Chapter Twenty-Two Helping
“Hi, Mom.”
“You never texted me back. Do you know what that does to a mother?”
“No, but I know what it does to you, and I’m sorry. Yes, the guy in the photo is my boyfriend, yes, he’s younger, he’s a minor league hockey player, and yes, I’ll bring him home for Thanksgiving. Yes, we’re serious. Just be nice to him and don’t expect us to stay until Monday. Okay?”
I let out a deep, shuddering breath. I said it all at once, and my mind is made up. If anyone says anything—I don’t have to deal with them right now. I can deal with them later. That’s part of this life I’ve carved out, and it’s my choice who I let into it.
“What’s his name?”
“King.”
“King! What sort of parents name their child something so lofty?”
“His parents.”
“What’s his sister’s name, Queen? Princess?”
“Gruoch, and she’s dead. Died when she was a baby, Mom,” I hiss.
“Oh. Oh, goodness. I’m sorry, Ingrid. Well. This is a change.”
“Makes a heck of a step up from Chris, Robert, and Larry, I can tell you that,” I agree ruefully. “It has style.”
“Not the name, I mean that when we talk, you usually just make small talk about all of your fun plans and your travels. You’ve never mentioned this young man. How young, exactly?”
“His mid-twenties.”
“Ooh, that’s nice. Women live longer than men, so it really makes sense to find one a little younger, doesn’t it?”
“I guess. I don’t care about his name or his age. I just like him.” I walk back to my office, lunch from the hospital cafeteria swinging in my hand.
“Hm. What do you like about him? Besides the obvious. He’s gorgeous!”
“Mother! I... I love the way the dogs love him. I love the way he loves me. I love the way he was all closed up before he got hurt and had to come to physical therapy, like he had to be some caricature of perfection, the perfect boy for his grieving parents, the perfect athlete to get out of this little town and onto a major league team. And now... He just wants to be himself. He’s a great person. He helps a lot of people.”
“A handsome, young hockey star is in love with you, and he’s a Good Samaritan?"
I stop at the entrance to the annex where my office waits. “Yes. That’s why I like him. Aren’t those good reasons?”
“Oh, they are, yes. But... Well. What’s the catch? There’s got to be a reason he chose you.”
I bite my lip and count to ten.
“I didn’t mean that the way it sounded,” Mom says, voice agonized. “But you know what I mean. I... He doesn’t think you have money, does he?”
“No. I don’t think he thinks that. Mom, I have to go back to work. We’ll talk more later, and we’ll be there for Thanksgiving. What time?”
“Ooh. Um. Well, the rest of the family is coming at two; why don’t you come at ten?”
“Great. We’ll be there.”
“Wait a minute, wait a minute! You haven’t told me how long you’ve been dating, where his parents are, if they need an invitation...”
“Just this hockey season, his parents are in Scotland with most of his extended family, and they don’t need an invite. Thanks, Mom! Love you, bye!”
I hang up and march to my desk, and my phone rings again. “What!?” I demand, expecting to hear my mother’s voice.
“Uh. Hi. Do you want to go out with Bryce and his wife and get tacos before the game tonight? They said a new taco stand is opening up in the Night Market.”
“Ooh. Okay.”
“Dare I ask why you sound angry?”
“My mother asked what you see in me,” I paraphrase.
“Oh, gosh. You didn’t tell her all the dirty things I said to you, did you?” King demands. “She’ll smack me when I get to the front door!”
“No, no. I just... I don’t know why, either.”
“Then I’ll remind you. Sexy, smart, bold, confident, beautiful, cute, friendly, good with dogs, a body to die for...”
My mood brightens as King lists off the reasons he wants to be with me, and the fact that the list continues, getting comically specific, puts a smile on my face. “Can’t wait to see you tonight at the game. What are you doing today?”
“The team doc says they’ve consulted with Kev, and I can try a hinged knee brace in a couple of days if I pass a check tonight before practice, so I think I’m just going to take it easy. Do a little helping here and there.”
“Sounds good. And when... just out of curiosity, do they think you’re going to start putting weight on that thing?”
“Six weeks or so.”
“Oh, so mid-December?”
“No, six weeks from the injury. Late November. They’re all amazed at how fast I’m healing.” His voice is low and cautious. “I think it’s Farrah’s balm and being in love. Plus, way more rest than I’ve ever gotten during the season before.”
I snicker and remember Halloween night. And the night after. And this morning... “Way more rest is debatable—and I’m surprised I don’t need crutches.”
“Why would you need crutches?” Kev suddenly asks from behind me.
I whip around with a gasp. “How long have you been standing there?”
“Long enough.” He shakes his head and lets out a whistle. “So you’re the cure for green and grumpy. Got it.
“I gotta go,” I mutter into the phone, cheeks flaming. “Kevin is an eavesdropper.”
“Just be glad we weren’t talking about the therapy pool.”
I hang up, but not before Kevin catches King’s deep voice saying the words. He gives me a long, slow shake of his head. “Y’all nasty.”
“I’m sorry, was it you and Marina who once—” I don’t have anything scandalous to end that sentence with, but it does the trick. Kevin holds up his clipboard like a shield, looking suitably chastised.
“I meant... I’m happy for you. And I’m glad we have such stringent sanitization protocols.”
“Kevin! Of course, we—”
He talks over me, eyes anywhere but mine. “Yep, yep. Good to see you both so nauseatingly adorable.”
“Yeah, so you two aren’t the only ones.” I stick out my tongue, and Kev disappears into the back with his next patient.
Helping.
Helping is a headache. But a happy one.
Cathy Bainbridge’s second graders are doing a read-a-thon to buy pet food for shelter residents. I’m supposed to be there to read to them at one.
Then the Pine Ridge High football team has signed up, en masse, to be after-school dog walkers and litterbox scoopers. I’m supposed to be at Hilltop Home at four so they can be paired up with their seniors.
And no one actually has a dog or cat yet, besides Mrs. Yerchenko, who has two cats and takes care of them herself.
But everyone says they want one.
And dogs and cats need homes.
Which is why I’m on the phone while I’m waiting for my ride.
Dr. Peters at the Pet Clinic, the local vet.
Jen Chambers at the college, Department of Veterinary Medicine.
Mr. Neidermayer, owner of Pet Village.
They’re my contacts, the people who I expect will know where I can find foster pets who need homes. Shelter animals that need a second chance.
My head aches as I squint at the screen and then go back to making notes. Someone ought to come through.
And someone does. “Hello?”
“Jen Chambers. You called and left a message about wanting to find adoptable dogs and cats for seniors?”
“Yes, seniors, but we have a big rotation of students helping out to care for the pets if the seniors need assistance. The whole football team is on the rotation, and the coach was going to talk to the new music teacher and see if the orchestra kids want in on it. Oh, and Mr. Minegold is going to ask to put up a flyer on the bulletin board at Pine Ridge Nondenominational and the library.”
“Slow down, buddy. I heard about your project from Libby Angelakis, one of the vet students here and a vet tech in town. There is an older woman in town, a senior herself, Mrs. Fiorenza, who fosters rescue dogs. A lot of puppy mill pets. Why don’t you start there if you’re looking for dogs?”
“I will! Do you have her contact number?”
“I do. What’s more, I already bugged her first to make sure it was okay to drop her in this.
She loves the idea, and she says the puppies need more socialization anyway.
Makes them better pets. If you work it out with the people who run Hilltop, she’ll bring over her latest batch of rescues this weekend. ”
“That would be amazing! That would be perfect! It would help the dogs find homes in two ways.”
Jen mutters something about having just said that and the need for players to wear thicker helmets, but I let it slide over me. “How many are there?”
“Dogs? I think six.”
“Perfect. Absolutely perfect.”
“Is this the new routine?” Ingrid looks at my notes on her kitchen table. “Please put dates on things. If you say ‘Next Monday,’ that’s going to end up biting you on the butt.” She waves a sticky note at me.
I open my mouth, quickly about to reply yes, but then realize I still don’t know.
“The part where we’re together? Yes. The part where I get paid for sitting on my butt, injured, not playing?
I don’t know. Having time to help in my community, whether it’s helping one old man walk a dog while he tells me all about his late wife, or finding a day when I don’t have practice to go read to squeaky little second graders? That stuff has to stay.”
Ingrid’s smile is everything. It’s a million dollars and the Stanley Cup.
“Good. Because I love the guy who hung the thank you card from Miss Bainbridge’s Second Graders on our fridge, and I love the guy who spends a couple of minutes each day trying to help Lester and Steve navigate the net.
” She kisses me and takes out her phone, adding my world into her calendar, her notes, her reminders.
That’s my mate. My wife. The one building a life with me.
A family with me.
I clear my throat. “But I know that a husband needs to be more than a guy who does a few good deeds. I’ll.
.. I’ll figure something out. I’ll be able to drive, even if I can’t skate.
I’ll look for coaching positions. I have backup plans.
” Not true. I have backup thoughts, but they’ll have to count.
“And if we were together, if we were to move into my house... Well, it’s paid for.
My parents still technically own it, but it’s mine to buy outright for a birthright price—a price that a father gives his son as a mark of his approval and blessing. .. We’d save money there.”
“And my townhouse would sell quick. We could put a fence around your yard.”
“You’d move in with me?”
Ingrid is still for a long time, hand frozen over another stack of handwritten scribbles.
“I would. I love my house—but this one is Orc-sized. And maybe even half-Orc-sized.”
She gives me a single flirtatious little smile, her hand ghosting over her middle just for a second, hinting at what might come someday.
I seize my crutches and let out a growl.
Ingrid squeals.
“I’m getting faster on these! And in a few weeks, I won’t even need them,” I cry, crutch-sprinting after her.
“What are you doing?” she giggles.
“I caught that little hint, madam. Half-Orcs? Better practice.”
Another squeal, but she lets me catch her. “We have to make dinner!”
“After.”
“You’re going to turn me into an insatiable maniac,” Ingrid warns.
Like I’d mind. I shrug and pin her against the kitchen counter. “Can’t help myself.”