I take the stairs to the third floor—the elevator tends to be slow, I don’t mind the exercise, and I cannot wait to see the fur babies. I do my courtesy knock on apartment 3C.
No answer, which isn’t surprising. Usually, Clark is at practice at this time of day, but on the off chance he isn’t, I wouldn’t want to walk in unexpectedly—especially not if he just emerged from the shower in nothing more than a towel. I mean, it’s not like I’ve imagined that either. I do not have a crush on my best friend. This is just a misunderstanding between my brain and heart. A long-standing one that I’ve tried to clarify for all parties involved, but still.
He gave me a key months ago “for dog emergencies,” which is code for “thank you for walking my dogs because I cannot arrange my life around their bladder schedules.” To be clear, itwas not code for “you’re the future Mrs. Culpepper, so it makes sense for you to have a key.”
Obviously.
I let myself in and am immediately greeted by three very enthusiastic doggos.
Moose, the Great Dane mix who thinks he’s a Chihuahua, nearly knocks me over trying to climb into my arms. At roughly the size of a small horse, this is not physically feasible, but I appreciate his optimism.
“Down, Moose! We’ve talked about this, buddy. You’re too big to be cradled like a baby.”
Scout, the Border Collie-Australian Shepherd mix with one floppy ear and one alert ear, circles my legs in a herding pattern while making little whining noises of joy. His tail creates a small windstorm.
And Buster, the chunky Corgi-Beagle mix, sits politely at my feet with his tail wagging so hard his entire backend shimmies. He’s probably my favorite, though I’d never admit that out loud. It’s probably because of the short legs and food-motivated personality.
Relatable.
They’re a hurricane of excitement because, at present, I’m their second favoritehoomanon the planet. I know someday that will change when Clark gets serious with one of the women he dates, but for now, I hold a top ranking. It’s a position I cling to for dear life.
“Okay, okay! Yes, I love you and you and you. You’re the bestest boys. We’re going for a walk. Let me just—no, Scout, I can’t put your leash on while you’re doing zoomies around the coffee table.”
I make a clicking sound with my tongue and gesture with my hands. The three of them abruptly stop and sit at attention.
I shower them with praise for remembering that I’m thealpha dog in our pack. Well, technically, Clark is, but they obey me better because I always have treats at the ready. I also understand this in the depths of my stomach becausesnacks!
One of Clark’s Nebraska Knights hoodies hangs on a hook by the door and I grab it since it’s a little chillier here than I expected. He’ll never know. As I pull it over my head, I inhale his scent—fresh pine andhim.
Home.
We make our way out of the building and toward Main Street, careful not to disturb Mrs. Kirby and Princess Elizabeth—the woman thinks her Maltese is perfect, but she could really stand to learn some manners. Both of them could.
The early spring day is perfect—sunny but not too warm, with a light breeze that carries the scent of fresh bread and baked goods from the Busy Bee. My stomach rumbles in response. That will be my treat after I get some energy out of these guys.
The dogs and I do our usual route down Main Street, past Spaglietti’s and The Lunch Box, around the corner to 4thStreet and on the path that goes past the old train depot and out toward the corn fields. The boys are well-behaved, even when some squirrels—finally free of the cold winter blanket—play chase in the treetops. The path loops back around, offering a hazy view of the Omaha skyline in the distance and the Ice Palace to the east. I get flutters whenever I think of Clark somewhere in the building, powerful with his broad shoulders and brawny build. He’s not as tall as some of the other guys on the team, but he can stop the puck like nobody’s business.
It’s worth noting that the flutters aren’t from delicate butterflies. No, they’re caused by a herd of buffalo because I have a great, big crush on my best friend.
2
APRIL
By the timethe dogs and I reach the Busy Bee, I’m ready for caffeine and human interaction, in that order.
The little bell above the door chimes as we enter.
Nina looks up from behind the counter with a warm smile. “Hello! Hello! Large caramel latte with an extra shot?”
“You know me so well.”
“I should. You’ve ordered the same thing nearly every day for the past year.” She’s already making my drink.
Full transparency: with this single exception, my wallet is locked down. I am in savings mode. However, this is my one indulgence. Okay, fine, and dreaming about Clark pulling off his helmet, shaggy hair flowing in a mystical breeze, and skating over to me before dropping to one knee …
I mean, how could I not? I got the mental tattoo at the age of seventeen and instead of fading with time, it’s only gotten more vivid.
Nina says, “The girls are out back.”
