28. Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Kevin
Austin weather can make people from other places irrationally angry when you post about it on social media, and days like today are exactly why.
Sarah's hands are drumming on her thighs as I pull into the parking lot. She's been vibrating with nervous energy since five this morning when I found her reorganizing mugs in my kitchen while she waited for her ginger tea to steep.
"It looks good," I say, nodding toward where Barb and Diane have already set up most of the tents.
"We've placed ten dogs from the publicity. If we can place another ten—" She stops herself. Takes a breath. "That would be incredible."
"You'll place fifteen."
She looks at me with a look that's half scowl, half amusement. "You're very confident for someone who knows nothing about dog adoption metrics."
"I know you. That's all the metrics I need."
Ranger barks from the back seat. He agrees with me. And as the official brand ambassador for Lone Star Paws, he clearly is an expert in the field.
Sarah can't hold back a smile. Ranger's convinced her. "Okay, Sunshine. Let's see if you and your fur child are right."
I come around to help her out of the truck. She rolls her eyes but takes my hand anyway.
"I'm pregnant, not broken."
"I know. Humor me."
"You're going to be insufferable for the next seven-ish months, aren't you?"
"Absolutely." I close the door as soon as Ranger hops out. "Probably longer, if you'll let me."
Diane spots us immediately. "There's our superstar! Ranger, you ready to work?"
Ranger's tail goes into overdrive. The dog knows when he's being praised.
The next hour is chaotic, but everything we could have hoped for and more.
Families arrive. Kids gravitate toward puppies.
Adults ask serious questions about temperament and training.
Sarah's everywhere at once — answering questions, directing volunteers, matching dogs with families instinctively, because she can see something nobody else can.
I stay close. Make sure she's drinking water. Grab the heavier supply boxes before Diane can hand them to her.
Brett and Paige show up around nine-thirty, and Paige makes a beeline for Sarah.
About two seconds later, Lindy arrives with enough camera equipment to film a documentary.
She immediately starts capturing everything — the dogs, the families, Sarah helping a little kid throw a ball for a border collie mix.
"That's going on Instagram," she announces.
"Sarah hates being photographed."
"Too bad. She's adorable. These dogs are adorable. Adorable gets clicks." Lindy adjusts her lens. "Also, you're staring at her like you think she’s adorable too, so don’t be blaming me."
"I'm not—"
"You absolutely are. It's cute. Very on-brand for a guy named Sunshine."
I want to explain to her the real origins of the nickname — and how it has everything to do with ‘70s disco and nothing to do with staring at anyone, but she bounces off after a beagle and I'm left to go back to watching Sarah handle everything in her radius with skill.
Okay, so maybe Lindy was right. A little bit.
Quinn shows up next. She and Sarah communicate without a single actual word being uttered. Some girl code I'm not privy to. Then the rest of the guys start filtering in, and that's when things get interesting.
Tyler arrives and immediately zeroes in on Hercules — the pit mix he'd been paired with from the calendar shoot.
Sarah mentioned a few weeks ago that his size and color caused trouble for adopting him out.
A black pit mix is a tough sell for families with small kids, even though this particular dog is more cotton candy than curmudgeon.
"Hey buddy!" Tyler drops to his knees. Hercules launches himself at Tyler's chest like they're long-lost friends. "Did you miss me? Dis goooood boy missed me."
"Morgan, we've been over this. You cannot adopt that dog," Aiden says, walking up behind him.
"Why not?"
"Because you travel forty-plus games a year and you killed the succulent garden you planted at that arts and crafts night Paige and Quinn made us go to during spring training."
"Succulents are different. They're plants. This is Hercules. Look at his face."
Aiden throws his hands up in the air. "Momo, you only need to water succulents once a month or some shit like that. And you still killed six of them. You can't be trusted with a dog. I can barely trust you with our left wing."
"Dude, that's not fair. I literally bailed your ass out on Thanksgiving like four times. I knew when to pull the pie out of the oven. I saved dessert. You can trust me."
Hercules is making a very convincing face. Tongue lolling, tail wagging, eyes full of adoration. Tyler pulls out his phone and starts filming himself with the dog. "Mallory!" he yells across the park. "Come take some reels for my Instagram! I need content!"
Mallory — Lindy’s overly eager social media assistant — doesn't even look up from where she's talking to someone from marketing. "I'm working, Tyler!"
"This is work! Hercules and I are going to get a brand deal better than Ranger's!"
I laugh. Can't help it. "Good luck with that, Momo. Ranger's got Super PawMart locked down."
"Whatever, old man. Hercules and I are going to be Instagram famous."
"You're already Instagram famous," I interject. "Remember that dance you did to Taylor Swift's new song?"
During camp this summer, Liam posted a video of Tyler dancing to Taylor's new song…on skates…and falling straight on his face. Swifties around the world made it go viral.
And not really in the best way. No one will ever let him live it down.
"More famous then." Tyler goes back to filming, completely ignoring Aiden's point about how killing plants that thrive in the desert may not be the best indication for success as a dog owner.
About ten-thirty, Josh arrives with his daughter Landrie and the biggest dog I've ever seen outside of a Scooby-Doo cartoon.
"Is that a horse?" Liam asks, appearing next to me with some kind of grande-venti-gargantuan cup of coffee that, knowing Liam, also has Macallan generously poured in it since we don't have a game tonight.
I shake my head, both at the vaguely whiskey-scented coffee and the question. "Great Dane. That's Moose."
"That dog weighs more than Landrie."
"Probably."
But Landrie — who has zero fear — is holding Moose's leash like she's about to walk the ring at the Westminster Kennel Club. The dog follows her patiently while she drags him toward the play area.
Josh catches Sarah's eye. Waves her over. I watch them talk. Josh points with his thumb toward Moose and Landrie, and before he's even finished his sentence, Sarah's whole face lights up and she bounces a little on her toes.
He's keeping Moose. One down, fourteen more to go.
Graham shows up and Landrie immediately squeals and hands her uncle the leash.
"Uncle Gwam! Come on. We're goin' to da pwaygwound!"
Graham looks at Josh. Landrie's tone — and inability to pronounce the letter R — leave no room for disagreement. "I'm being kidnapped."
"Have fun with that," Josh says, searching something on his phone to show Sarah.
Liam and Aiden are poking around the different dogs. Liam's crouched in front of a beagle mix, letting her lick his face.
"You gonna adopt her?" Aiden asks.
"Can't. My building doesn't allow dogs."
I give him a look. "We live in the same fucking building, Crash."
"Oh. Right." Liam stands, wiping dog slobber off his chin. "Still probably shouldn't."
"Why not?" I ask. "Ranger can show her all the best places to pee on at the dog park."
"Because I'm a disaster and dogs need stability." Liam says it like it's a fact he's just accepted. "Also, I'm never home."
"Yeah, Whistling Pig is not going to let you bring a dog, no matter how much you tip." Aiden’s matter-of-fact tone settles what little debate there even was about the potential for a domestic Crash.
I'm watching Sarah help a family with a husky mix when I see them. My parents are walking across the grass toward the event like they're supposed to be here instead of on the road back to Dallas. Sarah sees them at the same time and her face lights up — which, in turn, makes me smile.
I make my way over. "I thought you were going to Aunt Allison's house, then headed back home."
"We were," Mom says, hugging me. "But we saw Sarah and Ranger doing their thing at the game last night, and we wanted to see the event. And…we brought a surprise."
She pulls out a bag that is definitely from the Stampede team store in the arena.
And I know this look. That's Mom's "I'm about to make a scene and I'm delighted about it" look.
Sarah walks over, arms wide for a hug. "Melanie! Mike! You came!" Mom hugs Sarah like they're old friends. Which, apparently, they are now.
"We wanted to see all your dogs," Mom says. "And I got you something during the second intermission yesterday. I wanted to give it to you at the game, but you and Ranger were working so hard, and I didn't want to bother you."
Mom reaches into the bag. Pulls out a tiny onesie. It's navy blue with the burnt orange Stampede logo.
She holds it up.
Time stops.
We're standing in the middle of Zilker Park. Surrounded by my teammates. Volunteers. Families adopting dogs. Half of Austin, basically.
And my mother is holding up a baby onesie for Sarah.
"I know you don't know if it's a girl or a boy yet," Mom's saying, not reading the room at all, "but I couldn't help myself. I saw they had newborn sizes and—"
"Is that for Paige?" Brett looks at my mom, then me, then my mom, then the onesie.
Every single member of the Stampede staff and all the players stop what they're doing and do slow-motion turns in the direction of Mom's voice.
Mom blinks. Looks at the onesie. Looks at the crowd. Looks at Sarah.
Her face goes white. She puts her hand over her mouth and the onesie starts to slip a bit through her fingers.
"Oh my gosh. Oh no. I thought everyone knew—"
This entire section of Zilker Park has gone quiet. Even the chihuahua mix has stopped yapping.