At least a dozen dogs populate various enclosed play areas, each with volunteers in matching t-shirts ready to talk adoption—something I’m familiar with and that is near and dear to my heart.
“Coach?”
“Culpepper.” He gestures to the booth. “Charity event. Good cause. You like dogs.”
“I, uh, yes?” I say, still not quite sure why he summoned me here.
“Then go look. Support the community. It’s good for PR.” He speaks in a tone that makes it clear it’s not a suggestion.
That reminds me, I have a meeting with Whitaker—yes,theWhitaker—later today. He’s in town this week, mostly to see our next game, but also probably to try to improve my image. Not that it’s bad. No, it’s wholesome. I’m the hockey player with the dogs. The one who films our morning runs, afternoon playtime on the grass, often also featuring April, and the dishes I cook based on the recommendations of my fans and followers.
Whereas I’m pretty tame, Whitaker is trying to make me into a wild bad boy. He says itGets the clicks! He sends me to clubs, parties, and on dates because he wants me to loosen up. That’s not going to help me tighten up my game and could unravel my friendship with April. I’d rather spend my Saturday nights with her, but he says it’s what’s best for my brand.
Badaszek doesn’t seem like he approves. He speaks boldly and loudly about how a man belongs with his wife on the weekend. What about his best friend? In addition to seeing everything and keeping his players on the edge of their skates, allegedly, Coach fancies himself a matchmaker. Yes, that’s right. The top coach in the league makes love connections. Finds his players “the one.” So far, he has a one-hundred percent success rate. Allegedly. These aren’t official stats or anything. It’s all subject to speculation. But still.
It’s probably a bunch of nonsense, a mythology built up to soften the most intense NHL coach—to make him more human and less like a hockey Hall of Famer making machine.
I approach the booth, nodding at the volunteers. They light up when they see me—my dogs get more social media time than I do. A young woman with a ponytail immediately launches into her Love at First Wag pitch about the adoption drive andhow they’re trying to place as many dogs as possible before the end of the month.
“We’ve got all kinds,” another volunteer says cheerfully. “Big dogs, small dogs, puppies, seniors?—”
And that’s when I seeher.
In the back corner of the last kennel, a tiny Shih Tzu is curled into the smallest ball possible. She’s trembling, her dark eyes huge and terrified.
“That’s Purdy,” the volunteer says, following my gaze. “She’s been with us for three months. Although she’s adorable, she gets passed over every time because she’s so scared. We’ve had ten adoption events and she’s been to all of them.”
“Can I meet her?”
“Of course!” She opens the kennel carefully and tries to coax the little dog closer, but the frightened little floof doesn’t move.
I kneel down and Purdy watches me with wide eyes.
“Hey, sweet girl,” I say softly. “It’s okay. I’m not going to hurt you.”
I don’t reach for her. Instead, I sit there, letting her get used to my presence. After what feels like forever, she takes one tiny, trembling step forward. Then another.
That’s it. I’m completely done for. The dog won my heart. Plus, we probably need another lady in the house.
“I’ll take her.”
The volunteer blinks. “Really? She’s pretty traumatized. She’ll need a lot of patience and?—”
“I know someone who can help with that.” I smile like a giddy child.
I provide for the animals—they’re super spoiled and April makes sure it doesn’t go to their heads. We have a pretty good thing going. Plus, she once told me she’d have an entire ranchwith rescues if she could—and the Barkery is just the beginning.
The paperwork takes twenty minutes. They give me her medical records, behavioral notes, a bag of food, and the blanket she was on since it’ll be a familiar smell.
“Are you sure about this?” the volunteer asks as I sign the final form.
“Positive.” I smile, excited and certain that this dog and April are going to fall in love—and I’m going to get to watch it happen. If that makesmea pathetic puppy dog, so be it.
I carry Purdy out to my Jeep, holding her close to my chest. She’s still shaking, but she’s not trying to escape, which feels like a good sign.
“You’re going to love April,” I tell her as I nestle her into my lap. She tucks under my hoodie. “Everyone loves April. She’s the best person I know.”
Purdy just trembles.
