Chapter 4 Clark
CLARK
After I gather my stuff, I head out to the hall, but Badaszek isn’t there. I pop my head in his office, but Cara, his daughter, assistant, and Pierre’s wife, says, “He’s in the main concourse.”
Does that mean he randomly wanted to holler my name into the locker room? To make me nervous? Test me? Harass me? All are equally possible.
Nevertheless, I trot out to the main concourse in the Ice Palace—Cobbiton’s state-of-the-art hockey facility—and I spot him standing near a booth set up prominently by the entrance to the building. Colorful banners promote the Love at First Wag-Spring Adoption Drive.
At least a dozen dogs populate various enclosed play areas, each with volunteers in matching t-shirts ready to talk adoption—something I’m familiar with and that is near and dear to my heart.
“Coach?”
“Culpepper.” He gestures to the booth. “Charity event. Good cause. You like dogs.”
“I, uh, yes?” I say, still not quite sure why he summoned me here.
“Then go look. Support the community. It’s good for PR.” He speaks in a tone that makes it clear it’s not a suggestion.
That reminds me, I have a meeting with Whitaker—yes, the Whitaker—later today.
He’s in town this week, mostly to see our next game, but also probably to try to improve my image.
Not that it’s bad. No, it’s wholesome. I’m the hockey player with the dogs.
The one who films our morning runs, afternoon playtime on the grass, often also featuring April, and the dishes I cook based on the recommendations of my fans and followers.
Whereas I’m pretty tame, Whitaker is trying to make me into a wild bad boy.
He says it Gets the clicks! He sends me to clubs, parties, and on dates because he wants me to loosen up.
That’s not going to help me tighten up my game and could unravel my friendship with April.
I’d rather spend my Saturday nights with her, but he says it’s what’s best for my brand.
Badaszek doesn’t seem like he approves. He speaks boldly and loudly about how a man belongs with his wife on the weekend.
What about his best friend? In addition to seeing everything and keeping his players on the edge of their skates, allegedly, Coach fancies himself a matchmaker.
Yes, that’s right. The top coach in the league makes love connections.
Finds his players “the one.” So far, he has a one-hundred percent success rate.
Allegedly. These aren’t official stats or anything.
It’s all subject to speculation. But still.
It’s probably a bunch of nonsense, a mythology built up to soften the most intense NHL coach—to make him more human and less like a hockey Hall of Famer making machine.
I approach the booth, nodding at the volunteers.
They light up when they see me—my dogs get more social media time than I do.
A young woman with a ponytail immediately launches into her Love at First Wag pitch about the adoption drive and how they’re trying to place as many dogs as possible before the end of the month.
“We’ve got all kinds,” another volunteer says cheerfully. “Big dogs, small dogs, puppies, seniors—”
And that’s when I see her.
In the back corner of the last kennel, a tiny Shih Tzu is curled into the smallest ball possible. She’s trembling, her dark eyes huge and terrified.
“That’s Purdy,” the volunteer says, following my gaze. “She’s been with us for three months. Although she’s adorable, she gets passed over every time because she’s so scared. We’ve had ten adoption events and she’s been to all of them.”
“Can I meet her?”
“Of course!” She opens the kennel carefully and tries to coax the little dog closer, but the frightened little floof doesn’t move.
I kneel down and Purdy watches me with wide eyes.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I say softly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I don’t reach for her. Instead, I sit there, letting her get used to my presence. After what feels like forever, she takes one tiny, trembling step forward. Then another.
That’s it. I’m completely done for. The dog won my heart. Plus, we probably need another lady in the house.
“I’ll take her.”
The volunteer blinks. “Really? She’s pretty traumatized. She’ll need a lot of patience and—”
“I know someone who can help with that.” I smile like a giddy child.
I provide for the animals—they’re super spoiled and April makes sure it doesn’t go to their heads. We have a pretty good thing going. Plus, she once told me she’d have an entire ranch with rescues if she could—and the Barkery is just the beginning.
The paperwork takes twenty minutes. They give me her medical records, behavioral notes, a bag of food, and the blanket she was on since it’ll be a familiar smell.
“Are you sure about this?” the volunteer asks as I sign the final form.
“Positive.” I smile, excited and certain that this dog and April are going to fall in love—and I’m going to get to watch it happen. If that makes me a pathetic puppy dog, so be it.
I carry Purdy out to my Jeep, holding her close to my chest. She’s still shaking, but she’s not trying to escape, which feels like a good sign.
“You’re going to love April,” I tell her as I nestle her into my lap. She tucks under my hoodie. “Everyone loves April. She’s the best person I know.”
Purdy just trembles.
Thankfully, my loft isn’t far. After a potty break, I carry Purdy inside. April and the dogs are still out. The new addition is terrified, so I take her straight to my bedroom—the quietest room in the place—and set her gently on the bed.
“It’s okay,” I murmur, sitting on the floor so we’re eye level. “You’re safe now. This is home.”
She inches toward the pillows, still shaking but watching me with what might be the tiniest bit of trust.
I check my watch. April should be back any minute from walking the boys. I can’t wait to see her face when she meets Purdy.
Actually, scratch that. I can’t wait to see April, period. That’s my favorite part of every day—when she shows up at my door with her dimpled smile and warm brown eyes. Then she starts bossing me around about vitamins and all the things I’d definitely forget without her.
I realize I left Purdy’s paperwork in the Jeep—all the medical stuff April will definitely want to review because she’s thorough like that.
“I’ll be right back,” I tell Purdy, who’s now curled half under my pillows. “Don’t go anywhere.”
I jog back down to the parking lot, grab the folder from my passenger seat, and head back upstairs.
I’m almost to my door when I hear dogs barking, April’s laugh, and what sounds like a carnival in the hallway.
I round the corner and there she is, tangled in three leashes, hair slightly mussed, wearing my hoodie, and looking absolutely—wait. She’s wearing my hoodie.
My brain short-circuits because I really like the way it looks on her—oversized yet cozy and totally adorable.
She spins around, and the smile she gives me makes my heart sploot.
I remind myself that I live in the Friend Tundra.
And I have absolutely no idea how to get out.