29. Timothy
Chapter twenty-nine
Timothy
Isit across from Grant at his desk with my hands clasped between my knees, trying to look like a professional athlete discussing a reasonable housing request.
Not a man attempting to negotiate custody of a nine-pound dog who has eaten two shoelaces and half a roll of athletic tape.
Grant studies me over the top of a folder while Major lies beside his desk, chin resting on his paws.
“You want an exception to the no-pets rule,” Grant says. “The answer is no.”
Major’s ears twitch at the word pets, but he does not lift his head.
Grant closes the folder he was examining.
Behind him, the windows overlook the practice rink. The ice is empty this early, bright beneath the overhead lights.
I glance toward it as though a better argument might be waiting near center ice.
Grant waits.
“One week isn’t much time,” I say.
“It was never meant to be much time.”
“I know.”
“The lodge agreement prohibits pets.”
“I know.”
“The court is already watching how we use the property.”
“I know.”
Grant lifts one eyebrow.
I sit back.
Knowing the facts does not make me like them better.
The puppy has been at Hockey House for four days.
In those four days, he has learned where the food is, which porch step catches the most afternoon sun, and exactly how long he needs to whine before Jonah caves and gives him extra treats.
He follows me from room to room.
He waits outside the bathroom.
Last night, I woke with one paw resting across my throat and his nose wedged under my chin.
I have not slept that well in months.
“He isn’t causing problems,” I say.
Grant looks down at the report on his desk.
“He urinated on Shane’s hockey bag.”
“Shane left it on the floor.”
Grant’s mouth moves slightly.
Not a smile.
Close.
I lean forward.
“What if it’s temporary?”
“It is temporary.”
“I mean longer temporary.”
“That is not a recognized period of time.”
“Another week.”
“No.”
“Until we find the right place.”
“No.”
I press my palms together harder.
Grant’s expression softens, but only slightly.
“I understand why you’re attached,” he says.
His hand drops automatically to Major’s head, fingers moving once behind the dog’s ear.
I look toward the window again.
“I’m not attached.”
Grant says nothing.
“That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
“He trusts us.”
Grant waits.
“And moving him again right now seems wrong.”
It sounds weaker aloud.
The real argument is that he is ours.
He sleeps on my chest and follows Bethany through the kitchen and runs toward the sound of the guys coming home.
That has to mean something.
Grant leans back in his chair.
“I'm sorry, but the lodge cannot become his permanent home.”
“Is there another team property?”
Grant’s brow furrows.
“A house. An apartment. Somewhere an employee could foster him.”
“You want to move the puppy to a different property?”
“I want options.”
The word reminds me of Bethany standing in the boot room.
She deserves options, too.
Options better than a sidelined hockey player like me.
I push the thought aside.
Major lifts his head when I say I want options.
Grant looks down at him for a second, then reaches for his phone.
“I suppose I could ask around,” he says. “Someone may be willing to foster him.”
My head lifts.
It is not a solution.
It is barely the beginning of one.
Still, I leave Grant’s office lighter.
***
I get back to Hockey House carrying the hope that Grant might find someone willing to foster the puppy.
Maybe that buys us another week. Maybe two.
The puppy meets me before I make it through the boot room.
His paws skid across the floor as he barrels around the corner, leash trailing behind him and one ear folded inside out.
“There he is.”
I crouch, and he crashes into me.
His whole body wags.
I scoop him up and let him lick my chin while I fix his ear.
“Miss me?”
He answers by trying to eat the zipper on my jacket.
“Good talk.”
The lodge is unusually quiet.
No television from the rec room. No one making a mess while they cook.
Just the puppy breathing against my neck and the faint hum of the dryer somewhere down the hall.
I carry him toward the kitchen.
His food bowl is gone from its usual spot.
I stop.
The towel that usually sits beneath the water dish is folded on the counter.
So is the leash Bethany bought, coiled into a perfect circle beside the bag of puppy food.
The stuffed moose rests on top.
I stare at the pile.
“Housekeeping,” I tell the puppy.
The explanation sounds reasonable enough that I almost believe it.
Bethany organizes things.
She consolidates.
She has spent days moving dog supplies out of walkways and reminding everyone to keep the dog things tidy.
This is probably that.
The puppy wriggles, so I set him down.
He trots toward the pantry, stops where his bowls used to be, and looks back at me.
“I know.”
I find the water bowl in a cardboard box beside the counter.
The expensive bed is folded awkwardly underneath it, fake fur spilling over one side. The unopened bag of food sits beside the puppy shampoo. Training pads. Vet paperwork. The extra collar.
Everything gathered together.
I take the water bowl out and fill it at the sink.
As the puppy drinks, I lean against the counter and pull out my phone.
Nothing.
I open my messages to Bethany.
The last thing she sent was a picture of the puppy asleep in the expensive bed.
I stare at the photo.
His paws in the air.
His belly round with food.
Bethany’s boot visible at the edge of the frame.
I type:
Grant might have found us more time.
My thumb hovers over send.
The puppy finishes drinking and noses the cardboard box.
The stuffed moose tumbles onto the floor.
He grabs it by one antler and shakes it hard enough to smack himself in the face.
I laugh despite the pressure in my chest.
“That’s what you get.”
He attacks it again.
My phone buzzes.
For one second, hope rises so quickly it makes me stupid.
Grant.
The foster.
A yes.
It is a message from Bethany.
I found him a permanent home. They can take him tomorrow.
I read it twice.
The kitchen seems to tilt by half an inch.
Tomorrow.
I look at the box.
The folded bed.
The food.
The vet records stacked neatly on top.
Not housekeeping. Packing.
The puppy presses his nose against my shin.
I crouch automatically, my hand settling over the back of his neck.
This morning, I sat across from Grant and argued for time.
Another week.
A foster.
Options.
I left his office thinking I had done something.
Thinking maybe effort could count.
Bethany had already found him a home.
The puppy climbs onto my knee, trusting me to lift him.
I gather him against my chest.
His tail taps once against my arm before he settles.
My phone stays open in my hand.
They can take him tomorrow.