Chance ignores me as I try to hand him back the bobblehead. “Even so. Put it on your truck dashboard, or Aubrey will ask questions.”
“What kinds of questions?” Colton says.
“She’s anxious for Mav to find the right woman before he’s famous. She doesn’t want him attracting any gold diggers.”
“Do I look like a guy who’s ready to settle down?”
“You never know.” Chance raises a brow. “Can’t plan everything, Mav.”
* * *
Hannah
I’m squatting under the tarp when I hear voices getting closer to the truck.
“You brought Pixy?” someone says.
Who is Pixy?
“Baa.”
There’s a heavy thump and the truck sways like someone climbed in the bed. Someone’s rustling around at the edge of the tarp, and I shrink back. I swallow my scream as two bulging eyes appear around the corner of one of the boxes.
It takes me a second to realize it’s a goat that I’m making eye contact with from less than three feet away.
“Baa,” it says again as it continues to stare directly at me.
I put my finger to my lips.
Maybe it understands the universal “be quiet” signal because it turns its back on me and lies down in the truck bed.
Shit.
A few minutes pass where I alternate between holding my breath as long as I can and then letting it out as quietly as possible.
I know there are at least four different voices outside the truck, and I’m praying no one sees me when they go to reclaim their goat.
Who has a goat for a pet, anyway?
“…Kick some ass in training camp, Wilds.”
“You too, Court.”
“Text us so we’ll know you’re alive and didn’t get attacked by a bear.”
“Hold onto that bobblehead, Mav. You never know…”
“Fuck you, Chance.”
Laughter follows.
“Be good.”
“Pixy! Let’s go.” The goat—Pixy—clearly responds to its name because it gets up immediately.
Without glancing back at me, it ambles away—I’m assuming out of the truck bed, thank God.
The tailgate slams shut, and I hear some slapping sounds like pats on the back or maybe a handshake, and then the front truck door opens and closes.
