Page 5 of Flagrant Foul (Totally Pucked #3)

Teddy “T-Dog” O’Reilly

I drive a push pin through the top right corner of the flyer and then the left.

It’s slightly crooked, so I pull the right one out and adjust it.

Though I’m tempted to pull the left one out too and start over from scratch, I manage to restrain myself.

I’ve already overthought this flyer business more than I ever thought I could ever overthink something like this, and I swear to God, I cannot afford to waste any more time on it.

This is the third flyer I’ve put up. I had a picture of Ragnar on the first iteration, but I woke up in the night in a hot sweat, convinced someone would see it and hatch a plan to steal him.

I was slightly more rational by morning, but I decided to remove the image from the flyer all the same. The second version had a typo.

Let’s hope to God this one does the trick.

I step back from the bulletin board and take in my handiwork. Objectively, it looks like it was made by a fifth grader. And that’s if I’m being kind .

I’d love to rip it down and start again, but I don’t have time.

Either this fucking flyer is going to work and I’ll find someone in my building to watch my fish, or I’m going to have to fly my mom in from Alabaster to do it for me.

It’s that simple. I’ve been in an absolute state about Ragnar for the past few days.

Thank God my mom’s prepared to help this time, but it’s obviously a short-term fix.

I travel way too much for it to be an ongoing solution.

“Are you the one who needs help with your fish?” says a minuscule woman who seems to have appeared by my side out of nowhere.

She has a round face, blue eyes, and pink cheeks, and looks to be in her late seventies or early eighties.

She’s giving hardcore granny vibes courtesy of her short, curly white-gray hair, and is wearing a pair of navy-blue pumps, a navy-blue blouse with a matching skirt, and has a navy-blue handbag tucked under her arm.

“I am,” I say, a prickle of hope sprouting in the back of my mind.

She rummages through her bag, flicks open a pair of cat-eye spectacles, and arranges them on the tip of her nose.

The frame is severely encrusted with multicolored crystals and the lenses distort her eyes, making them appear at least twice their size.

She studies me closely—and if I’m not mistaken, with some judgment.

When she’s got the measure of me, she snaps the glasses off and puts them back into her purse.

“Very well,” she says with a curt nod. “I will look after your fish.” Before I have time to decide whether she looks like a responsible enough person to take care of Ragnar, she adds, “I love Betta splendens.”

That takes me by surprise and buoys me immeasurably. Putting the flyer up was an act of desperation. I wasn’t expecting much from it, and I certainly wasn’t expecting a stranger in my building to know the scientific name of Ragnar’s species. It bodes well.

“So, like, do you know much about fish?” I say.

“Do I know much about fish?” she tuts. “Of course I do, dear. I’ve been alive for eighty-two years, and I’ve kept fish for seventy-four of those years. Not to toot my own horn, but I’m an expert in the field.”

I can tell I’ve managed to offend her, so I attempt to make reparations. “Wow. I’m lucky to have found you.”

“You are,” she agrees. She walks to the elevator, presses the button several times in quick succession, and waits for the doors to open. “Come up. I’ll show you around my place, and then you can decide if you trust me with your fish. ”

Something about the way she says it makes it seem more like an instruction than a suggestion, so I follow her into the elevator without asking any more questions.

“I’m Mavis, by the way,” she says as the elevator doors close, “but you can call me Mae.”

“Teddy,” I reply, extending my hand and shaking hers.

“May I call you Theodore?”

“I mean, it’s not my name, but sure. Why not.”

“In that case, I’ll try it out and see how it goes.” When the elevator comes to a stop and the doors open on the eighth floor, she points down and says, “Mind the fucking mat, dear.”

It’s one of those odd, out-of-place things that stuns me momentarily and leaves me wondering whether it really happened or if I imagined it.

But no, it happened. This little old lady casually dropped the f-bomb into the conversation completely unprovoked, and now she’s acting like it’s normal.

I use a little more caution exiting the elevator than I usually would, gingerly stepping onto the welcome mat laid out on the threshold.

Mae throws an eyeroll at the door across the hall and leans in conspiratorially. “It’s the Thompsons. Ob sess ed with improving the tone of the building , they are. Their words, not mine. Never mind the fact that it’s a tripping hazard. Or that it’s ugly as fuck. ”

“D-do you say fuck a lot?” I ask stupidly.

Her cheeks bunch in a sweet smile. “I do, dear. I believe in it. Did you know that on average, people who cuss a lot live five years longer than those who don’t?”

“I-I didn’t know that.”

“Well, that’s because I just made it up, but it could be true. It’s probably true. Actually, I’m quite sure it’s true. You can quote me on it if you’d like.”

“Thanks,” I say as she unlocks her door and pushes it open.

Her apartment is a riot of color. It’s painted a sunny yellow from floor to ceiling with an excess of bright cushions and crocheted blankets on the couches.

There’s a timber cabinet in the dining area with mismatched teacups and saucers and a beaded curtain screening the door to the kitchen.

On the opposite wall, there’s an enormous tropical fish tank filled with tetras, danios, mollies, and cherry barbs.

The tank is a beast. The aquascape is impressive.

Driftwood, rocks, and plants have been expertly arranged to give the tank a mystical feeling.

Moody lighting hits water and glass and refracts, casting shards of blue and green light across the room.

It's clear at a glance that Mae wasn’t kidding. She might well be more of a fish enthusiast than I am .

She motions for me to take a seat on the couch and disappears behind the beaded curtain. When she returns, she hands me a cookie and a shot of tequila.

Her features are arranged in an expression that’s dead serious, but just beneath the surface, there’s a flicker of humor in her eyes that can’t possibly be missed.

I sit back and chuckle. “You’re not like other grannies, are you, Mae?”

“That depends on what you think other grannies are like.”

“I think they’re normal.”

“Normal is overrated, dear.”

We take a bite of our cookies and chew silently. When we’ve both swallowed, she raises her shot glass to me and takes a small sip of tequila. I do the same.

“So, tell me about this fish of yours.”

“Well, his name’s Ragnar and he’s a lovely boy. Obviously very beautiful and rather high-strung as a result.” Mae dips her head earnestly. “He’s very happy as long as everything goes his way. He likes human company. Hates other fish.”

“Mm-hmm.” Mae nods again and gets up, taking the blanket from the couch she was sitting on.

“Okay, so here’s what I’m thinking,” she says, walking to the fishtank and holding a corner of the blanket in each hand with her arms stretched out wide.

“I stand like this when you bring his tank in, so he can’t see my fish.

We can keep him in the kitchen. The light’s good in there and I’m in and out all day, so he won’t be lonely, and most importantly, he’ll never suspect he’s in a home with other fish. ”

Perhaps it’s the tequila, but for some reason, it touches me deeply that Mae is prepared to go to such lengths to make Ragnar feel at home.

My anxiety has been terrible since Leyton moved out.

I’ve been sleeping badly and feeling like a massive asshole for owning a pet when I travel so much for work, but now, for the first time in days, I feel lighter.

This could work. Mae knows her stuff. The apartment is nice and looks safe. Ragnar will be in good hands. On top of all that, it means I don’t even have to find a new roommate. I can finally have my place to myself.

Talk about winning.

Mae folds the blanket and puts it back over the couch. “The flyer said you travel a lot. What is it you do?”

“I’m a hockey player.”

“Hockey?” she asks, scrunching her nose. “Quite a savage game, isn’t it?”

“It is,” I reply with a hint of pride .

She unleashes a beatific smile. “How nice. I’ve always been a fan of savagery myself. What position do you play?”

“Goalie.”

She takes another bite of her cookie and chews thoughtfully. “Does it ever bother you that thousands of people sit directly behind you each game, with a full view of your ass?”

I clear my throat and bite back a dry cough. “To be honest, I’ve never really thought about that until now, Mae.”

Her beatific smile turns mischievous. “I bet it will bother you now, won’t it?”

“I bet it will. Thanks for that.”

Mae raises a hand to her mouth in a faux attempt to hide a truly evil cackle.

I laugh without meaning to. Without taking a second to decide to do it.

Without thinking about whether it’s appropriate or polite, or if the situation calls for it.

It’s a belly laugh that’s not about what she said or the fact that she’s laughing.

It’s because I like her. I like this crazy old lady a crazy amount.

She’s fucking nuts, and I’m here for it.

It almost never happens anymore that I meet someone and like them without reservation.

It feels really good .

Without meaning to, I spend over an hour at Mae’s. We talk utter shit and make each other laugh over more and more ridiculous things.