Page 10

SEVEN

AUGUSTE

Tired doesn’t cut how I feel today.

Physically wrecked almost does, though. My muscles are sore from extra drills. Head foggy from lack of sleep. My body's running on fumes and coffee I didn’t even finish.

But none of that compares to the war going on in my head.

Every time I close my eyes, she’s there.

Courtney— goddamn —Nilsson.

With her dark, unruly curls, soft, distracting mouth, and the bright, furious blue of her eyes. I’m trying not to want her. Not to think about her. But the more I resist, the more unraveled I become.

It’s a vicious cycle I can’t end.

Not even now, knowing I shouldn’t be looking for her in every hallway. Every door. Every breath of air in this goddamn facility. All while I tell myself it's my subconscious nit picking my actions.

That’s a lie.

I’m on the phone with étienne, walking the corridor on autopilot. I don’t even realize where I’m going. I’m just trudging along wondering how in the fuck I’ve seen Courtney every day at the facility. In one way or another she’s ended up in the same place as me—except for today.

After this morning, I have never wanted to see someone, bump into a woman, or have a damn photo taken of me as much as I did today. I was ready to make her understand no one turns their back on me, especially not her.

Fate has other ideas, though.

“You sound dead, baby bro,” étty says through a laugh .

“Feel it,” I grunt, rolling my shoulders back to ease the tension mounting between my shoulder blades.

“You guys already killing each other over there?”

“Coach had me on extra drills this morning.”

There’s a beat of silence before he bursts out cackling. “Still pissed about what happened with his daughter?”

“Man can hold a fucking grudge, bro.”

étty whistles low. “Dude. If you’d put a puck to my kid’s skull, you wouldn’t be breathing. So there’s that.”

“If you saw it happen, you’d know it wasn’t like that.”

“Don’t care. You make my kid bleed, I’m going to rip your insides out.”

Fuck me, he’s always so damn melodramatic. His wife is a saint for putting up with his over the top bullshit.

“Don’t take it personally, it’s a father thing.” étty waits a beat before he asks, “Feeling homesick yet?”

I think about it. Really think. After Paps brought it up yesterday, I’ve been thinking about it, and in spite of what I told him… “Not really.”

“Oh?”

“I’ve been too busy gearing up for the season.”

“Too busy getting back into Bobby Nilsson’s good books, you mean.”

“Shut up.”

étty laughs, full and fondly. “You miss the twins?”

The mention of his boys actually pulls a smile out of me. “Obviously.”

étty and I spent our summer trying to teach them to stand in their skates. With Paps running the rink and peewee hockey back in Rimousky, we always spend a lot of our time there.

“They’ve started standing steady in their skates now. We were at the rink yesterday, and they didn’t fall once. Marley was nearly in tears.”

“You get a video?”

“Duh! They looked like tiny drunks, but hey—upright is upright.”

The ache in my chest loosens a little at the picture he paints. “Still better form than your slapshot.”

“Bite me, asshole. At least I don’t swing like a moose on ice.”

“At least moose don’t lose to Columbus.”

“Touché.”

He chuckles again, quieter this time. “Marley says hi, by the way.”

“Tell her I miss her cooking… not in front of Mom, though. ”

Another chuckle. “She misses having someone appreciate it. All I get are those damn banana pancakes and ‘you better eat this before the kids do.’”

“That’s what you get for breeding your own hockey team.”

He groans. “Don’t. Bro, she wants a girl so bad. Says she’s not stopping ‘til there’s one pink pair of skates in the house.”

“Maybe this time it’s a girl.”

“Nope. I know we’re having another boy… and I’m so not ready for a third set of fists swinging around here.”

“Don’t lie. You encourage that shit like it’s your pastime.”

étty laughs. I laugh. And it feels good—talking to him, centering my head, and remembering the rhythm of home. Even if I haven’t truly missed it since I hit Courtney with that puck.

My mind is too wrapped up in her—it’s fucking dangerous. A disaster in the making, and still…

I’m here. Walking these halls after her while I listen to étienne talk my ear off about how he needs to prepare his wife for another boy when we both know it’s him that needs preparing.

“Your boys run circles around y—” I stop the instant I hear the throaty laugh.

Courtney.

She’s in the PT room ahead. And she’s not alone.

I hear her laugh again—bright, soft, completely unaware of the way it tears into me.

“I love dogs,” she croons. “And you are just the cutest, Rusty.”

PT Jordan laughs back.

Fuck me.

There he is, sitting on a massage table with a goofy grin on his face while Court fusses over his lapdog. When she leans in for a closer pet, he does the same—as always he flirts too close and talks too much. “You ever have a dog?”

“I always wanted one growing up. A boxer… they’re strong and stubborn and loyal. Kinda dorky, but serious when they need to be,” she says at the same time as étty groans, “Are you fucking listening?”

“Sure,” I tell him even though my only focus is on where fucking Jordan puts his hands next.

They’re hovering precariously close to Court’s shoulders, inches away from brushing her curls as she goes on, “My mom was always a big no. Too much responsibility when we moved around a lot. Then she remarried and my stepdad’s allergic. ”

Jordan chuckles, dropping his hands when Courtney pulls back from his dog. “Well, if you ever wanna babysit this guy,” he nods to the Jack Russell, “he’s a total cuddler.”

My jaw locks.

Over my dead body.

I hang up on étienne without saying goodbye, pivoting fast and walking away down the hall as two of the guys round the corner to start their own PT session.

I don’t know what the fuck I’m thinking when I pull out my phone and start searching.

Boxer dogs.

Just as Courtney said, the Kennel Club describes them as protective, loyal, smart, and needy. Good with families which is a must if I’m going to take the dog home with me to Rimouski. The twins would love it.

I come out of the information website and scroll further down the search page until I see the listing.

When I click into it, I’m met with the headline for the ad—runt of the litter. Black and brown. One white paw.

And only a two-hour drive away.

Without a second thought, I tap the number and call.

A gruff voice answers after a few rings, “Yeah?”

“Uuh…” Shit, I’m really doing this. “I saw your listing for the boxer puppy. Is he still available?”

“The runt? Yeah, last one left,” the breeder says. “Five months, goin’ on six. Small for his age. Scrawny little guy, honestly. Not what most people are lookin’ for in a dog like this.”

“I’ll take him.”

“You wanna come see him first?” The guy asked, confused.

“No,” I say. “I’ll pick him up within the next two hours.”

A beat of silence. “Alright… but no returns.”

“Fine with me.” What asshole would return an animal like it’s a possession? Fucking sickos.

“Ugh, well, we’ll need ID and what not to make sure everything is above board.”

“Sure.”

“Okay, then… we’ll be here and I’ll get him ready for ya. Send me an email and I’ll reply with the pick up address and all relevant documentation to it.”

I hang up with a “thanks” and “see you soon”, then email the address on the listing my interest like the guy asked me to .

The sun’s still up when I pull out of the facility lot, punching the address into my GPS.

When I finally pull into the gravel driveway, the sky’s already bleeding pink and gold.

The pup is small. Sleepy-eyed as he crawls over to me on the porch, nipping at the hem of my jeans until I crouch down and he paws his way up onto my thigh.

The critter is barely forty pounds and sixteen inches. But he’s got presence.

Holding him to my chest with one arm, I let him chew on the edge of my hood while I sign the paperwork with the breeder and send him payment.

When I get in the car I place him in the passenger seat, nestled in my hoodie. He seems to love it enough that he curls into a tight ball behind my kit bag that I’m using to make sure he doesn't slip and slide anywhere.

The little guy is a character and I just know that no matter what happens, I’m not going to regret taking him home with me. The same way, I’m certain Court is going to fucking melt for him.

I can just picture that soft smile of hers, beaming in her eyes as she pries him from me and showers him with her attention and affection…

“You’re gonna help me win her,” I whisper past the murmur of jealousy that stirs in my chest.

And just like that, the dam breaks.

I’m not just hooked on the girl. I’m absolutely fucked.

This isn't curiosity.

This isn’t guilt.

This is need. An obsession—twisted and sharp and bottomless.

Because whether Courtney knows it or not, she’s mine.

By the time I roll back into the city, the sky is streaked with dying gold.

I veer off the road just before reaching the building and pull into the public lot a few blocks away.

No way I’m parking in the underground garage tonight—not if there’s even the slightest chance Courtney might head down there. Not if it risks her seeing my car.

The puppy snoozes in my lap, tiny and warm and curled like a comma.

His white paw twitches when I kill the engine and the music stops.

Wrapping him up in my hoodie, I cradle him to my chest. I swear he thinks he’s a human baby with the way he nuzzles his nose into me, away from the light ocean breeze .

I slip into my apartment quietly, looking over my shoulder to make sure there’s no sign of Courtney.

The place is blanketed in the soft evening light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ocean glows faintly in the distance, a silvery outline as I deposit the pup on the kitchen island beside my MacBook and the small bag of kibble the breeder gave me for tonight.