It’s weird. But whatever.
On the way to the clinic, Moxie told me about this particular patient and how the owner is becoming a regular. Not that I asked. He’s been attempting to buddy up to me for the last three weeks, and he’s obnoxiously likeable so it’s harder than it should be to turn him down. I’m sure he’s befriending me in the hopes of getting me to mesh better with the team, but I don’t see why he bothers. I’m only here for a few months, and it would be better if I didn’t have any reasons to consider staying in California when the season ends.
I have a home. I have a team. Everything here is temporary.
Yeah, my flat is quieter than I’d like, but connecting to people will only make my situation more complicated than it already is, and I’d rather face the loneliness than uncomfortable goodbyes down the road. So Moxie had better not take forever, or I might look into scheduling a rideshare to take me home so I can—
“I’m going to kill you!”
I jump to my feet, suddenly on high alert as something crashes down the hall following the angry shout. Cursing, I race toward the only lit room and barrel inside, ready to save Moxie from his apparently murderous client. Something flies at me before I can get a look at the situation, and sharp pain radiates down my arm at the same time a feminine voice screams, “Beef!”
Flailing against the stinging weight on my arm, I stumble off balance and smash into a rolling chair. A high-pitched wail—a siren?—deafens me as the stinging shifts from my arm to my shoulder while the chair I’m on careens forward and crashes into a wall of cupboards.
“Logan!”
Next thing I know, I’m on the floor, Moxie is looking down at me with wide eyes, and I’m staring up at a ball of brown fur on top of the cupboards overhead and realizing the source of the stabbing pain.
“You good, man?” Moxie asks, holding his hand out to me.
I clap my hand into his, and only then do I realize my arm is bleeding from several long, thin scratches across my skin. “Perfect,” I grumble, letting him help me sit up. I’m used to getting battered during matches, but no rugby injury has ever stung quite like this does. Are cats venomous and I didn’t knowit? Each scratch is already turning into an angry welt on either side of the pooling blood.
I curse again. This isn’t what I signed up for tonight.
“I am so sorry,” a feminine voice murmurs.
My eyes jump to the other side of the room, where Moxie’s client is pressed into a corner and peeking through her fingers. Her hands cover her face, leaving me with no idea of what she looks like or how angry I should get at her for subjecting me to her demon cat.
“We should get that cleaned,” Moxie says. “Are you allergic?”
“Dunno,” I say, still staring at the cat’s owner. Since she’s the only person in here with Moxie, she shouted murder threats, which explains a bit about the murderous cat; it had to have learned its behavior from somewhere.
“Savannah, see if you can get Beef into the carrier,” Moxie says next. His eyes rise to the cupboards, a bit of wariness entering his expression as he adds, “Carefully.” Lifting me to my feet, he gestures me toward the sink and starts grabbing various supplies from a different cupboard as I rinse my arm under the tap. He tosses something to the woman, who drops her hands to catch it and finally gives me a view of her face.
She looks to be in her late twenties, old enough that she should know how to control her cat, and my frustration flares. She’s also exceptionally pretty, with a dark blonde plait trailing over her shoulder and striking green eyes on either side of a pert nose. She probably gets away with anything she wants, particularly when men are involved.
Now I get why Moxie was so ready to drop everything to help her out tonight.
Ripping open the package Moxie threw to her, Savannah brings it close to the cat and whispers soft words to him.
The animal’s ears perk up, and he stands.
Another swear slips off my tongue as I get my first look at the animal’s size. “He’s huge.”
Moxie chuckles without looking away from the bandage he’s opening. “Biggest cat I’ve ever seen,” he agrees. “He was twenty-three pounds last time I weighed him.”
“He’s twenty-four now,” the woman—Savannah—says right as the cat jumps from the cupboard onto the metal exam table with athunkand paces toward her, his giant, fluffy tail in the air. “There’s a good boy, Beef.”
“You named your cat Beef?” The question slips out of me before I can hold it back. It’s none of my business, and the less time I waste, the better. At least now I have an excuse to make Moxie take me back home instead of extending this disastrous night.
Savannah doesn’t respond right away, busy using what looks like a tube of paté to lure the cat closer to the carrier. Moxie starts rubbing some kind of ointment on my arm, leaving the room in an uncomfortable silence while they’re both focused on the tasks at hand.
I’m usually fine with silence—prefer it—but this is hellish. I’m not sure why.
When the cat’s nose is directly in front of the open carrier, Savannah grabs him and shoves him forward. He yowls, but she manages to get him inside and close the door with some obvious effort. “Gotcha!” she shouts as the yowling continues. “That’s what you get for lying about being hurt!” Then she looks at meand winces. “I really am sorry. I was frustrated and riled him up, and then when you showed up out of nowhere, he…”
“I think you have a guard cat on your hands,” Moxie says, pressing a bandage over the first of my cuts. For a rugger with a decent tackle, he’s surprisingly gentle with his hands. And while I’m not an animal, it’s easy to see he’s good at what he does based on his confident manner.
I haven’t gotten used to the fact that most of the players on the Thunder have full-time jobs. I knew their paychecks were smaller than what I’m used to, but for some of them, rugby is simply a hobby. Moxie’s one of the few who put as much dedication into their game as they do their job, and I don’t know how he does it. It’s one reason I can’t be completely annoyed with players when they miss practice or turn up late. Knowing they still have to support themselves outside the pitch…
