, it’s normal. That’s why I do the stretches.”
I draw a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “How is that normal?”
“I work with my hands, Asher,” she says, then looks me up and down. “Don’t you ever get sore?”
All the time. But I’m an athlete. It’s literally part of the job, and I fucking deal with it. I handle it. “Yes, but it’s not the same.”
“How is it not the same?” she counters, already leaving the bathroom and sweeping through the bedroom where she grabs her bag.
Ruby Rooster trots after her, and Maeve coos at the dog, scratching her chin.
She stops and gives me a thoughtful look, then sets a hand on my chest. “Asher, it is. You work with your body. So do I. It happens.”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words stick in my throat. I can handle it when it happens to me, but what if it gets worse for you? What if you can’t heal quickly? Your hands are your livelihood.
“We could look into it,” I suggest, a knot in my chest tightening.
She tugs me closer. “Let’s just go to dinner. Seeing my aunt is stressful enough.”
I inhale, trying to just focus on the night ahead. When the dog rubs her head against me, the tightness loosens for a minute, and I lean down to give Ruby Rooster a kiss on the head, catching a whiff of something floral. “Why does the dog smell so…fancy?”
Maeve grins, then says offhand, “Oh, that’s paw-fume.”
I blink. “Paw-fume? Did you just say paw-fume? What the hell is that?”
She nods seriously. “Yes, I got it at the pet supply store. It’s cruelty-free, and it makes her smell so pretty.” She bends to the pup, cupping her snout. “Such a pretty girl. And you love your paw-fume, don’t you?” Maeve asks, stroking the dog’s face.
I can’t help it—I start laughing. Only Maeve would get something like paw-fume.
It’s so her—a little quirky, a little over-the-top, but absolutely charming.
And in that moment, I know. Tonight. I’ll tell her tonight that I am absolutely, wildly in love with her.
How could I not when everything she does melts my heart?