He wags his tail, then sneezes twice and headbutts my sternum.
Five minutes pass, then ten. I check my phone.
Nothing.
Maybe he bailed. I take a deep breath, a wave of disappointment hitting me in the chest. I spiral for exactly ninety seconds before my phone vibrates with a text.
Dom:Running late, Coach added more cardio. Sorry. Promise I’ll be there.
“See? It’s totally fine,” I assure Cocoa, patting his head. I give Dom’s text a thumbs-up and try not to let my bouncing knee jar Cocoa too much.
Ten minutes of doomscrolling Instagram later, I hear the heavy slap of Dom’s sneakers on the concrete. He’s still in workout clothes, hair wet, and holding what appears to be a gallon-sized bag of dog treats and a small clicker.
“Sorry,” he says with a sheepish grin. “Coach’s new thing is making us run suicides if we lose a scrimmage. And those things are way worse than losing.”
“It’s totally fine.” I grin up at him and then shift, standing to my feet and dusting Cocoa’s fur off my jeans. “For a second, I thought you might not show up.”
Dom gives me a funny look. “Why wouldn’t I? I’ve actually been looking forward to it all day.”
His words land warmer than they should. Like he didn’t just squeeze this into his schedule—like he chose it. Like I’m not an errand.
Dom gestures to the treats in his hand. “You think Cocoa will like these? They’re not organic.”
Cocoa hops off the bench and starts spinning in circles, his tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth like he hasn’t eaten in two years.
“I think that means he’s good with it,” I say, letting out a laugh as I reach down to untangle his leash from under his paw.
“We can work with this,” Dom says, and then kneels to Cocoa’s level, which is a good foot lower than I would’ve expected. “Hey, bud,” he says, voice low and calm. “Wanna learn to not embarrass your mom?”
Cocoa responds by flopping over onto his back and exposing his stomach.
Dom gives him a single pat, then holds up the clicker. “Okay, so first thing,” he breathes out. “You want to click the moment he does what you want. Not a second after. Otherwise, he thinks you’re rewarding whatever he’s doing next. Ready?”
I nod, tempted to salute him or something.
“We’ll start with ‘sit.’ You say it once. If he sits, you click and treat. If not, just wait.” Dom gives me a look, and I turn to my dog, my heart thumping nervously.
Please don’t embarrass me.
“Cocoa, sit,” I say, trying to put some bass in my voice to sound more dominant.
Cocoa stands perfectly still, then turns and sprints for the fountain, jerking the leash right out of my hand.
“Okay, so … he’s not awaitkind of dog,” I call back to Dom as I chase after my little tyrant.
Dom jogs after me, not even winded. He points the clicker at Cocoa like it’s a plastic gun. “Let’s try something easier. Maybe wecan teachcome.” But as the words leave his lips, my dog is already leaps and bounds ahead.
Cocoa is in the fountain, all four paws paddling furiously. I reach for his collar, but he swerves and does a lap around the frog statue, coming out the other side with his tongue hanging out and his fur dripping.
Dom hands me a treat and says, “Watch. Cocoa, come!” His voice booms in a way mine never could.
Cocoa freezes, his ears cocked. He takes three slow steps toward Dom, then stops and shakes, flinging water across the tile.
“Click,” Dom says.
I shake my head. “What?”
“Click!” he repeats with a laugh, and I fumble with the little blue clicker until it makes a sharp snap.
