6. 6 Nathan
6: Nathan
I tap my foot on the dirt path outside the Missarali City Animal Shelter, the sound of dogs barking and heavy metal doors being opened and closed coming from behind me. The air is bitter today, and I glare down at the goosebumps on my skin, checking the time on my watch for what feels like the tenth time this minute.
I’m a punctual person—another trait I picked up from my father.
At least this one is useful though.
Darrell seemed intrigued when we informed him of the place we’d decided to volunteer at. There’s something comical about Montana's big, beefy heartthrobs—the media’s words, not mine—having photos taken cuddling tiny, fluffy kittens.
I won’t be surprised if the animals scamper off with their tails between their legs.
Bennett’s laughter catches my attention, and I turn to him, Poppy and Mae with a scowl as they stroll across the parking lot. “You’re late.”
Poppy lets out a whistle. “What size steel rod have you got up your ass today?” She giggles as she moves past me into the animal shelter with Bennett, leaving Mae staring after her with stunned eyes, shock evident on her face from the comment.
She’s wearing a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, and I can’t help but let my gaze travel lower than necessary. Her rounded hips are accentuated, and I clear my throat and gesture for her to enter the shelter in front of me.
Definitely not because I want to get a look at her ass.
Because I don’t.
The smell of cleaning products wafts up my nose as we step into the reception. It causes it to crinkle up, overly sensitive to the alcohol in them.
A million and one thoughts race through my mind whenever the smell is present, but I’ve learned to ignore them. Push them away. Project the intense sensation into another notion instead—something more positive. Something that will actually benefit me, because dwelling on my past certainly doesn’t.
We get ourselves checked in and are made to wear name badges that indicate we’re volunteers. Photos of us are taken, and I plaster on a smile. Darrell and Renee need to approve of these, and if we don’t look happy to be here, they won’t make the cut and won’t be released to the press.
A sense of guilt spikes inside me. We’re only here to clean up our image. It screams entitlement, and I disapprove of using these charities this way. But either way, they’re getting help, so I suppose it’s a win-win situation.
Mae appears giddy, entirely in her element here, much more at ease than a few days ago at the bar. It was impossible to miss the way her eyes lit up with excitement when Poppy brought up volunteering here. I hadn’t expected such a bright reaction from her, like the clouds had cleared and the sun had come out.
“We’ve got some dogs that need some attention, and the cat area needs cleaning,” the lady behind the desk tells us, a wide grin on her face.
“I’m allergic to cats,” I state, and Mae turns to me with a frown.
“Why didn’t you say that when we discussed the idea of volunteering here the other day?” Her hands are on her hips as she subtly scolds me.
Why does a sick part of me not mind it?
“Because I don’t care where we volunteer.”
I’m not afraid to admit that I don’t let people in. I keep chit-chat to a minimum—except with the people I trust. Because caring can be hazardous.
As a child, I cared way too much, and it came back to bite me in the butt when trying to accomplish what I was supposed to. Or what was expected of me. I learned the hard way. Caring only dwindles your chances of being happy, because when everything in your life goes to shit, you end up disappointed that it didn’t work out.
Bennett studies me, shaking his head and muttering something about not wanting to clean up cat shit, but he keeps the complaint quiet enough so that the lady helping us—Sheila, I believe her name is— doesn’t hear.
“I love cats,” Poppy speaks up, raising her eyebrows at me— silently warning me to be nice—before beckoning Bennett with a nod of her head and heading down the corridor.
I huff. I’m not one for surface-level conversation, and the last person I want to have that with is Coach Renee’s daughter.
I have my back up when it comes to Mae. I’d be the same with any of the cheerleaders, but there’s something about her being the daughter of the woman who despises me and wants me off the team that makes it ten times worse.
Maybe it also has something to do with the fact that she’s drop-dead gorgeous, too. I can already tell she has a mouth on her, and I know she’s going to drive me up the fucking wall.
I just have to get through this season, though. These charity appearances won’t last forever, and then I won't have to see her again. She’ll be leaving, and our paths won’t cross again.
We’re led down the barren corridor, where the sound of dogs crying for attention gets louder. Rows of kennels line the wall, with worn-out toys and blankets scattered over the floor. The walls are painted a cheerful yellow, but it does little to mask the underlying sadness lingering in the eyes of the dogs, all gawking up at us with a mixture of hope, fear and anticipation.
Mae kneels in front of one of the kennels and coos at the excitable brown dog, eyes expanding. He rises on his hind legs, licking her fingers through the wire, letting out enthusiastic yips.
“Hi, gorgeous boy.”
“Came in as a stray with a nasty wound on his leg the other day, that one. The vet here got him stitched up, but be careful of it,” Sheila informs us, the middle-aged woman nodding down at the young dog. “He’s yet to be named. A bit of a handful, but I’m sure you’ll cope.” She grins down at Mae, who’s still fussing over the pup.
I can’t tell what breed he is. He looks like a strange mix, and I know this gives him less of a chance of being chosen for adoption. People come here hoping to find the perfect dog, and looks are a huge factor.
This dog is cute. There’s no doubt about that, but he’s… unique.
“You look like you have a little bit of beagle in you, don’t you, bud?” Mae questions the dog as if he’s about to talk back.
Sheila raises her eyebrows. “You think? We couldn’t put our finger on it.”
“I think so. I can already tell he’s a major sniff-head.”
Sheila cackles before leaving us to it, letting us know she’ll be at reception.
I almost want to beg her to come back because I don’t want to be left alone with Mae when I have no idea what I’m supposed to talk to her about.
But I resist the urge.
The way Mae crouches down—it makes her sweatshirt rise, and a tiny sliver of midriff shows. I hone in on the smooth skin, jaw popping as I try to yank my gaze away but fail.
I feel like a fucking creep.
We spend the next hour opening up each pen with a green sticker on—indicating the dog is friendly—and giving them the attention they’re desperate for.
I can’t imagine being locked away all day, every day, hoping someone will walk past and notice you. Help you.
I resonate with them in a way. Even as a kid, I was pushed to exhaustion. I’d openly vocalise at football practice how tired of playing competitively I was, hoping for a coach or parent to hear and tell my dad to lay off me, but nobody ever noticed. Or if they did, they decided not to say anything. I was stuck. Trapped in my father’s web he’d so perfectly spun for me.
I lean down to pet the dog Mae’s holding onto, and she laughs, gazing up at me with those big hazel eyes that glisten far too much for their own good.
“He’s not going to bite. He just wants to say hello.”
The big pitbull-looking dog whines, his butt wiggling as his tail swishes from side to side, hitting the side of his plastic bed. It makes a loud thumping sound.
I move into a crouching position, unsure of what to do as the dog crawls over my lap, shoving its snout into the crook of my neck with affection.
It’s wet and slobbery, and I grimace, angling myself so he no longer has access to my clavicle.
Mae stifles a laugh. “I think he likes you. Or he can smell your sweat.”
I grimace mentally. Mae is teasing. I know I don’t smell. I’m freshly showered.
She takes notice of my rigid posture. “You’re not scared of dogs, are you?”
A few days ago, Mae and I barely spoke, and when we did, our words were short and snappy. But it seems that being in the presence of animals has snatched away any negativity from her, putting her in a good mood.
“No. I just don’t want them in every one of my crevices.” I move my hand upwards to pet the dog’s head, his skull round and bulbous under my fingertips.
Mae hums before turning to the dog that trots back over to her and lands in her lap, telling him, “I’ve always wanted a dog, but I have to settle for a tortoise for the moment. I don’t have the time for a menace like you.”
I arch my eyebrows, clicking my tongue as I blink. “A tortoise?”
“Yeah, Chump.” Her eyes snap to mine.
“Chump?”
Who the hell named it that? They deserve to be incarcerated.
Mae doesn’t strike me as the type of girl to have a reptile as a pet, but it dawns on me that I don’t actually know her at all.
And it’ll make things so much easier if we keep it that way.
We settle into silence, nothing but the sound of dogs yipping and the ceiling fan whirring filling the room.
I usually feel so at ease with silence, but for whatever reason, I’m not.
Now that I’ve been in Mae’s presence for a length of time, I begin to take note of every detail of her face. Each tiny freckle. The small dimple beside her lip. The white scar at the tail of her eyebrow, running into her hairline. I try my best not to look for too long, but I can’t help but wonder how she got it. It looks like the injury had been deep.
A childhood accident, perhaps? Kids are always falling out of trees or tumbling off trampolines.
“Have you ever had any animals?” she suddenly asks me, and I release a deep breath, running my tongue along the front of my teeth.
“No.”
There’s a tense pause before she huffs, narrowing her eyes and shaking her head. “Are you always this grumpy?”
The question catches me off guard, and I cock my head at her, pursing my lips.
“I’m not grumpy,” I respond, but she tilts her head and raises her eyebrows at me. “I’m sorry if spending time with the daughter of the woman who has it out for me doesn’t benefit me.” My tone is calm—monotone, even. I rarely ever lose my temper—unless it’s out on the field.
My comment causes her molars to clamp down, and a scowl takes over her usually harmonious features before she curses. “Look, I don’t know what’s gone on between the two of you, but I’m trying to make the best out of a shitty situation here. I don’t particularly like football, so I’m not jumping for joy either. But we’re partners, and you can either get over it or sulk for the rest of the season. Either is fine by me.”
There’s a howl from the kennel next to us, and Mae huffs, piercing hazel eyes boring into mine before she steps out of the small kennel to tend to the other lonesome pup.
I don’t know how to react. I understand she’s frustrated with me, and I understand I haven’t exactly been welcoming, but this woman is stirring thoughts within me that I don’t need. Or want.
I run a hand down my face.
God, this would be so much easier if she was a bitch to me.
My phone vibrates in my pocket, and I yank it out, huffing as my father’s name flashes on the screen. I debate declining his call, but he’ll only persist and make whatever he has to say to me an even bigger deal than necessary if he knows I’m ignoring him. Moving on autopilot, I push the emergency exit door open and step out into the cool breeze.
“What?” I say through gritted teeth.
I hear his agitated chuckle on the other end of the line. “Hello to you too, son.”
“You’ve never been one for pleasantries.”
I imagine him smiling—the type of smile that could curdle cream. The cocky bastard. “Are you ready for the game on Thursday?”
Football. Always football. We haven’t spoken about anything else for years.
“Yes,” I bite out.
“Are you going to win?”
“Do I look like a fortune teller?”
Some could mistake Kevin Slater’s questioning for passion, but it’s so much more than that. He’s always used pressure to get to me. Even at the age of thirty-three, he still treats me like I’m an easily mouldable child—using the same techniques to make me feel like a failure.
It's a shame he taints the sport I had the potential to enjoy.
I try to talk to him as little as possible, but he loves to play the role of the doting father for the tabloids, attending my games when he can and wrapping his arms around me in a spine-crushing hug when we win, posing for the cameras.
Journalists would have a field day if they found out I hate him, and he hates me just as much. I don’t want to give them anything more to talk about, so I allow my father to fake his devotion to me. It’s just easier.
“Clear your head, Nathan,” he spits. “You can’t let this slip through your fingers. You don’t want to disappoint everyone all over again, do you?”
I clench my jaw.
“Make your mother proud.”
With that, I hang up the phone, crushing the metal between my fingertips, wanting nothing more than to see it crack just like my inner child does whenever he brings up the woman who deserved better.
The woman I wish I could have saved.