She dressed in joggers and a loose tank, shoved her gear into her bag, and slung it over her shoulder. Her hair was still damp, hanging loose around her face, and the cold corridor air hit her neck and shoulders as she pushed through the locker room door.
The corridor was empty. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, casting a flat, institutional glow on the concrete walls.Her sneakers squeaked on the polished floor. She could hear the distant sound of the Zamboni running across the ice, the low mechanical drone echoing through the building's bones.
Then she heard the click of claws on concrete.
Goldie came around the corner at a gentle trot, tongue out, tail swinging in wide, sweeping arcs. Her coat was freshly brushed and she moved with the unhurried confidence of a dog who knew she was universally adored and saw no reason to rush toward anyone. The red leash trailed behind her, its loop dragging on the floor.
"Hey, girl." Lex dropped to one knee.
Goldie closed the remaining distance and pressed her entire body against Lex's chest, her tail going into overdrive. Lex buried her hands in the thick fur behind Goldie's ears and scratched, and the dog's eyes half-closed with pleasure. She smelled like dog shampoo and warm fur, the unmistakable scent of a Golden Retriever who had been lying in a sunlit room.
"Good girl. You are the best girl." Lex's voice went soft in a way she allowed with exactly two categories of being: dogs and women she was sleeping with. Goldie's tail thumped against her thigh. The dog pushed her nose into the crook of Lex's neck and snuffled, her breath hot and damp, and Lex laughed.
She'd always wanted a dog. Growing up in Boston, their apartment had been too small and her mother too rigid about mess and noise and anything that disrupted the rigid, performance-focused household she maintained. Lex had begged for a puppy at eight, at ten, at twelve. The answer was always no. Dogs were distractions. Dogs were impractical. Dogs required a kind of unconditional, messy love that didn't belong in a home where affection was rationed and earned.
Goldie rolled onto her side, presenting her belly with the absolute lack of shame that only golden retrievers could pull off.Lex obliged, rubbing the soft fur of her stomach with both hands, and the dog's back leg kicked in a reflexive spasm of joy.
"You're ridiculous," Lex told her. "You know that? Completely ridiculous."
Goldie's tail swept the floor. Her brown eyes were half-lidded and blissful. The leash was still trailing loose, which meant Mara must be nearby. Goldie didn't wander far from her.
The click of boots on concrete confirmed it.
Mara came around the corner and stopped. She was in her coaching jacket and dark jeans, her ponytail slightly loosened from the day, her cheeks still flushed from the cold of the rink. Her laptop bag was slung over one shoulder and she had a travel mug in her free hand, and when she saw Lex on the floor with Goldie, her face opened the way it had the night before. Wider this time. No audience, no team, just Lex on the cold concrete with her dog. What came through was warm and unguarded, and then she caught it and put it away.
"She got away from me," Mara said. "I set her leash down to grab my bag and she bolted."
"She has excellent taste in escape routes." Lex didn't stand up. She kept her hands on Goldie's belly, her knee on the cold concrete, looking up at Mara from below. The angle put Mara above her, backlit by the corridor lights, and the effect was striking. The clean lines of her face. The tired blue eyes. The loose strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail and were catching the light. Mara looked like a woman who hadn't slept well and was trying very hard not to show it.
Mara crouched and picked up the leash. Goldie rolled upright and pressed herself against Mara's legs, tail wagging, clearly delighted to have both of her favorite humans in the same hallway. Mara's free hand went to the dog's head, her fingers gentle in the fur, and they were both petting the same dog in thesame corridor, their hands close enough that Lex registered the warmth of Mara's skin, as she always did. Every single time.
"She likes you," Mara said. Her voice was softer than it had been all week.
"Everyone likes me." Lex grinned up at her from the floor.
The faintest trace of a smile. Gone before it fully formed. "She's very discerning, actually. She doesn't warm up to everyone."
"Then I'm honored." Lex scratched behind Goldie's ear and the dog sighed with contentment, leaning into the touch. "How old is she?"
"Eight. I adopted her from the shelter a year ago. She'd been there for months. Nobody wanted a senior dog." Mara's voice was quieter now, the sharp edge stripped away. She was looking at Goldie, not at Lex, and her face had softened into an expression that was unguarded and private. "I walked in to look at puppies and she was just sitting in her kennel, watching me with this calm, patient expression, like she'd been waiting for me to show up."
Lex's throat went thick. The image was so clear: Mara in a shelter, surrounded by yapping puppies, locking eyes with a quiet, dignified eight-year-old retriever who'd been passed over by everyone. Of course that was the dog she'd chosen. Of course it was.
"She's perfect," Lex said. And she meant it about more than the dog, but she kept that part locked behind her teeth.
Goldie looked from one of them to the other, tail swishing, brown eyes bright. The dog had the serene, knowing expression of an animal who understood the situation before the humans did.
"I should get her home," Mara said. She straightened, wrapping the leash around her hand, and the distance was back. The architecture of distance. The careful, measured control thatMara maintained like something load-bearing and essential. "Good practice today, Landry. You finished strong."
"Thanks, Coach."
Mara nodded once and walked away. Goldie padded beside her, tail still swinging, pausing once to look back at Lex with her mouth open in what looked unmistakably like a grin. Then they rounded the corner and were gone.
Lex stayed on the floor. The concrete was cold through her joggers and the corridor was quiet again, just the hum of the building and the distant drone of the Zamboni. She pressed her palms against her thighs and breathed.
Her head was fried.
She wasn't built for this. She was built for attraction that resolved quickly and cleanly: see someone, want someone, have someone, move on. That was the pattern. That had always been the pattern. In Boston, in London, on the road with the national team. Beautiful women showed up at bars and hotels and after-parties, and Lex turned on the charm, and the night ended in a bed somewhere, and the morning ended with a goodbye that neither of them found difficult. She was good at that. She was comfortable with that.
