Chapter 17 Dominic
Dominic
I have a proven daily routine that I stick to during hockey season—green smoothies every morning, lean protein for lunch and dinner, stretching, strength and speed training on the opposite side of lunch on practice days, sauna and cold plunge time. Except for game days, of course.
But one of the pluses of being a professional athlete is that my day-to-day schedule can be relatively flexible unless there’s a mandatory practice or a game. For example, if I want to play golf at noon on a Thursday, I can. Chalk it up to “stretching.”
I’m looking for Briar right now of course, but also, I want to get to know her world a bit better. Which is why I’m reading every plaque and sign around every exhibit, learning about the animals she cares about so much.
When I find myself in front of the gibbons, knowing they’re Briar’s favorites, I watch them a bit closer.
They’re sitting, almost seeming bored despite the plethora of toys surrounding them.
No, not toys. Briar calls them enrichments.
But Caprice and the other gibbons aren’t engaging with the ropes, trees, balls, and tires in the enclosure.
I look left and right, seeing that there’s no one around given it’s midday, midweek. Gary’s not even at the little wooden hut-table combo he calls his post, ready to dispense education like the teacher he told me he used to be.
I throw my head back and . . . “Whoop whoop whoop whoop!” I screech, just like Briar did.
The gibbons’ response is instant, their attention locking on me before one calls back, then another and another, until they’re a chorus of car alarm–sounding singing.
I laugh and sing along with them, feeling like we’ve made each other’s day a little brighter.
“I thought something was wrong,” a breathless voice says behind me. I turn to find Briar bent over, hands on her knees. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s panting like she ran here.
“Oh, uh . . . sorry,” I stammer. “I was trying to play with them the way you did.”
Her brows furrow. “You were playing with them?” she echoes. “Why?”
“They looked bored?” It’d seemed perfectly logical a minute ago, but I’m doubting myself now. What do I know about gibbons? Not much, I realize.
Slowly, a smile starts to lift Briar’s lips, and then she starts laughing.
“When I heard them, I thought a hawk had flown into the enclosure again. It only happened once, but I’ll never forget the sound they made.
” She shakes her head, looking haunted, and I’m honestly not sure if the hawk won or the gibbons did, or if they were equally freaked out by the others’ existence.
“And with Caprice’s baby getting more comfortable on her own, the whole group is extra protective right now. ”
“Sorry,” I say, understanding why she looked so panicked.
She waves me off, no longer upset. “They’re usually calm this time of day. They’re not hungry, it’s after morning playtime, so they chill in the sun.” Her eyes are on the gibbons, checking each one out from afar, and then she glances back to me, equally analytical. “What are you doing here?”
I could be coy, but why bother? This woman has me by the short hairs and we both know it. “I came to see you.”
“Me?” She looks genuinely surprised, like being with her is somehow akin to a visit to the dentist.
“I have away games coming up and am already missing you, so like a complete sap, I thought I’d come to the place I knew you’d be, and walk around, hoping for a glimpse of you.
Maybe get the chance to say hello. So . .
. hello?” I pause, hearing myself for the first time.
Some people would be calling me a simp at this point, but fuck them.
For Briar? Simptown, population: me. “As I say it now, I realize how stalkerish that sounds. I can go—” I point behind me, willing to walk away but hoping she doesn’t want me to.
“No!” she says brightly. “It’s okay.”
I step into her, cutting the space between us in half. “It is?” I ask, my voice low and husky. She looks up at me, her eyes filled with something that seems like shyness. But this woman isn’t shy. She’s brave and bold, not in a loud, in your face way, but in her own quiet way.
Her hands fidget like she’s stopping them from doing what they’d actually like to do. Touch me, maybe? Fuck, I hope so. I reach out, taking one to weave our fingers together. Her hand is warm in mine and her lips instantly lift.
“Do you get a lunch break or something?” I ask. “Maybe I could eat with you?”
Or eat you out. Whichever.
I have spent days, and quite a few nights, thinking about this woman, fantasizing about her, and the urge to taste Briar’s mouth, her skin, and—fuck me—her pussy is riding me hard.
I won’t lie, either, I’ve been waking up most mornings harder than a hockey stick, images of her still in my mind as I untangle myself from my sticky, precum-dampened sheets, only to finish the job with her name on my lips.
Still, I try to maintain some semblance of public decency despite the images running through my mind.
“I have a better idea,” she says with an arch of one brow. “Want to help me with the animals? Like behind the scenes?”
I’m well aware of my savior complex, not that I’ve done a damn thing about it.
In fact, right this minute, I want to help her any way she’ll let me.
But yeah, we can start with the animals.
“Let me guess, the fountain needs clearing out again?” I tease, already resigned to the loss of my tennis shoes, which will end up in the trash like the other pair did.
There’s just no washing bird shit out of Nikes.
“No,” she says, laughing along. “But this might be just as messy and smell just as bad.”
“You’re really selling me on this idea,” I deadpan. But the truth is, she is. I’d do damn near anything to spend a few more minutes with her.
Apparently, that includes shoveling elephant shit, because that’s exactly what we do.
And let me tell you, Earl the ten-year-old Asiatic bull elephant might be a spa-day prince, but he is not particular about where he relieves himself.
There’s not one pile that’s easy to clean up.
There are mounds throughout his inside enclosure that have to be scooped, scrubbed away, and then washed out. With a fire hose.
And then we do the same thing to the rhinoceros area. And then the giraffes, cheetahs, and hippos.
And that’s just the Wilds of Africa section of the zoo. Apparently, this is a daily quick clean, too, not the deeper scrub-down each enclosure routinely requires. That involves brushes with plastic bristles that look like they could pierce flesh.
“Is this what you do all day?” I ask as we finish the hippo enclosure.
Briar swipes her hair back from her forehead with her arm, making sure she doesn’t touch anything with her gloved hands.
“Pretty much. Feed, clean, care for the animals. Why? Is it not as glamorous as you thought it’d be?
” She strikes a pose, one hand on her apron-covered hip and the other flicked into the air like she’s a model, which might be believable with her good looks, except I’m reasonably certain the latest fashion trend isn’t dust-covered polo shirts, cargo shorts, and knee-high muck boots.
Or maybe it is? I wouldn’t know. All I know is that on Briar, it looks good.
So does the faux pout she’s trying to maintain, but her naturally infectious smile keeps busting through. “Glamour is my middle name, ya know?”
She thinks I’m judging her, but I’m not. Not at all. Smiling in surprised awe, I tell her, “You’ve been working your ass off all day, but I don’t think you’ve said one bad thing the whole time. No whining, no frowning, nothing. You love this.”
Her real smile slowly appears on her face, like she’s not sure she can trust my words. “I do. This is what I always dreamed of doing.”
From anyone else, it’d sound sarcastic. I mean, who dreams of sweating in the afternoon heat, covered in rubberized protective gear, getting misted by what’s likely some sketchy splashback, while picking up actual shit, for what I’d argue is most definitely not enough money?
But looking at the happy glow on Briar’s face, she’s completely genuine.
The truth is, Briar hasn’t been just not complaining.
She’s working her magic, leaving pixie dust behind with every step.
It’s like everything she touches—with her hands, her attention, her heart—is better for her presence.
Each area we enter, the animals scurry over to greet her as soon as she calls out to them.
If there’s a guest who looks interested, she happily shares her vast knowledge with them.
She waves at children, makes smoochie noises at animals, and romanticizes even hard labor into whimsical fun with songs and some pretty interesting dance moves with a shovel.
And I feel like a bastard who accidentally lucked into the best day ever, all because of her.
Leaning into her, I smack her on the lips. Just a quick kiss that’s over nearly before it starts, but I need to feel the happiness that bubbles out of her. “You are so beautiful.” She blinks, surprise in her eyes. I move to her ear to add, “And sexy.”
I’m close enough to hear her breath hitch, and fuck, that makes me want her that much more.
I want to make her lose her breath completely, steal it away into my own lungs so I can share it back with her.
Her body leans into mine, and I’m at least 50 percent sure it’s unconscious.
I’m not sure she’s even aware of how her chest presses against mine, but I am acutely aware of the soft fullness behind the creak of her plastic apron.