“We don’t have a name yet,” he tells me.
Immediately, everyone starts talking at once as opinions are given on the best name for the dog. Max skirts the edge of the group, and Vas moves back to make room for him. Again, Micky holds his arms out.
“Do you want to hold him?” he asks.
“Yeah,” Max agrees, dropping his gloves carelessly on the ice and smiling as the puppy is placed into his hands. He wiggles and tips his head backward, trying to lick Max’s face.
“This is very adorable,” Vas says, watching the puppy. I laugh and reach a hand out to stroke silky ears.
“You should call him Liam,” I suggest. Max perks up.
“Yeah! Like Liam Walsh, right?” He lifts the puppy up in front of his face, looking him in the eye. “Are you a Liam?”
“He doesn’t root for Boston!” someone protests, and another round of laughter ripples through the group.
“Or perhaps he is a Draisaitl?” Vas asks, throwing the name of a German NHL player into the mix. The puppy wiggles in Max’s grip, and I watch him longingly. I really, really want to hold him. Max, perhaps seeing the naked desire on my face, chuckles and moves closer.
“Your turn,” he says, before placing the warm little body in my arms.
I’m an animal lover, but even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t be able to resist the pretty brown eyes and deep red fur. He’s impossibly soft. Like all puppies, he’s got layers of skin rolls and his feet appear to be two sizes too big for his body. I want to squeeze the shit out of him.
“You wouldn’t mind being a Boston puppy, would you, buddy?” I whisper, as he chews on the neckline of my practice jersey.
“Can he run around on the ice?” Timmons wonders aloud.
“But what about his tiny feet?” Vas asks, concerned. “It is too cold and slippery, I am thinking. He is only a baby.”
“It would probably be fine,” Lawson says, chuckling at the expression on Vas’ face. “But if you guys just want to carry him around, that’s fine too.”
“We do need to practice today,” Coach Mackenzie puts in, to immediate protest.
“I haven’t gotten to hold him yet!”
“Me either!”
“Comeon, Coach!”
“Everyone can take a turn,” Coach says patiently, which has Anthony Lawson biting back another smile.
Bending my head, I bury my nose against the crown of the puppy’s head and inhale. Puppy smell is right up there with horse smell, if you ask me.
“Stop sniffing the puppy, Bas, it’s my turn.”
Obligingly, I hand off the little guy. Micky moves closer to me. When I turn to him, his eyes are on Coach and not the dog.
“Did you hear what he said?” he whispers.
“Yeah.” It sounded to me like there’s a lot more to the story, but it didn’t look like Coach was enjoying telling us. “I guess it makes sense,” I muse. “Him not being able to see well. He squints a lot.”
“Yeah. I always thought he was really mad at us.”
“Well, he probably is,” I say fairly, nudging Micky with my elbow. His gaze is now on the puppy, who is down on the ice and attempting to rid Max’s skates of his laces. “We’re pretty annoying.”
“Speak for yourself. I never cause any trouble,” Micky retorts. I snort, tipping my head in acknowledgement. He’s not wrong.
“All right,” Coach Mackenzie says. We look over to see one of our teammates morosely handing the puppy back to him. Happily, the puppy licks Coach’s neck as he moves back over to Anthony Lawson. Once he’s safely handed off, Coach turns back around and stares at us in exasperation. “No need to look so glum, we’ll bring him back.”
“But he will be bigger,” Vas points out sadly. Lawson chuckles.
