Chapter 3
Shaw
When I finally walk through the door of my tenth-floor shared apartment, my Vikings teammate, Case Lyons, is awake and sprawled on the couch eating a bowl of cereal, his usual bedhead hair sticking up everywhere.
One look at me and his spoon stops halfway to his mouth. “Where the hell you been, bruh? It’s been hours.”
I hang my jacket and beanie on the hook next to the door and drop my keys into the bowl on the entry table, a piece of furniture my interior decorator sister insisted we purchase because it was an “accent piece.” I don’t care about accents, but I do find it handy.
“Yeah, it turned out to be more than a run. I kind of rescued a dog.”
I head into the kitchen to grab a sports drink from the fridge, opening the cap to chug it down and quench my dire thirst. Once done, I throw the empty bottle in the recycle bin and grab another one and then turn back around to see Case staring at me, his mouth gaped open in a comical expression.
“A dog?” he asks incredulously as he scans the room for any sign of a four-legged creature. “Where is it, then?”
I plop down at the edge of the leather sofa and unscrew the new bottle in my hand before I begin the story about finding the dog and meeting Emery.
Emery.
Goddamn, is she an angel that appeared out of nowhere? She must be.
A gorgeous angel, at that.
Tiny but tough. Emery can’t be more than five foot two, with a head of red curls that bounced at her shoulders as she examined the hurt dog, her expressive green eyes shifting in tone and intensity based on her mood.
When I told her how I found the poor pup, her eyes had first flashed with pain and then simmered with an anger that rivaled my own.
The freckles dotting her nose and cheeks drew me in as I admired her while she worked. And when I bent down to let the dog lick me across the chin, I noticed how her lips curled up into the sweetest grin.
I rake a hand through my hair, recalling that moment in her bedroom when she grabbed my hand and I felt the shock from her touch all the way down to my toes. I was painfully aware of her proximity for the remainder of my stay, and even now I can’t seem to shake the sensation.
I leave that part out, but somehow Lyons must see it written all over my face. His expression changes with a quirk of an eyebrow.
He leans forward and places his now empty bowl on the coffee table—yet another piece my sister said was a must-have—and swivels sideways on the couch, pulling one bent leg up on the cushion.
“She’s hot, isn’t she?” he asks matter-of-factly, leveling me with a discerning gaze. When I don’t immediately say anything, he says, “Benny…” and punches me against the thigh with his fist.
Lyons and I started our rookie season together and have been friends since we met, even though our paths to get here have been vastly different.
An undrafted free agent last year, I was called up from the AHL affiliate team to replace Cale Costa, our captain, when he got injured and was taken out of play for several post-season games, while Lyons was drafted when he was still playing in college.
But here we are, on the Vikings team, rooming together since we’re both on entry-level contracts.
Originally from Montreal, Lyons has a long-distance girlfriend, Katie, who is still in college. She has only been able to visit once so far this year, so it doesn’t make our living arrangements crowded. We usually just hang together most nights when we’re not on the road.
As for me, I’m still single. In fact, I’ve never even slept with a girl.
It’s not that I haven’t wanted to. Obviously, what guy my age doesn’t think about sex and want it constantly? It’s just that I’ve never found someone I liked well enough to make it happen, and even casually dating isn’t my style.
Which is precisely why Lyons is giving me the look right now about my meeting Emery. He doesn’t know that I’m a virgin, but he obviously has noticed I haven’t had a woman over since we’ve been roommates.
“What?” I reply with a bit of snark, giving him the look right back.
He snorts. “You know what. I can see it written all over you. She’s hot and you have heart-slash-puppy-dog eyes. Literally.” He laughs at his own joke.
“Whatevs, bruh,” I say with a shrug of one shoulder. “I won’t deny it. She’s beautiful. And kind.”
“And hot…”
“Fine. She’s a ten. But…”
Lyons pushes to his feet, leaving his bowl on the table—a messy habit I can’t stand and one my mom would be all over if this were her house—and shoves my shoulder when he passes me en route to the kitchen. “But nothing. You need to get laid, bruh.”
“Tell me about it.”
At this stage in the game, there’s no way I’d ever mention my predicament.
The shit I’d get from the guys would be endless.
Whether it’s due to hockey, or timing, or maybe my own sexuality—based on what I’ve read, I could be demisexual and need to feel a deep connection with a woman—the results are the same. I still haven’t punched my V card.
But I felt that pull of connection immediately with Emery.
I shake my head at the thought. I know next to nothing about Emery except that she lives in my building, is extremely helpful with dog rescues, and is undeniably gorgeous.
As if right on cue, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my running pants pocket and see her name light up the screen.
Emery: Hey, Shaw. This is Emery. Your neighbor. The woman you met this morning.
Emery: Duh, you probably already know that.
Emery: Anyhoo, I want you to know this sweet girl is doing well. The vet hooked her up with some fluids and meds, and she’s getting lots of love and attention.
Emery: She’ll be available in a couple days if you’re still considering fostering.
Emery: How could you say no to this sweet face?
I’ve barely finished reading the last text when a picture pops up on my screen. It’s a close-up selfie of both Emery and the dog. Emery’s smiling face is nestled against the cheek of the dog, who is on her side on a clinic table, her tongue lolling out of her goofy, crooked smile.
Sweet face is right.
Apparently, I’m a sucker for beautiful girls—one of the human persuasions—because that’s all it takes for me to give in. I respond immediately.
Me: You sure know how to go in for the kill.
Emery: Easy target much?
Me: Clearly.
Me: I’m glad to hear she’s recovering well. Does she have a name yet?
I run a hand through my messy hair, wondering how the hell I got myself into this situation. I mean, I’m actually considering fostering a dog.
The dog is cute and all, but I’ve never owned one before. So why is it that I’m agreeing to this crazy idea?
I turn to look at Lyons, who’s in the kitchen making some eggs, and throw out the question.
“How would you feel about fostering that dog for a little while?” I ask, secretly hoping he says no to get me off the hook. But instead, he hoists a silicone spatula in the air with a whoop of agreement.
“Fuck yeah!” he exclaims. “I love dogs. Had ’em growing up. Katie will be thrilled we have something other than ourselves to take care of. It’s like a sign of maturity and all. First dogs. Then marriage. Then kids. You know the drill.”
I snort. Mature is not a label anyone would ever use to describe Lyons.
As for me, I guess this would give me something new to experience before making any sort of pet ownership permanent.
When you make a commitment to something, be it a sport, a person, or a job, you plan on giving it your all. That’s something my parents drilled into me as a kid. If you started something, you saw it through to its finish. I could never get away with doing anything half-assed. It was all or nothing.
And Emery is the key to making this fostering work.
Me: So how does it work? The foster program?
Emery: I can swing by on my way home with the paperwork and supplies. If that works for you?
Me: Yup. I’ll be here. 1010. Just text when you’re on the way up.
Now I just need to shower, eat, and wait for my hot new dog-loving neighbor to arrive.