storing my stuff in the athletics center pays off.
Today is one of those days.
After stopping by my locker to swap out some textbooks, I spot Violet standing in the functional training area looking like a fucking feast. Skin-tight black compression leggings highlight every curve of her lower half, her loose-fitting grey tank top revealing a sliver of the hot pink sports bra beneath. Her hair is pulled into a ponytail on top of her head, her face is flushed pink from her workout, and she looks more fuckable than ever.
She finishes her quad stretch and sits down on the mat, moving into a set of supine stretches. I’m running late to meet Drew, which means I should keep moving and walk straight out the door, but my body has other ideas and before I know it, I’m standing at the edge of the mat in front of her.
Violet looks up at me and removes one wireless earbud, hitting pause on her phone. “What do you want, Nash?” Her pouty lips quirk, betraying her attempt to sound annoyed.
“Can’t I say hi to my trainer?” I flop down beside her, covertly sneaking a peek down her sports bra. Goddamn, I missed her tits. They’re even better than I remembered.
I would do bad things just for the chance to see Violet naked again. And then I would do bad things to her.
“I feel like there’s an ulterior motive at play here.” She releases her calf and switches sides, extending her left leg along the floor while pulling her right leg up. All that does is make me think about how flexible she was in bed—and outside of it. Like in the backseat of my car.
“I could help you stretch.”
“There’s no way you’d keep that G-rated.”
Fair enough. In my defense, we’d both have more fun if my shoulders were holding up her legs. Naked.
“But if you want to make yourself useful, you could grab me a black foam roller from over there.” Violet nods to the far-right corner, where a wire basket holds an assortment of foam rollers and other accessories.
If this was anyone else, I would tell them to fuck off and get it themselves. But I’m trying to find a reason to stick around, so I walk over and grab one, passing it to her. I know from experience the black rollers are the firmest, verging on painful, but Violet likes a little pain. She likes it rough, too.
I almost wish I didn’t know those things. Maybe life would be easier if I didn’t.
“Thanks.” Violet leans onto one elbow and pulls herself upright, readjusting to roll out her glutes. Is it weird to be jealous of a foam roller? Because I think I am.
She peers over her shoulder at me, and her bare lips tug into a smile that’s half-shy, half-exasperated. “Are you going to watch me foam roll, or what?”
I mean, yeah. Is that an option?
“You’re cute when you’re all sweaty.” I shrug, enjoying the way her flush deepens in response to my words, rosy hue traveling all the way down to her chest.
“Pretty sure I’m a total mess right now, but whatever works for ya.”
Oh, it’s working for me. I like clean Violet, sweaty Violet, dirty Violet. I’m especially into the last one down on her hands and knees, begging for me to give it to her harder with her hair wrapped around my fist.
I am so fucked.
Pushing to stand, I put some distance between us before I do something stupid in the middle of the fitness floor. Plus, if I let myself continue with this line of thinking, these joggers I’m wearing won’t hide a thing.
“Have you been doing your stretches and rehab like you promised?”
“I have been, actually.” Call it repentance. The one and only time I broke my word to Violet, it broke us in the process, and that was the biggest mistake of my life. “It’s been helping.”
I almost hate to admit this because doing a million reps with a stretchy exercise band seems like it should be useless. You can’t even feel anything while you’re doing it. But it isn’t a surprise that Violet is good at her job. She’s been working on my shoulder a lot lately, and she knows where the issues originate. Some kind of imbalance, she said, but I didn’t understand when she explained it.
Relief stretches across her pretty face. “Good. I’m glad.”
My phone vibrates in my pocket. I’m sure it’s Drew, wanting to know where the hell I am. Frankly, until just now, I’d been so wrapped up in Violet that I’d forgotten he existed.
“I’m running late,” I tell her. “What time should I meet you later?”
She freezes, her hands splayed on the floor for balance. “I feel bad. You don’t have to—“
“What time?”
Violet scrunches up her mouth before finally replying. “Seven?”
“See you then.” Before turning away, I throw her a wink that earns me an adorable fucking grin. As I push through the doors into the hall, the grin on my face is even bigger.
***
Seven o’clock takes forever to arrive. By the time it does, I’ve hit Gino’s off campus with some of the guys for dinner, completed all of my homework, wasted time on my phone, and read ahead in two of my classes. It’s not that I mind waiting, it’s that I’m impatient as fuck to see Violet. I don’t know what I’m doing when it comes to her. All I know is that I can’t stay away. Every time I try, I feel like a junkie going through withdrawals.
At six-fifty-one, my limited patience runs out. Packing up my books, I head out of the athletes’ lounge where I’ve been studying, down the hall to the training room. Violet is immersed in something at the corner desk with her head down.
I rap on the door, so I don’t startle her. “Ready to go?”
She peeks over the computer screen and gives me a wry smile. “Just about. But you do realize that people take public transit every day and survive, right?”
“Maybe they’re being reckless.”
“Taking the train is reckless, now?”
I stroll over to where she’s seated. “When you’re the size of Tinker Bell?” Stepping around the desk, I come to a halt less than an arm’s length away, and peer down at her. “Yes.”
Violet rolls her eyes. “I should have known not to underestimate your stubbornness. It is truly unparalleled.”
“Thank you.”
“That wasn’t a compliment.” She returns her attention to the computer screen, but the corners of her mouth quirk.
“It is to me.”
I’m still intensely curious why she refuses to drive, though. I don’t mind driving her home—fine, I like it—but I hate that she takes the train at night when I’m not around. Especially when she has a perfectly good vehicle parked outside her house. She can’t seem to explain why she’s having so much trouble with a brand-new Honda CRV—and despite her claims of engine troubles, it’s there every time I drop her off, not at the shop. Something doesn’t add up; I just don’t know what.
Once Violet gathers up her belongings, I take her bag and we weave through campus along our usual route, having fallen into a routine that’s grown predictable. There’s a comfort that’s developed between the two of us when we’re alone; an ease that we don’t get to enjoy when we’re around everyone else during the day. It’s much more difficult when team management, the other players, and even the other interns are constantly looking on nearby.
“How was your day?” I ask, holding the stairwell door for her.
She sneaks a wary glance at me. “Pretty good, why?”
“Can’t I ask?”
“I don’t know,” she says. “How was your day?”
Aside from seeing her in the training room earlier, it was shit. I slept like trash last night, woke up late this morning, slogged through classes all day, and then Doug called again and reamed me out for twenty minutes over my positioning in my last game.
But it’s easy to forget all of those things now that I’m looking at her.
“Better now,” I tell Violet. Blush tints her cheeks, a small smile on her lips, but she doesn’t reply.
We stroll down the row of parked cars, arriving at my SUV in the middle. I reach over to open the passenger side door for her, and she grabs my arm, shushing me.
“Wait.” Her blonde eyebrows pull together, voice dropping to a hush. “Listen.”
In the distance, a faint crying sound echoes through the shadowy parking garage. I can’t place what it is, except to say it’s not human. My best guess is some kind of scared or injured animal. Not a cat, I don’t think. Possibly a dog.
Following the general direction of the whimpers, we scour the rows and check underneath vehicles until we spot a small dog hunched in the far corner, next to a white sedan. As we draw closer, it becomes clear that it’s a puppy. His fur is a mixture of black and tan, with a black muzzle and oversized, pointy ears. He reminds me of a police dog. A German shepherd, maybe.
“Aww!” Violet gasps, making a beeline for the puppy. Her bleeding heart knows no bounds. Usually, I like that about her, but right now, I’m lowkey worried she’s going to contract fleas. Or rabies.
I’m not much of an animal person.
“Come here, buddy.” She squats down a few feet away from the puppy, gently patting her thigh.
“Careful,” I warn her.
She glances over her shoulder at me, giving me a reproachful look. “Come on, Nash. He’s a baby. He’s not going to bite. Or he could be a she, I guess.”
After a few more encouraging words and gestures, the puppy slinks over to Violet with his tail between his legs, head held low. I can’t quite discern whether he’s being meek because he’s scared, or if he’s lethargic because he’s malnourished. While he’s clearly still a puppy, he’s not just small due to his age, he’s scrawny. His limbs look too thin compared to his big paws, and I can practically count his ribs.
Violet holds out her hand and he sniffs it tentatively, slowly wagging his tail while she examines his neck. “No collar.” She hums, studying him thoughtfully, and her mouth tugs into a frown. “He doesn’t look well taken care of, either. Look how skinny he is.”
“It’s possible he’s been missing for a while. Maybe he escaped from a house nearby. He could have owners looking for him.” At least, let’s hope he does. It’ll make wrapping this up that much faster.
“Oh, I know.” Her expression perks up. “We should take him to a vet. They can scan him to see if he’s microchipped.”
“Take him?” I echo. “Like in my vehicle?”
Doug handed down my three-year-old SUV when he bought a new one last year. It’s still in pristine condition, and I’m a little particular about maintenance and upkeep. I’ve never had any kind of animal in it before unless Connor counts, and I’m not especially keen to change that.
Violet cocks her head in confusion. “How else are we going to get him there?”
“I don’t know, I thought we could call the SPCA to come and get him or something.” Violet volunteered there all throughout high school, which means she might be on board with this option. Like I said, she’s a total softy for animals.
“They’re a charity, Nash. They don’t offer Ubers for dogs. County Animal Control Services will pick up strays, but they always take forever because they’re hopelessly short-staffed.” Her expression darkens, turning troubled. “Plus, we can’t let this widdle guy go to the big bad pound.”
“Definitely not,” I agree, pretending like that wasn’t my plan all along.
Carefully, she reaches over and picks up the puppy, gauging his reaction as she does. He’s more than pleased with the development and lifts his head, trying to lick her face. As she hauls him into her arms and pushes to standing, his sex becomes obvious.
“It’s a boy,” I confirm.
“Huh?” She glances over at me, then down at the dog in her arms, and laughs once it clicks. “Okay, then.”
We walk back to my car with the puppy while he leans his chin on Violet’s shoulder, his dark eyes happily taking in the new view. Up close, it’s even more obvious that he’s desperately in need of a hearty meal and a long bath. It’s clearly been a while since he’s had the former and judging by his matted coat and the way he smells, I’m not sure he’s ever had the latter.
“What if he doesn’t have an owner?” I ask, voicing the obvious concern that neither of us wants to address.
“Let’s hope he’s got a good home that’s looking for him and we can reunite them.”
Typical Violet for you—always looking on the bright side. In other words, the unrealistic side. Now that I’ve had a better chance to look at him, I have a strong hunch this dog is homeless.
Violet hands me the wriggly puppy before climbing into the passenger seat. He whines, squirming in my grip, probably because I have no idea how to hold a puppy and neither of us is remotely comfortable with my attempt. Once she buckles her seatbelt, I lean down and pass him back to her, praying he doesn’t pee on the leather seats. Or worse.
As I wind through the parking garage, the puppy begins to calm down. He occupies himself by pushing his nose against the passenger window, leaving behind a wet streak of puppy snot that I’ll have to Windex away later. But if that’s the only cleanup required after this car ride, I’ll call it a win.
“He’s shivering. Poor baby.” She reaches for the climate controls, switching the fan to full blast, and cranks the temperature up to ninety degrees—despite the fact that it’s a solid eighty degrees outside. Immediately, beads of sweat start to form on the back of my neck and along my brow, but I say nothing. There’s a pecking order inside this vehicle, and stray puppies trump asshole ex-boyfriends.
Arching her neck, she peers into the back seat. “Do you have a blanket in here?”
“You are greatly overestimating my level of preparedness for this situation.”
“A sweater? Jacket? Anything?”
“I might have an old hoodie somewhere.” Easing the car to a stop at the parking garage exit, I check my rearview mirror to confirm that no one is waiting behind me before shifting the gear stick into park. Then I reach behind me and feel around on the floor, grabbing a worn cotton sweatshirt and handing it to her.
She holds up the heathered gray fabric and her pale blue eyes widen as she takes in the faded LSU Grizzlies logo with the year beneath it. “Your freshman year hoodie? I loved this thing.”
I remember. Violet used to wear it all the time, even though it was more like a dress on her. She claimed it was her version of a Snuggie, and she wasn’t wrong. It’s the reason I hardly ever wear it now; just seeing it conjures up memories of her prancing around in it, looking borderline ridiculous and incredibly cute at the same time. Ever since we broke up, it’s been relegated to laying around my backseat in case of emergency.
Or in case of stray dog, I guess.
Violet drapes the sweatshirt over her thighs, creating a makeshift bed, and the puppy makes a few small circles before settling in, curling up in her lap. Still petting him with one hand, she fiddles with the radio, flipping from station to station. Some cheesy song pours out of the speakers, its lyrics bemoaning a cheating boyfriend in the same homeroom who apparently hooked up with the singer’s “bestie.” It’s terrible, which means it’s right up Violet’s alley. Her taste in music has always been questionable.
A few blocks later, I realize I’m driving slower than usual because I don’t want to jostle the interloper sitting in her lap. How did I end up with a dog in my passenger seat and Top 40 music on the radio? Only Violet could land me in this scenario.
“What breed do you think he is?” Violet coos, scratching the puppy beneath his chin. He leans into her hand appreciatively, looking like he’s found doggie heaven.
“I don’t know, some kind of mutt.”
Her jaw drops and she clamps her hands over the puppy’s ears, ducking down to whisper to him. “Don’t listen to him. You’re adorable.”
“It’s not an insult. With those tan and black markings and the shape of his ears and nose, my guess is he’s at least part German shepherd. But I doubt anyone would abandon a purebred, so there are probably some other breeds mixed in there, too.”
A few minutes later, I pull into the parking lot of an after-hours emergency vet clinic that Violet called. Since the puppy is a stray, they said they’d check him out free of charge, which is a relief. I don’t want to have to explain an enormous veterinary clinic charge on my credit card bill to Doug. It wouldn’t go over well.
A tall, burly man with dark, tawny skin and a warm presence enters the room, extending his hand to each of us. “I’m Doctor Singh. I see we have a new friend, here.”
After we give him a quick rundown, Dr. Singh does a cursory physical exam and declares him to be underweight but otherwise in good health, and approximately six weeks old. He holds a white, futuristic device to the puppy’s neck, which I presume is the microchip scanner. It beeps, and his expression clouds over before quickly neutralizing again. Violet looks hopeful, but I already know what’s coming before he says it.
“I’m afraid he doesn’t have a microchip. Without a chip or a collar, there’s no way to locate an owner.”
In other words, this is the politically correct way of saying he’s a street dog.
The way Violet’s face falls is a sucker punch straight to the gut. She doesn’t just look disappointed; she’s devastated. Her chin trembles, and I can see her fighting to steady her breath.
Fuck me.
“The local shelter does intakes until nine p.m.,” the vet tells us, opening a glass jar on the counter and scooping up a handful of treats. He tosses them to the eagerly waiting puppy, praising him for being a good dog. “If you hurry, you should make it.”
Violet worries her bottom lip, eyes flickering between us and the puppy. He wags his tail, snorting while he sniffs around on the floor searching for more treats, blissfully oblivious to his fate hanging in the balance.
“Are they—“ Her voice climbs, cracking. “Are they going to put him down if no one adopts him?” She scoops him up in her arms, clutching him to her chest. The puppy wriggles, whining to be set down so he can continue exploring the office, but Violet doesn’t let him go.
“I can’t say for certain, but the shelter tends to be quite full at this time of year.” He avoids her eyes and turns, heading for the door. “We have free samples of dog food and treats in the back. I’ll give you a minute while I get some for you.”
I hope Dr. Singh doesn’t gamble, because he has a horrible poker face. They are absolutely going to put him down if we take him to the shelter.
Violet spins to face me, stricken. “We can’t let him get put down, Nash. Can you keep him for a while? Foster him until we find him a good home? I promise, I’ll help find the right family to adopt him.”
“I can’t bring home a pet. The guys would kill me. Besides, I don’t even like animals.”
“But you like this one, right? Look at that widdle face.” She stands on her tiptoes, holding him up so we’re almost eye to eye. They both make puppy dog eyes at me, and the puppy whimpers for good measure.
It is disturbingly effective.
I groan. “Why can’t you keep him?”
She sets the puppy on the floor, studying him longingly for a moment before replying. “I would if I could, but Claire’s deathly allergic. A dog licked her hand while we were out for a walk last year, and she swelled up like a hot air balloon. My sister has her hands full parenting three kids while her husband is deployed, so she’s out. And my parents have a grouchy old tabby, Herman, who would claw this puppy’s eyes out in no time flat.”
Her chest heaves, shallow breaths moving in and out rapidly like she’s on the verge of hyperventilation. “But maybe I can see if they’d keep them in separate rooms . . .”
A dull ache settles into my ribs, ironclad resolve starting to crumble. When she stifles a tiny sob, something inside me breaks. She’s cried too many times over me as it is.
I can’t believe this is happening. I can’t believe I’m about to do this. And I wouldn’t, for anyone else.
“I can keep him for now.”
Her blue eyes light up, slightly red and glassy with tears. “You can?”
“Temporarily,” I stress. “Only until we find him a good home.”
She throws her arms around me, squeezing me with an impressive amount of strength for someone her size. I hug her back, trying not to seem like a creep while I inhale her cinnamon-vanilla scent. I don’t want it to end. And it does, all too soon.
Releasing me, Violet bounces up and down on the spot. “Thank you, thank you, thank you. I’ll help you find a home for him. I know your schedule is hectic.”
On the plus side, this gives me another excuse to talk to her.
***
It’s dark by the time we head back to my vehicle, brand-new foster puppy in tow. He peed on the floor at the vet before we left, so at least we should be clear in that respect.
Halfway to Target for dog supplies, Violet asks, “What should we name him?”
“Name him?” I steal a glance at her, signaling to turn left onto the secondary road. “Why? This is temporary, remember?” I have a feeling I’m going to need to keep reminding her of that minor little detail. Knowing Violet, she’s already attached.
“Yeah, but we can’t call him ‘the dog’ or ‘the puppy.’ Dogs have feelings, too. He deserves a proper name.” She tilts her head, studying him in her lap. “Let’s name him something hockey related.”
To her credit, she knows how to win me over.
We start throwing out random hockey slang, trying to find a term that fits. Violet immediately rules out all of the penalties, because she doesn’t want the puppy to be named after what she deems are “on-ice crimes.” She claims it might give him a complex. I think she’s giving the dog entirely too much credit.
“Mitts?” I suggest, offering up a common nickname for hockey gloves.
“That’s cute! Or Deke?”
Not going to lie, I’m more than a little impressed by the depth and volume of Violet’s hockey knowledge. I always knew she was a hockey fan, but I’d forgotten to what extent. It’s refreshing after constantly being surrounded by so many puck bunnies and posers. A lot of girls pretend to like the game to impress me, and it’s painfully transparent. That’s not to say I expect everyone to like hockey or to even care about it, but if you don’t know hooking from tripping, or icing from an offside, do us both a favor and don’t try to fake it.
“Deke’s good,” I say. “Or Biscuit?”
“Biscuit?” Confusion appears on her face.
“A hockey puck. But also, because he’s tan-colored, kind of like a real biscuit.”
Her mouth tugs at my inadvertent admission that I’ve given this more thought than either of us would expect. “I like it.”
“Biscuit it is.”
