She picked up.
“Ford just ate my shoes. And my … Amemento. Where do I take him to get his stomach pumped?”
“Calm down. How much did he actually swallow?” She was usingthat soothing voice on him now. Oddly, it worked.
“I don’t know. Looks like he shredded a couple pairs ofshoes and chased it with … other stuff.”
“Hang up and text me a picture of the damage.”
T.J. did, and she called him back, declaring the dog to beokay. “Did I see the remnants of a hockey stick?”
“Uh, yeah.”
“Just keep a close eye on him. And be sure to take him outfrequently to go potty. Has he had dinner yet?”
T.J. glanced at his watch. 6:38 p.m. “Shit, I totallyforgot.”
This garnered another laugh. “He’s probably hungry. Give himsome real dog food, then take him outside. Take twoaspirin and call me in the morning.”
“What? I give him aspirin?”
“No! Never give a dog aspirin. I was referring to you, andthat was a joke.”
He slumped in relief. “I think I’ll take two shots ofJameson instead.”
“After you feed Ford and take him outside to do his business.Then I suggest pulling out some of those chew toys you bought today. “Night.”
“Wait! Does this count as two calls or one?”
“Well, let’s see. You called me, and I called you back.Pretty sure it counts as one call.”
The call over, he cracked his neck, easing his shoulders. Until he remembered the mess. God, my stick!
T.J. picked up the biggest pieces and laid them reverentlyon the top shelf of his closet as though preparing a body for burial. It hadbeen his good luck charm. Now he was out of work and out his lucky stick. Howthe hell was he ever going to get back to where he’d been?
From out of nowhere, it occurred to him that Kevin May waslikely asking himself a similar question.
CHAPTER 12
Who (the Hell) Let the Dogs Out?
After cleaning up the mess andgiving Ford his real dinner—which the dogpromptly scarfed—T.J. took him to the third-story dog park. The term “park”was, at best, the product of an overzealous imagination. Flanking one side ofthe parking garage, the open space consisted of artificial grass and colorfulplastic shapes that reminded T.J. of play structures.
As he inspected the all-important dog-waste-baggiedispenser, he didn’t see the little foofy dog untilFord broke his hold and pounced on it, eliciting a sharp, yippy bark. Fordsprawled on his belly, nudging the white ball of fur with his nose.
The snippy lady from the garage began wailing, “Oh, Coco!”
T.J. hadn’t noticed before, but the woman was a dead ringerfor Marge Dursley from Harry Potter before sheblew up and floated away. When she spied T.J., she pointed a crooked finger athim. “Get your miserable mutt off my Maltese!”
“Ford!” T.J. ordered in his sternestI-am-the-supreme-commander-of-your-ass voice. Ford didn’t care that T.J. wassupreme commander and ignored him. T.J. grabbed the leash and tugged. The dogdidn’t move, so riveted was he on the sharp-barking mop. The woman howled, soT.J. gave another quick jerk. Ford rolled over and lay docilely, letting theminiscule dog sniff his junk. Dude, seriously? Man up!
While Marge screeched, her dog pranced around a prone Ford.T.J. reached out and rubbed its little head—why, he hadn’t a clue—and it waggedits curly tail. He scooped the dog up and handed it to the woman. “Your dog’sfine.”
She slid T.J. a scathing scowl. He gave Ford’s leash a yankand was surprised when his dog not only got up but saton his haunches at T.J.’s side like a master. T.J.’s chest might have puffed.
Unwilling to tempt fate and get stuck in an elevator withMarge, T.J. lingered in the freezing park. Hands in his pockets, watching Fordpoke around, he began pondering what the hell he was supposed to do with thedog when he went to the arena for training tomorrow.
Hadn’t thought that through either.
What a dumb fuck! He never should’ve walked out of theshelter with the damn dog in the first place. But how could he not with NatalieAmber Eyes enthusing over what a great guy he was for rescuing the mutt? Yep,not the first time logic had deserted him because of a pretty face. Beyondthat, though, there had been something that twanged his heartstrings when hefirst saw pathetic Buddy Boo—a name even more ridiculous than Ford Fido, ifthat was even possible.
The animal had looked at him with his head tilted and thosecrossed copper eyes, and he must have read “Sucker” on T.J.’s forehead becausehe’d intensified the look and held T.J. spellbound, telepathically pleading tobe saved. Little did T.J. know what a great actor this dog was.Or maybe he’d simply seen his own past reflected in the dog and decided that,this time, he’d make things right.
Having solved the mystery of the dispenser, T.J. picked upFord’s mess, along with a Coco-sized deposit—nice going, Marge. Back inthe condo, T.J. poured himself a double Jameson, hoisted his feet on the now-uprightcoffee table, and clicked on the TV, settling in to watch his new team’s awaygame. Ford leaned against his legs like he belonged there, and T.J. patted hishead. The dog let out a whine. The crying grew more persistent, so T.J. leashedhim up, threw on a hoodie, and returned to the chilly park. Only to watch Fordsniff around and do absolutely nothing akin to relieving himself while T.J.froze his balls off.
This little game repeated itself several more times over thecourse of the evening until Natalie texted him to ask how Ford was.
He’s a pain the ass. Visited the dog park 4 x the past hr alone.
Dog park? No yard?
I’m in a condo. It’s temporary.
Especially temporary now. Abackyard had just moved to top spot on his priority list.
You know he’s working you, right? shetexted helpfully.
Figuring that out. How’s ur SUV?
Fixed. Also, A & M are here day after tmw so bring Ford over.
Ok. Hey, does this count as a call?
More helpfulness from Natalie, reminding him what an asshat he was. No, it’s a text.
So I can text u all night and it won’t count?
Night, Tyler.
Wait. Forgot to tell u I gave
