But then Mama Paws takes a breath, and I know—I fucking know—we're about to hear something bad.
"Frank, honey. I'm so sorry, but... the shelter won't be needing the bar for the fundraiser anymore."
Frank blinks. "What are you talking about?"
Fundraiser? Shelter?
My brain's playing catch-up, trying to piece together context clues like I'm on a game show where the prize is understanding what the fuck is happening.
Her eyes are watering now. Actual tears pooling at the corners, threatening to spill over.
Oh no. I can't handle crying. Especially not from nice ladies who smell like lavender and get attacked by kittens.
"We have to close the shelter," she says, and her voice cracks on the wordclose.
The bar goes silent again. That heavy, awful silence that feels like the air's been sucked out of the room.
Frank looks like he's been slapped. "Celeste. What—why?"
She takes a shaky breath. "The city's demanding an emergency inspection right after Christmas. We already passed one earlier this year, but apparently they received anonymous complaints. If we don't pass this one, we lose our operating license."
"Then you'll pass," Frank says immediately, like it's simple.
Judging by Mama Paws' face, it's not that simple.
She shakes her head and whispers, "The shelter—we specialize in animals no one else wants. The old ones. The sick ones. The ones with behavioral problems. We promised every single one of them that they're safe with us. That they have a home until they find their forever family."
A tear escapes, rolling down her cheek, and I watch The Giant's face crumple like someone just told him Santa isn't real. "I don't know how to break that promise," she continues, voice cracking. "But I don't see another choice."
Frank's jaw is tight. "What do you need? What's wrong with the shelter?"
Mama Paws starts listing things, and with each item, my stomach sinks further. "The roof leaks. We were supposed to fix it this fall, but the heating system died and that took priority. The outdoor play areas need repairs. The fencing is falling apart, the gates don't lock properly, it's a safety hazard. And the city updated the codes for medical supply rooms, so we need to renovate ours to comply."
She pauses, takes another breath. "And Jimmy, he does his best with repairs, but his back is bad. He can't do everything, especially not on this timeline. Plus we're—" Her voice drops even lower. "We're two hundred thousand dollars in debt with the local vet clinic."
I choke on air.
Two hundred thousand dollars?
What the fuck do you even do with two hundred thousand dollars? Buy a house? A small yacht? Forty thousand cups of mediocre coffee?
The Giant's voice cuts through the thick silence. "Oh, that's not a problem!"
And suddenly the entire hockey team is nodding, agreeing, talking over each other.
"We'll cover it—"
"Easy—"
"Done—"
The Comedian's already pulling out his phone. "What’s your Venmo—"
My heart does a hopeful flip. These guys are just going to... pay it? Just like that?
Maybe I was wrong about the penguin comparison. These are good penguins. The best penguins.
But Mama Paws is shaking her head, and that hopeful flip turns into a nauseated flop.
