He deadpans me. “I don’t live under a rock.”
“You play football. It’s practically the same thing.”
He releases some strange mix of a chuckle and a huff, and I snap my head to him, thinking he was choking for a second. It looks as if he doesn’t quite know how to react to my playful comment.
One could mistake it for flirting, but that’s not what I’m trying to do here.
Okay… maybe a little.
But I enjoy seeing the cogs turning in his head when I do. It always looks like he’s trying to conjure up some appropriate response, sifting through many that are a little risky before settling on a more safe-for-work one.
Boring.
We’re taking Mr No Name for a walk today now that his leg is pretty much healed. It’s obvious he’s been on walks before, as he lifted his paws for us to put on his harness, and that only makes me feel even sadder for him.
He was once someone’s baby—someone’s beloved pet—and they abandoned him. Yet, he’s so forgiving. He looks at humans as if they stand on a pedestal before him. As if they’re superior to him.
If only he knew.
The grass of the field behind the shelter sways gently in the breeze, the mucky green strands crisping up under the warm glow. Wildflowers dot the landscape, their floral fragrance mingling with the earthy scent of the soil beneath our feet. Large trees surround us, too, their leaves vibrant, birds balancing on their branches and chirping as Mr No Name runs beneath them.
It warms my heart. This place is a refuge for the dog, away from the confinement of the cold kennel he currently calls home. He looks so happy, and it immediately brings a smile to my face.
He deserves a home. And a name.
Nathan’s stomach growls beside me, and I whip my head to him. “You didn’t eat before we came out?”
“I was running laps. Didn’t have time.” There’s a brief pause before Nathan asks, “What’s your favourite food?”
I arch my eyebrows. It makes my lips curl upwards because I know he’s trying to make casual conversation, and this is his version of it. I appreciate the effort.
It’s actually kind of cute.
“My friend, Flo, makes these incredible turkey-club sandwiches. I don’t know what she does to them because she refuses to tell me, but I could eat them every day.”
“Maybe she wipes her armpits with the bread.”
My eyes widen, and I snicker, covering my lips.
Nathan’s comment sounded like it was supposed to be a joke, but he said it so casually that it made it funnier.
“Do you know what? Even if she does do that, it tastes damn good, so I wouldn’t even mind.”
Nathan rolls his eyes above me, his mouth turning down disgustingly.
“What’s yours?”
“My what?”
“Do you have a football inside there instead of a brain?” I point to his head. “Your favourite food. What is it?”
He sighs, tapping his fingers against the dog leash he has wrapped around his large hand while he thinks. I’m unsure if it’s a nervous twitch. “I’m not sure. Nobody’s ever asked me that before.”
The media and fans ask him questions all the time, and I assume at leastsomeonewould be interested enough to know what his favourite food is.
But then I’m reminded that the news reporters want to sell a story, and unfortunately, an article about Nathan Slater’s favourite food wouldn’t be a hit.
“Probably peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. I don’t really care for fancy food,” he says after a few minutes—I thought he wasn’t going to answer.
