Page 22

Chapter 21

Lia

Center court is covered with puppies, and I think I’m in love. One reason is the dogs running around, and the second is that this was my first pitched idea and Megan agreed to it. If there’s one thing people love, it’s dogs, and if you have a 6’3” basketball forward sitting with one on the floor and making heart eyes, they love it even more.

All jokes aside, this is a great cause. The local shelter is overrun with dogs to adopt, and while the Jags followers will swoon over their favorite player petting a drooly puppy, it brings great visibility to the dogs themselves. I’m hoping a few find their forever homes today.

My heart warms as the players walk in, not knowing what they’re getting themselves into, and immediately brighten when they see the surprise we’ve been keeping. I didn’t even tell Brooks—to be fair, he didn’t really ask. That was something we were clear about: keeping work separate from the two of us, especially because we work together closely. Also, if I don’t set a boundary, I’ll spend time at work thinking about him in ways colleagues should not. His hands. His hands on me. His hands on my—

“All of this is content gold, Lia!” Megan compliments me, immediately stopping my short trip into fantasy land.

I’m filming B-roll content, which are usually pieces to be used later and for other media channels, when I get the pull to look up. Brooks . He smirks at me, which I catch in real time—not through a phone screen—and his cheeks pinch a bit. He offers a slight shake of the head and follows his teammates to center court. Some of the dogs start to bark and jump on the makeshift fence meant to keep them contained.

I move with the team as they shake hands with volunteers, taking pictures and signing jerseys. This is just the pick-me-up I needed. I don’t know if I’ve been sleeping wrong or what, but my body has been sore on and off for the last few days. My typical yoga routine isn’t cutting it—my muscle are still stiff, especially when it comes to my hands and wrists.

Since the shelter is local, all the volunteers seem to be massive Jags fans. We gave each of them jerseys to wear, picking their favorite player, and we asked the team to sign them as they came in. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t smile extra wide whenever someone wanted a Pittman jersey.

Jalen is the first one through the line and immediately steps into the puppy den. He sits on the floor and lets them walk on top of him, licking his face. Since this is a team event, I get to spend more time with players other than Brooks, which is a nice change of pace. The guys are great, especially after Coach made it a point for everyone to meet me. He said, “She’s part of this thing, the least you could do is learn her name.” If other coaches or male execs in the NBA had this sentiment, we’d be closing a smaller gap when it came to women in sports.

I kneel, getting close to Jalen so I can see his face, right as a golden retriever puppy paws at him and ask, “Do you have a pet at home?”

He tries to look at the camera, but the puppy is awfully demanding of his attention. “No, I don’t.”

“Hmm, I feel like today could be the perfect day to find one. Don’t you think?” It’s a joke, but also a suggestion. I don’t expect any of the players to take dogs home, but if they did, that would make me ridiculously happy. Jalen laughs and it’s sort of the perfect reaction.

I’ve always wanted a dog. Wes and I asked for one every birthday and Christmas, and the agreement was when I turned thirteen, we’d get a family dog—I think the idea being Wes and I would be old enough to take care of it. My parents were gone before that birthday. I remember silently crying while my aunt and uncle sang to me, candles burning on a chocolate cake. Wes reached under the table and held my hand so tight, I think to keep himself from crying.

There was no birthday wish that year. The things I wanted weren’t possible, which sort of sucked all the hope out of me. I needed a time machine and even at thirteen, I knew they weren’t real.

Someone playfully bumps into my shoulder, bringing me forward about fourteen years and back to the Jags court. “You good?” Brooks asks.

I put on a smile, the one I’ve practiced for over a decade. It’s best used in public when there isn’t room for the tears or the depressing walk down memory lane. “Yes. All good. Just in a daze watching Jalen roll on the ground with the dogs,” I reply, watching as more Jags players join in.

“He does seem right at home, doesn’t he?” Brooks crosses his arms and I zoom in. Two dogs are pulling at Jalen’s sweatshirt drawstrings and another scratching at his tied shoelaces.

Once I’ve gotten enough content of Jalen, I turn to Brooks. “Tell us about your pet history.” I use my best interviewer voice, the one indicating this is content I’ll want to edit.

He shrugs his shoulders. “Actually, there’s no history. There was a stray cat who would hang outside the rundown court where I spent basically every day after school when I was a kid. I ended up using my lunch money to buy a small bag of cat food and I’d bring a little every day. When it got cold, I convinced my mom to get me a plastic tote, cut a hole in it, and make a spot for it to hide from the elements.”

The tears in my eyes are about to spill over. Is this man for real? A woman must have crafted him from all the things we love about a person. Fuck, I’ve got it bad if I think he’s the equivalent of a man written by a woman , one of my favorite pieces of the romance books I love to read .

“Brooks Pittman, that might be the sweetest thing I’ve ever heard. You used your lunch money?” I try to keep my voice from sounding too shrill. No one likes a voice like that coming through the speakers as you’re scrolling social media.

“Yes. Until my mom found out. Then she started bringing home cat food and helped me with whatever I asked. I think she was praying I didn’t ask to bring it home.” He laughs and crosses his arms. “No dogs, though.”

Brooks looks from me to the dogs hanging out. There’s a solid mix of adoptees; everything from a few puppies to senior dogs in all shapes and sizes. We walk closer and he puts his hands behind his back, leaning over the chaos.

“Get in there. Do it for the content,” I encourage him. “Do it for the dogs.” I mention the tagline I pitched to Megan—let’s try and get the other NBA teams to do something similar or make donations to local shelters. She hesitantly agreed, as long as I didn’t get my hopes up.

Brooks is hesitant but steps over the barrier like it’s nothing—perks of being an NBA player. He’s looking at me while stepping into the dark side. Immediately, he finds some older dogs who are off to the side on scattered beds and blankets. It’s almost like they’re thankful for the break from the chaos. The puppies are with Jalen and some of the other Jags players, jumping and barking; this seems to match perfectly.

I watch as Brooks sits down beside a black and white English bulldog. He’s lying on a blanket, and when we get closer, I can tell he’s shivering. It’s warm in here, in addition to the blankets, so I think he’s scared. My heart drops thinking about what could have happened to him to feel this way. His eyes are wide, and I can’t stop staring at his sweet facial rolls.

I must wear my brain on my sleeve because a volunteer says quietly, “That’s Rocky. He was surrendered a few months ago. His family got a new puppy for a birthday and couldn’t keep both. We’re guessing he’s three years old, so he’s basically a puppy himself.”

The explanation is a punch to the gut. I fight the urge to let tears spill over and instead run to Rocky where my hands pet him, getting stuck on his velvety ears. I’ll never understand how a family can get rid of a pet like that, but according to research while looking for volunteer opportunities, it seems to be fairly common.

“He’s great. Just wants a warm place to sleep. Do you have a dog?” the volunteer asks.

I wish. “I don’t, but I live in a studio apartment with no yard or anything. He’s probably a great fit for me as a person, but not for my current living situation.” I’ve never considered bringing home a dog until now.

It looks like Rocky is warming up to Brooks as he’s sniffing the hand that he holds out. A moment later, the bulldog rolls to his back, exposing his belly, and Brooks’ lips tug on one side as he provides scratches and pets.

I make sure to zoom in to capture the sweet moment with Brooks and Rocky. These two seem to match with their gentle energy. Walking to the space behind them, I lean down and whisper, “Just a reminder, all of these dogs are available.”

Brooks scoffs. “I wish. It’s a terrible thing to work a job that keeps me away from home about half the time during the season.” He looks at me without breaking contact with the wrinkly dog, who is soaking in all the attention.

“They have dog walkers for that. The volunteers have some great leads on people they’d recommend… I made sure to ask, in case any of you were interested in taking one of these sweet babies home. ”

I promised myself I’d only hand out short-lived guilt trips today; a little guilt can go a long way. Some of the players already have dogs at home, and I’m not trying to overwhelm anyone.

Brooks looks down at the dog, whose eyes are on the verge of closing. It’s like he’s in complete bliss. “You seem to think of everything.”

“There’s no pressure. I’m thankful we can bring visibility to a cause like this. Hopefully we can find homes for all of them.”

A few seconds later, a soft snore escapes Rocky, his lips flapping—and my heart melting—with the exhale.

“Jalen, you’re responsible for any accidents that occur outside of this area,” Megan shouts, as he’s taken a puppy out of the fenced-in space and starts rolling a ball towards it. She’s laughing, but everyone knows she means it, which is my favorite thing about her—she can be firm without getting a side-eyed glance or the stereotypical “she’s too direct” comment.

Megan reminds me how close I am to Brooks, who smells like peppermint. I so badly want to wrap my arms around him from behind, press my cheek to his, and convince him to get this dog. He’s the kind of guy you want to touch. Instead, I stand and create some distance before I get carried away.

We get a few group pictures of the volunteers and the team. I even get everyone to do a quick lip sync video for social media, which might be a little cringey, but at the end of the day, some of them are fun to watch.

When I’ve got all I need, I say my goodbyes to the volunteer team so I can get to work on getting the raw footage post ready—the sooner it’s live, the sooner people can adopt dogs from the shelter.

I make the turn from the court into the empty hallway when Brooks catches up to me.

His voice is quiet. “Hey, you have plans tonight? ”

I look around to double check it’s just the two of us. “Plans to do nothing,” I answer, keeping my voice small with several feet between us. “Excited to get cozy and not do much of anything.” It’s a night I have circled on my calendar because I can’t remember the last time I allowed myself to have one like this.

“What if I bring dinner over? We could do nothing together.” Brooks lifts a foot and stretches his quad while peeking down the hall that confirm no one is hanging around.

I nod. “I’ll text you,” I say, trying to hide my smile.

A man that offers to bring dinner? And do nothing? Oof. This is getting out of hand… in the best way.