Chapter Twelve #2
She kneels down. “It has one and a half ears,” she defends, picking the muddy cat up and holding it to her. “And it has a scar on his face. See?” She turns it toward me, and sure enough the cat looks like it got in a fight and lost.
The scar is on the opposite side of his face than mine, and he’s missing the top half of his right ear. “What happened to it?”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. I found him cowering in the alley next to my store. There’s no collar and he’s really skinny, so I think he’s a stray. I’ll have to take him to the vet in the morning to see if he’s microchipped.”
I see the way she’s holding him and know this cat isn’t going anywhere. “Bells…”
“Look at him!” she says quickly, popping out her bottom lip. “He’s practically made for this family.”
I blink, soaking in that comment and telling myself to process the fact she called us a family later. We are, I guess. But I don’t think she means it in the way Isaac implied it earlier.
“Because we both have scars?” I question, trying to figure out her logic. “That thing is probably covered in fleas and God knows what else.”
She pulls at her bottom lip before releasing it and giving me a sheepish smile. “I bought flea shampoo on my way home just in case.”
Just in case.
I sigh heavily. “Are you actually going to bring it to the vet tomorrow to get checked for a chip? I don’t want you getting attached if it belongs to somebody.”
“He,” she corrects. “He’s a boy. And I promise I’ll take him. I want to make sure he’s okay. You can see his ribs. I gave him some cat food and he scarfed it down like he hasn’t eaten in days. The poor thing was shaking when I found him. It’s too cold for him to live outside.”
Damn it. She already loves the thing. The cat.
Now I know why she was nervous. It’s not that I’m opposed to a pet, but my schedule doesn’t really allow for them.
She’s home more than I am and has more flexibility with her work.
“If we do keep him, and I’m not saying we will, what are you going to do when you open the store? ”
She holds him to her chest and strokes his head.
He nuzzles her chin with his pink nose, and I can hear him purring.
“Cats are independent, so I’m sure he’d be okay here.
But…” She glances at the cat, then at me.
“But I was thinking I could bring him with me. There are such things as cat cafes. He can go to work with me and be the mascot. People would love him.”
I doubt code enforcement would like knowing there’s an animal where they make and sell food. “Did you pick out a name?” I ask. If she did that, there’s no way she’s giving him up.
Her frown wavers. “Not yet,” she murmurs.
But she’s thought about it.
I sigh again, pinching the bridge of my nose in exasperation.
None of this should surprise me. Belle has always been an empath, especially when it comes to animals.
She used to cry when we’d pass roadkill on drives because she was sad that they’d never see their families again.
She’d give them whole backstories and everything.
I know she’s wanted a dog for a long time because she’s always had one growing up.
Her mother’s chihuahua only deterred her a little from still wanting one.
But they’re a lot of work, so we agreed it wasn’t the best time to add one to the family between her business picking up speed and my hockey season always sending me to new places.
And neither one of us likes the idea of boarding animals if we can help it.
“I’m going to give him a bath so he’s at least clean,” she tells me, offering me a hopeful smile. “I bought a litter box and litter and enough food for tonight and tomorrow.”
Of course she did.
“He won’t make a mess, I promise,” she assures me, slipping past me to go upstairs with the one-eared cat who apparently is my spirit animal because of our wounds.
I rub my eyes when she disappears and look down at the box she brought him home in. And I have no doubt in my mind that this house is about to acquire a lot more cat-related toys and furniture.
The next day, as I’m meeting up with the team at the stadium to go over our practice and game schedule, I get a text message.
Belle: [image attached]
Belle: Look how happy he is!
I stare at the picture of the cat—still unnamed—that’s now a grayish-white color rather than the muddy brown it was yesterday.
Shaking my head at the picture of him curled up on her lap in her office, I sigh.
I know she’s so in love with that thing I couldn’t convince her to get rid of it if I wanted to.
Bodhi Hoffman, our coach, sidles up beside me. “You get a pet?” he asks, squeezing my shoulder. “It’s…cute.”
There’s hesitation in his tone, and I know what he sees.
An animal who clearly had to fight to survive.
Not only is he missing half an ear and scarred on the right side of his face, but he’s got a couple bald spots in his fur that the vet said should grow back with time.
Otherwise, he got a clean bill of health from the woman who checked him over.
Go figure, there was no chip. Which means we’re the potential, or probable, new owners of an underweight cat with battle wounds.
“What the fuck happened to it?” Moskins asks, sidling up on my other side. “Where the hell is its ear?”
I close out of the picture. “It doesn’t have one. And no, we don’t have a new pet. Belle found it in an alley and brought it home.”
Bodhi and Moskins share a look, both looking amused. Because they know the same thing I do. That I have a damn cat now.
My coach chuckles when my shoulders drop, and he smacks my back. “It’s kind of cute.”
“Yeah, if you squint,” Moskins muses with a snort.
I glare at him. “Be nice.”
He deadpans. “It’s a fucking cat, dude.”
Doesn’t he have one? “What would you say if someone told you Oreo—” His cat “—was ugly?”
He shrugs. “She’s not. And she has both of her ears.”
Clearly this conversation is going nowhere, so I slide my phone into my pocket. “Whatever. I don’t know what Belle plans to do with it. She doesn’t even have a name picked out.”
Both the men say, “Yet” simultaneously.
I shoot them both a glare.
Bodhi laughs.
Moskins grins.
And I flip them off and tell them I have to go.
Home.
To my stepsister and our new cat.