“There you are, you little escape artist!” she coos, bending down to scoop up the dog. She notices me standing in my doorway and waves cheerfully. “Morning, neighbor!”
My eye twitches. “Your dog,” I say, my voice dangerously low, “just peed all over my gym bag.”
She blinks at me, then at the bag, then back at me. “Oh.” A pause. “Are you sure?”
Am I sure? Is she serious?
“Yes, I’m sure,” I deadpan. “I watched it happen.”
She approaches, the dog now cradled in her arms like a baby. Up close, I can see the woman is pretty in that effortless LA kind of way, with sun-kissed skin, bright eyes, the kind of face that probably gets her free drinks at bars. Right now, though, all I can focus on is the fact that her untrained pet has potentially ruined my first impression with the Comets.
“Cocoa,” she says, looking down at the dog with mock sternness that quickly dissolves into baby talk. “Did you tinkle on the nice man’s bag? That wasn’t very nice, was it? No, it wasn’t.”
I check the time again. 8:48.
“Look,” I say, struggling to keep my tone civil, “I’m already running late for my first practice with a new team. I don’t have time to—”
“Wait, you’re that new basketball player?” She perks up, her eyes widening. “The shooting guard from Alabama who just got traded to the Comets? I thought you looked familiar!”
I blink. I wasn’t aware anyone in this building would recognize me.
“Dominic Neelson,” I introduce myself automatically, then immediately regret it as she shifts the dog to extend her hand.
“Nicole Farrarah,” she replies with a bright smile. “I live right across the hall from you, in apartment 1403. Sorry about your bag. Cocoa’s a rescue, and he’s still in training. Aren’t you, sweetie?”
Cocoa licks her face in response.
I shake Nicole’s hand briefly, trying not to notice how soft her skin is. “Great. Look, Nicole from 1403, I really need to go, and now I need to figure out what to do about my shoes.”
I crouch down again to examine my high-tops. They’re soaked through. The smell is unmistakable.
“Oh, those don’t look too bad,” Nicole says, peering over my shoulder. “Just a little damp. They’ll dry out in no time!”
I look up at her, incredulous. “These are basketball shoes. I can’t play in wet shoes.”
“Well, you’re in the NBA. Surely you have another pair you can wear…”
I check the time again. 8:51. “These were my only accessible shoes. The rest are still packed away.”
“Ohhh.” Nicole nods sagely. “Right. Recent move problems. Been there. I lived out of suitcases for, like, a month when I first moved in.”
I stand, running a hand through my hair.
“But if it helps, Cocoa is on a special diet. His pee probably doesn’t smell nearly as bad as regular dogs.”
“It doesn’t help. Not even a little bit.” I huff and head back inside my apartment, leaving Nicole standing in the doorway.
Sighing, I make my way to the closet, hoping against hope that there might be another pair of my sponsor’s basketball shoes tucked away in the chaos of boxes. As I swing open the closet doors, my heart sinks. Towering stacks of cardboard filled with who knows what stare back at me, mocking my predicament. There’s no way I’ll find another pair in this mess.
“Wow, you really haven’t unpacked much, huh?” Nicole’s voice startles me, and I turn to see her leaning against my bedroom doorframe, Cocoa still cradled in her arms, tail wagging like he didn’t just commit a mortal sin on my gym bag.
Seriously? Who does this woman think she is, waltzing into my apartment like this?
“Yeah, well, I’ve been a bit preoccupied,” I grunt. “And now I’ve got to deal with dog pee.”
“I’m really sorry, Dom,” she continues. “Can I call you Dom?”
“I mean, my friends call me Dom, but you’re not my—”
