It’s not cold. For winter, I mean. My research says the team should’ve been playing inside the big dome next to the fields, but they apparently took advantage of the unseasonably warm January temperatures instead.
Unseasonably warm Januaryis still cold though.
Especially for my dog.
I strap Sweet Pea on her pink leash, but I carry her until I’m off the gravel parking lot and on the grass surrounding the soccer fields. Thought about putting her in the baby sling I sometimes use with her, but that’s overkill.
For today.
If Goldie says no today, I’ll try again in a few days with Sweet Pea in the sling.
No one can resist a big burly dude with a tiny dog in a pink sling.
On the chance Goldie is the persuadable type, I pause to snap a few selfies of Sweet Pea and me with Goldie in the background. Can’t see any of the kids’ faces. Not clearly, anyway.
Perfect.
The grass is wet with dew, so I end up carrying Sweet Peaanyway. Make it about three feet toward Goldie’s field before a woman stops me with anawwww, your dog is so cute!
She’s pushing a kid covered with a blanket in a stroller, clearly here for soccer practice for another kid not much older, but there’s no ring.
Damn right I flex the pecs and biceps as she’s petting Sweet Pea. And yeah, damn right I’m not wearing a coat.
If I’m recognized and more people take pictures, I need to look good. Not that it’s likely, but there’s always a possibility.
The fate of the American Rugby League could depend on my pictures.
Also, I’m Fletcher bloody Huxley.
I don’t get cold.
“Are one of these rugrats yours?” the woman petting Sweet Pea asks me with a friendly smile.
“Here for a friend,” I reply.
“Nice morning for it.”
I make a noncommittal noise.
“Need to enjoy it while it lasts, considering the snow in the forecast,” she adds.
“Yep.”
Her kid fusses in the stroller, so she flaps her hands in its direction and gets out of my way.
My marketing coach would be banging his head against a wall.Be nice, Huxley. Say something flirty but not too flirty, show off the Pounders shirt, and tell her she should get tickets to a match.
I look back at the woman opening one of those compartmentalized containers with cut-up grapes and little cheese cubes and browning banana pieces to hand to her kid, and I grimace.
Pretty sure she’s not the rugby type.
I reach Goldie’s field before her practice is over and stay far enough back that I could be a simple guy trying to convince hisdog to take a piss while the dog prances in the cold wet grass and telegraphspick me up, you wanker, it’s cold down here.
But I’m not so far away from practice that I can’t observe the whole thing.
Goldie’s in tight black leggings and an oversize gray sweatshirt withReynolds Park Soccer Clubstamped in large letters on it. Her pink baseball cap has a logo I can’t read from this distance, and her eyes are hidden behind her own sunglasses.
No telling if she’s seen me or not.
