After ninety seconds—the ideal blending time for peak consistency—I stop the machine, grab a spatula, and scoop out a sample.
Yup. Perfect. Just like it is every day.
I hold out the spatula to Zamboni. “Come here, girl.”
She trots over, sitting before I even have to ask. “You are the best girl in the world,” I say, letting her lick the spatula clean. She asks for more, so clearly, she agrees.
“Don’t worry. When I open the best smoothie shop in the city, I’m naming it after you,” I promise, then send her back to her bed, where she’ll wait until it’s time for a walk.
I pour the smoothie into a stainless steel to-go cup, pop the lid on, then grab my earbuds from the case where I always set them. How people lose these things, I will never understand. Just put them in the same damn place when you’re done. Easy.
I put them in, leash up Zamboni, and say, “Let’s do it.”
We head outside, where I lift my face to the sky. The sun is shining—it’s warm for an October morning in San Francisco.
I take a sip of my kale goodness while Zamboni trots beside me, perfectly in stride. I toggle to my audiobook and hit play on a new book my sister, Hannah, recommended—Own Your Time.The premise? Treat your day like a resource and devote your hours to three main priorities.
For me, that’s a kick-ass final hockey season, my family, and—Zamboni, obviously. This girl has been my main squeeze since my marriage imploded spectacularly two years ago.
But thinking of that shitshow does not align with my priorities whatsoever, so I slash it out of my head.
As I listen, I mentally check off my schedule for the rest of the day, considering how each task aligns with my priorities. The session with my conditioning coach? That’s a no-brainer for goal alignment.
Another appointment with a potential decorator for the house I bought as a retirement gift for my parents? Yup. I want the best for them, but that’s not easy. My mother makes Moira Rose look low maintenance. Mom’s already fired, oh, I don’t know, 478 designers, give or take. Last night on the phone, I finally told her I’m hiring the next qualified one no matter what. And I’ll stick to it. Hopefully I can hire the candidate today since we need to get this moving.
Also, I need to hit the sack early tonight and get a good night’s sleep because this year—my last year in the pros—will be my best. Screw everyone who said I should have retired last season. Hell, screw everyone who ever said I wouldn’t make it in the NHL.
I proved them wrong then, and I’ll do it again now. I’m thirty-six, and I plan to go out on the highest of high notes.
As I round the corner, Zamboni still in perfect heel, I catch a glimpse across the street.
Whoa.
That is one sexy, hot mess of a redhead.
Floral bathrobe. Red pajama pants with—wait, are those martini glasses?
Why the hell is that cute? It shouldn’t be cute. And yet she’s hard to look away from. Her coppery hair is piled into a messy bun. Actually, scratch that. The messiest of buns.
And she’s walking an adorable Doxie. Or really, the Doxie is walking her.
I slow my pace before I even register watching them, considering…saying hello.
Except, nope. Not today. I’m not going to go chat up a random woman walking a dog in my neighborhood. That does not align with any of my priorities.
I snap my gaze forward, the picture of self-discipline. I turn on my block, and ten seconds later, a brown-and-tan Doxie rockets around the corner, trailing a long leash and beelining toward Zamboni. My girl whips around with an apprehensive bark—a ladylike one—as the little dog yaps out an enthusiastic greeting right in Zamboni’s snout.
My pulse settles—the dog’s not attacking—but I’m still on my guard even as a voice calls from behind me, “I’m sorry! He likes dogs!”
I glance around.
Oh. It’s her. And damn. She’s prettier up close, even when arriving in a cloud of chaos.
Freckles dance across pale cheeks. Green eyes flash with amusement as her dog wags its tail so fast it’s practically vibrating. She lets out a low laugh and tugs on thetiny tornado’s leash without looking up at me. “I meant—he’s very friendly.”
“Yeah, I see that,” I say dryly.
“I should have asked first if they could say hi.” She turns around, looking up and meeting my gaze for the first time. “Oh. You’re the?—”
