2. Chapter Two
Chapter Two
Sarah
The email from the Travis County Animal Shelter has six dogs listed as "urgent" which is shelter-speak for "we're out of room and out of time.
" I'm staring at my laptop screen, doing math that doesn't want to work.
Here at LSP, we have three kennels open.
The hardest decisions I make in my job revolve around dog math.
Six dogs who need homes.
Three spaces available.
It steals a bit of my soul every time. I’ll do my best to make it four. Or five. Or all six next time.
For now, I choose the senior mutt mix, the one-eyed terrier, and the puppy who reminds me of Ranger.
The other three...
I text Barb and ask her to send out an email to our list. Maybe the funds are out there to make it work. I’ve at least gotta try.
My phone buzzes. Paige Campbell's name flashes across the screen.
Paige
You coming down? The guys are getting rowdy.
Right. Wing Wednesday. I’d gotten so lost in trying to make dog math work while I finished up today’s paperwork from my Murphy bed that I’d lost track of time.
Define rowdy.
Paige
Tyler just ordered Crash's 5 Hole challenge. Liam's taking bets on whether he can finish it.
I send the email to Travis County, claiming the three dogs I’ve selected.
Barb will send the donor email tonight. If we get any responses, first thing tomorrow morning, I'll figure out foster placements for the other three.
Or I'll do what I always do and find a way to make it work even when the math says I can't.
I have a terrible habit of not being able to tell homeless dogs no.
There's no way he finishes it. I'll be down in five.
My apartment is 521 square feet directly above Overtime Sports Bar, which means every single inch of it currently smells like buffalo wings and beer and the bass from the game on TV is vibrating through my floor.
Overtime is the official Wednesday night hangout of the Austin Stampede because unless they’re traveling or have a game, Wing Wednesday is a team ritual that the guys virtually consider sacred.
Liam Callahan, the team’s right winger, got an endorsement deal here last season, and now the atomic wing challenge is named for him.
When Kevin discovered I lived upstairs, he insisted that I join them on Wednesday nights.
It’s how I got to know Paige, the PR director, and Lindy, the social media admin, and Quinn, the head of player wellness — and now I consider them genuine friends.
It's also how I came to sit next to Kevin every Wednesday, which means I've developed this completely delusional weekly ritual where I hope his hand finds my knee under the table or his arm stretches across the back of a chair and lands on my shoulders.
I've probably spent more time thinking about potential hand placement than I have about my own retirement plan.
This is what passes for a social life when you spend forty hours a week scooping kibble.
I changed into kennel clothes after the photo shoot and now I'm wearing jeans that have seen better days and a Lone Star Paws shirt with a suspicious stain near the hem that's definitely peanut butter from this afternoon's Kong stuffing session.
I stare at the stain.
Kevin's going to be there. Kevin, who probably went home after the photo shoot, showered, and put on clothes that don't smell like a kennel. Kevin, who always looks like he’s walking in some thirst trap Instagram reel when he walks into the arena…or a sports bar with wing challenges.
And I'm about to walk downstairs in peanut butter.
The tension rod and curtain that serve as my closet are right there. Three steps away. I could change. I've got that dark green sweater that Paige said looks good on me. Clean jeans without suspicious stains. I could be presentable in two minutes.
But then I'd have to admit I'm changing for Kevin specifically and admitting that feels like opening a door I've been keeping nailed shut for self-preservation reasons.
The curtain mocks me. It knows there's peanut butter on my shirt.
I grab my gray zip-up off the hook by the door and pull it on over the Lone Star Paws shirt.
Take that, peanut butter. I didn't take you off. But no one's going to see you, either.
The stairwell down to Overtime smells like fryer grease and Buffalo sauce — the olfactory equivalent of a hug from a sports bar.
I use the back door for the employees as my main entrance to the restaurant because my landlord Danny is cool like that.
It’s the tradeoff for the fact that my apartment shakes every time the Cowboys score.
Which hasn’t been that often for the last few seasons, so it’s all good.
"Sarah!" Danny spots me the second I hit the hallway behind the kitchen. He's in his usual spot by the bar, completely unbothered by the dinner rush. Twenty years of running this place will do that. "Your boys are in the back. Jen’s headed over to get orders in just a few minutes."
The main dining area is packed — families, couples, the usual Wednesday crowd.
Overtime isn't fancy. Vinyl booths, neon beer signs, enough sports memorabilia to start a museum.
But it's real Austin. The kind of place where everyone knows your name and your usual order and all that matters is if you love good food, good music, good weather, and Longhorn football... Well, and now, Stampede hockey.
The back section is exactly as per the usual.
Aiden McCrae holds court at the head of the table because apparently being Captain also bestows bar food hierarchy.
Liam's next to him, mid-argument with Tyler about something that has them both cracking up.
Josh Bertrand looks half-asleep despite it being seven p.m. His brother, Graham, is scrolling through his phone.
Brett Campbell — Kevin's best friend — is trying to get Kevin’s attention.
And then there’s Kevin.
Kevin's on the end, and the spot next to him is conspicuously empty. I give him a little wave and immediately regret it because now I'm the girl who waves and that just looks completely adolescent and weird.
"Sarah!" Tyler spots me first, and weirdly, he doesn’t look completely adolescent waving like a seal at me — even though he’s nineteen, and so basically an actual adolescent. "Get over here! I'm about to win fifty bucks off Crash."
"You're about to lose your taste buds," Liam corrects. "Hey, Sarah."
I slide into the seat next to Kevin, which immediately presents three problems: One, this table is smooshed more into the corner than I realized and there’s far less space than I thought.
Two, Kevin smells like a light woodsy cologne that my traitor brain has memorized.
Three, his thigh is pressed against mine and neither of us is moving.
"You made it," Kevin says, and the warm quality in his voice makes me forget I'm supposed to be playing it cool.
"Had to witness Tyler's inevitable defeat." I'm proud of how normal that sounds. Very casual. Definitely not thinking about thigh contact.
"Hey!" Tyler protests. "I've got this. I grew up in Buffalo. Wings are in my blood."
"These aren't Buffalo wings, Momo," Aiden says. "These are Texas crimes against humanity with Liam's name on them."
"Weapons of mass destruction," Brett adds. "I've watched three guys try this. Zero survivors."
Tyler cracks his knuckles. "Make that one for four."
Jen, our usual waitress, appears with a tray that makes everyone lean back. Five bowls of wings ranging from "sunset orange" to "nuclear apocalypse red."
"Crash's 5 Hole Challenge," she announces, setting the devastation in front of Tyler with genuine sympathy. "Thirty minutes. Good luck, honey."
"Wait!" Paige materializes, pushing Lindy ahead of her on their way to the table. "We need Lindy to get content."
"No way," Tyler says, but he's already posing. "When I win, the caption better be 'Rookie Achieves Instant Veteran Status'."
"When you tap out in five minutes, we're going with 'Rookie Learns Humility'," Aiden counters.
Kevin leans close, his shoulder pressing into mine. "How much are you betting?"
His breath is warm against my neck and my brain immediately short-circuits. I focus very hard on Tyler's impending doom instead of proximity and body heat and the way Kevin's voice drops half an octave when he's this close.
"What are the odds?" That seems a very logical question. Maybe no one else will notice that I’m having trouble concentrating on whatever is about to go down with Momo and those wings.
"Three-to-one he taps before wing three."
"I'll take wing four."
"Optimistic."
"Strategic." I turn my head and immediately regret it because we're close. Really close. Close enough to see his eyes shift from blue to something deeper. Close enough that leaning forward a few inches would—
"Order up!" Jen's back with more food. "Nachos?"
The moment breaks. Kevin pulls back to let Jen distribute plates and suddenly this group of tables pulled together is even more crowded. Kevin's arm ends up along the back of the chair behind me, not quite touching but close enough that I'm hyperaware of it.
Don't lean back. Do not lean into that arm. Bad Sarah. No.
Tyler takes his first bite. "This is nothing. I don't know what you guys were worried about."
Josh checks his watch. "Wait for it."
Wing two goes down easy. Tyler's confidence builds. "Seriously? This is Crash's big bad—" His face changes. "Oh. Oh no."
"There it is," Liam says, laughing.
Tyler grabs his water with shaking hands. "Okay. That's got some heat."
"That's level two, Momo," Aiden says. "Three more to go."
"Wing three breaks him," Brett says, looking from Momo over to me. "What do you think, Sarah?"
"I’m sticking with my original prediction. Wing four. He's stubborn."
"That he is."
Paige slides in the chair across from us, Lindy squeezing Aiden out of the way so she can sit next to Paige. Some silent married couple communication passes between Paige and Brett — eyebrows and smiles and telepathy built over years of being able to keep your best friend by your side.