“Not scowling at me.”
I snorted. “I don’t scowl.”
“You do.”
“I don’t.”
His eyes warmed, gold flickering faintly under the bright lights. “You’re not, today.”
I looked away first.
Maybe he was right. The edge in my chest had eased. The constant readiness to argue, to brace for the next misstep, wasn’t clawing at me this morning.
Today, I didn’t have to take control or make any calls. I was merely here to observe and make sure no one else’s dog ended up sick. No responsibility beyond that.
If Chris did well enough in today's heats, maybe I wouldn’t even have to step in at all for the rest of the show.
That sat easier on my shoulders.
A volunteer with a clipboard called for the next batch of competitors to move toward the staging area. The gate steward held up a sign for our class.
“Come on,” I said. “We should head to the crating area.”
We moved through the crowd toward the competitors’ section behind the rings. Rows of wire crates lined the wall, most draped with towels or lightweight covers to keep the dogs calm.
Chris crouched to adjust Pampi’s collar, checking the buckle one more time. She wagged her tail, bright and eager, completely unfazed by the chaos.
He glanced up at me. “I’m doing both rounds of the heats, right?”
I crossed my arms, a smirk tugging at my lips. “Guess we’ll find out if you survive the first run.”
He didn’t fire back. Just nodded, smoothing Pampi’s fur with quiet focus. Huh. That was new.
“You nervous?” I asked.
“A little,” he said, his shoulders tight. “I just want this to go well.”
I remembered what he’d said over dinner. About feeling like he had something to prove. About wanting to do right by Cooper.
“You’ve put in the work,” I said. “And Pampi’s solid. She knows her obstacles. Just run what you practiced. Give her clear cues.”
He nodded again.
“And don’t worry about the suspect,” I added. “I’ll be watching the crowd. You focus on your run and qualifying for the next round.”
He looked at me then. “I’ve got this part covered,” I said quietly. “You’ve got yours.”
Something in his expression shifted. He squared his shoulders, chin a little higher. “Okay,” he said.
A steward called his number.
Chris rose to his feet and gave Pampi a quick shake of her leash to get her attention. “Come on, princess. Warm-up time.”
They started toward the warm-up ring near the entrance of the main course, where a single practice jump and a set of weave poles were set up for competitors to take a few last reps before entering the ring.
I stayed back at the barrier, folding my arms as I watched him go. Chris’s stride had changed. Less restless energy, more intent. Good.
I shifted for a better view of the ring. The judge walked the course again, checking bar heights and spacing, while a steward tested the teeter board. My eyes swept over the A-frame, weave poles, and tunnels. Everything looked standard and secure, nothing out of place.
