28. Bethany
Chapter twenty-eight
Bethany
By day three, the puppy has eaten one shoelace, peed on basically everything, and convinced five grown hockey players that he cannot possibly sleep unless someone is touching him.
This is not technically true.
I know because I have watched him sleep alone for twelve full minutes.
Then Jonah walked in from practice, saw him curled in the expensive dog bed, and said, “That looks lonely.”
Now the puppy is asleep on Jonah’s chest while Jonah lies flat on the rec room couch, afraid to breathe too deeply.
“This is ridiculous,” I say from the doorway.
Jonah looks down at the puppy tucked beneath his chin.
“He had a hard day.”
The puppy sighs in his sleep.
Jonah’s expression softens.
The puppy has been temporarily approved at Hockey House until the end of the week.
Grant emphasized temporarily twice.
Shane wrote the deadline on the whiteboard in the kitchen, then drew three lines beneath it as though the puppy might read and respect administrative authority.
The puppy responded by chewing the corner of the whiteboard eraser.
Jonah calls him Moose.
Wesley calls him Chewie, which is either a reference to the dog’s personality or the slipper incident.
Maxon tried Buddy.
Shane insists on Dog.
Timothy still rotates through Sir Waggington, Lord Snuggleworth, and Duke Wigglebottom, depending on the severity of the offense being committed.
“When is Timothy back?”
Jonah’s eyebrows climb higher. "Can't wait to see him again?"
I point at the clipboard in my hand. “Schedule coordination.”
“Sure.”
“I am responsible for the dog while he is gone.”
The puppy wakes at the sound of my voice.
His head rises.
He blinks at me once, then begins climbing down Jonah’s chest.
Jonah catches him before he hits the floor.
“Easy.”
The puppy squirms free and trots toward me.
His paws are too large for the rest of him, making every step look ridiculously cute.
Jonah says, "Practice is over. They'll be back soon."
The puppy stops at my boots and looks up.
I look down.
“I am not picking you up.”
He sits.
One ear stands. The other folds.
“This is manipulation.”
Jonah smiles.
I tuck the clipboard under my arm and lift the puppy.
He settles against me instantly, warm and heavier than he was three days ago.
His nose presses into the hollow beneath my jaw.
I adjust my grip.
“You need a home,” I tell him.
His tail thumps against my forearm.
“A real one.”
The words come out softer than I intend.
Behind me, Jonah shifts on the couch.
“You know,” he says, “this is a home.”
“Grant made an exception.”
“Exceptions can be extended.”
“Not indefinitely.”
The puppy starts chewing the drawstring on my hoodie.
I pull it out of his mouth.
He goes after it again.
“He needs training,” I say.
“He’s a baby.”
“He needs vaccinations, food, supervision, housebreaking, exercise, and approximately four times the amount of attention that we can give him.”
I carry the puppy toward the kitchen.
The counters are covered in evidence of him.
A bag of puppy food.
A water bowl with a towel beneath it because he believes drinking is a full-contact sport.
Two chew toys and the one stuffed moose.
The expensive bed sits beside the pantry door.
The puppy has slept in it twice. Both times Timothy was sitting on the floor beside it.
I set the puppy down near the water bowl.
He drinks, splashing half the bowl across the towel. Then he steps directly in the bowl.
I grab another towel from the laundry room and wipe his paws.
He immediately tries to bite the towel.
“Stop helping.”
The puppy attacks the corner with renewed enthusiasm.
I work it free, fold the wet towel, and add it to the growing laundry pile.
That pile is my fault.
Not just the towel specifically.
The puppy.
Now everyone’s schedule revolves around feeding times, potty breaks, and whether the puppy has slept enough.
The guys have practice.
And games.
I have clients.
And still, every few hours, someone has to stop everything because the puppy needs something.
The responsibility presses against the back of my mind like a constant headache.
I rub at my forehead.
The puppy trots after me as I carry the towel toward the laundry room.
“Stay.”
He ignores me. But he's so cute, I can hardly be mad at him.
He catches the heel of my boot with one paw.
I look down at him.
He looks delighted.
“You have no respect for authority.”
"I must be wearing off on him,” Timothy’s voice comes from the boot room.
The puppy abandons me so quickly his paws skid across the floor.
He races toward the doorway.
Timothy barely has time to crouch before the puppy launches himself at his chest.
“There he is.”
The softness in Timothy’s voice does something unfair to me.
He scoops the puppy up and lets it lick his chin.
“You miss me?”
The puppy’s entire body wiggles.
Timothy's hair is still damp from the shower at the arena. His team jacket hangs open, and there is a faint red mark near his jaw that was not there this morning.
I notice it instantly.
“Did you get hit?”
His hand rises to the mark. “Practice.”
I step closer before I think better of it.
The puppy squirms between us while I tilt Timothy’s chin toward the light.
The mark is small. Barely more than a scrape.
Still, my stomach tightens.
“You should clean that.”
“I showered. I even used soap."
“You are setting the bar low.”
One corner of his mouth lifts.
For a second, I forget the puppy.
I forget the wet towels and the deadline on the whiteboard and the list of potential adopters open on my laptop.
Timothy stands close enough that I can feel the cold still clinging to his jacket.
The space between us changes.
Warm. Familiar. Comforting.
Possible.
Then the puppy begins gnawing on Timothy’s hoodie drawstring.
He laughs and pulls it away.
The moment breaks without disappearing completely.
“Did he nap?”
“On Jonah.”
Timothy looks toward the rec room.
“Voluntarily?”
“For both of them, apparently.”
He sets the puppy down.
The dog immediately curls around Timothy’s ankle.
Timothy bends to scratch behind his ears.
I watch him.
He notices everything the puppy needs. He does not seem burdened by any of it.
That should make me feel better about this situation.
Instead, I think about the scrape near his jaw. The exhaustion beneath his eyes. The early practice, the games, the team obligations.
He should not have to come home and manage a puppy too.
I am not another responsibility. I have my own house. My own business.
My own problems, all alphabetized and handled without assistance.
He should not have to manage me.
Timothy looks up. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
His eyebrows shift.
“I’m making a list,” I say. "Of potential homes for him."
His hand stills on the puppy’s back.
“Oh.”
It is one syllable.
It still manages to make me feel as though I have kicked something.
“We need to start looking,” I say.
“I know.”
“We only have a few more days on Grant’s deadline.”
“I know.”
Timothy stands.
The puppy remains pressed against his shoe.
“I’ve been checking references. Fenced yards. Vet history. Whether they’ve owned dogs before.”
“I’m sure you have.”
Something in his tone rubs wrong.
I fold my arms.
“What does that mean? I am trying to make sure he ends up somewhere safe.”
“I know.”
“Then what?”
Timothy looks down at the puppy.
His face softens immediately.
“We still have time.”
“Two days.”
“That’s time.”
“It’s not much.”
“We don’t have to solve everything tonight.”
The puppy does not have to leave this second.
We can keep looking.
We can enjoy him while he is here.
But another part of me hears something else.
A delay.
A refusal to look at the part where wanting him does not change what the lodge allows.
I glance toward the whiteboard.
The deadline is written in Shane’s block letters.
FRIDAY.
Underlined three times.
“The rule isn’t going to disappear because everyone got attached,” I say.
“I know.”
Timothy’s mouth twitches.
I nearly smile.
Then the puppy places one paw on his boot and looks up at him.
The humor drains away.
Timothy crouches again.
“He trusts us.”
The words are quiet.
I look at the dog.
“He finally stopped shaking.”
My chest tightens.
“You keep saying we have time.”
“Because we do.”
“To do what?”
Timothy looks at me.
For one reckless moment, I want him to say it.
Find a place.
Make room.
Keep him.
I picture a small house that belongs to neither of us yet.
A fenced yard.
Timothy throwing the stuffed moose across a living room while the puppy slides across the floor.
This is how people ruin good things. They don't make plans for the inevitable future.
I reach for the clipboard on the counter.
“We need to find him the right home,” I say.
Timothy is quiet for a second.
“Right.”
Now Timothy is attached.
The team is attached.
Everyone’s routine is disrupted.
And I am standing here telling him that feelings do not change facts.
I turn back to the list of names on my screen.
People with fenced yards, and someone home during the day.
Enough room.
Everything the puppy needs.
Behind me, Timothy murmurs something soft, and the puppy’s tail taps against his jacket.
I keep typing.
Finding the right home is the helpful thing.
The responsible thing.
The loving thing.