Optimism like that used to scare me. People who thought everything would be fine always rushed in, acting before thinking through the angles. But then… Chris wasn’t like that, was he?
He wasn’t careless. He wasn’t reckless. Yesterday proved it. He’d spotted the hurdle that had been loosened before I even noticed. He’d saved someone’s dog — my dog — from getting hurt.
And I still didn’t know what to do with that.
“About yesterday…” I started.
He looked up, curious. I suddenly hated how warm his eyes looked.
“You did good,” I said, short and clipped, before I changed my mind.
His eyebrows shot up. “You mean I’m not completely useless?”
“I didn’t say that.”
“But you thought it.”
I looked away, jaw tightening. “I didn’t say that,” I repeated, but it sounded weak even to my own ears.
Chris grinned like he’d caught me red-handed. Which, technically, he had.
“Don’t let it get to your head,” I added quickly.
“Too late,” he said, cheerful and a little breathless. “I’m absolutely letting it go straight to my ego. You can’t stop me.”
I rolled my eyes, but there was a flutter of something traitorous in my chest.
“We’re wasting time,” I said, trying to shove my thoughts elsewhere. “I want to get a test run in.”
I grabbed the stopwatch off the equipment cart and tossed it to him. “Here. You time us.”
I clipped Pampi’s leash off and jogged her to the starting line. She bounced on her paws, tail up, eyes bright.
“Ready, girl?” I knelt beside her. “Just a warm-up. Don’t overdo it.”
Chris raised the stopwatch. “Say when.”
“Go.”
We shot forward. Pampi surged ahead of me, weaving clean and low. I took the jumps alongside her, matching pace, guiding her with hand signals and short commands.
Her rhythm was not what it used to be, back when she trained for shows regularly, but considering she’d barely had any practice, she still had it.
Her landing angles were still sharp, her tunnel entry clean.
Her exit had that little hop she always did when she was excited. Her weave pole timing was a touch rusty but smooth enough that I felt a swell of pride kick hard in my chest.
We hit the finish line together, adrenaline humming.
Chris clicked the stopwatch and whistled. “Twenty-three point one.”
“Not bad,” I panted, rubbing Pampi’s neck. “Not bad at all.”
She looked up at me, waiting, tail swishing hopefully. I laughed under my breath and pulled a treat from my pocket. She took it gently, like always.
“Good girl,” I murmured. “Really good.”
But even as I praised her, something in me tightened. The worry. The what-ifs. What if the course was tampered with again? What if she landed wrong once? What if I missed something?
