In the corner sat a rowing machine. Resistance bands hung from a row of hooks. A foam roller and a yoga mat sat underneath.
Everything was tidy. Organized. The kind of order that suggested either a cleaning service or a man who processedhis feelings through tidiness. Given what I knew about Derek Sullivan, I suspected the latter.
“Kinda turned into my recovery room,” he said, a little sheepish.
We headed back to the living room.
“Do you want something to drink?”
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
He retrieved a water bottle from a refrigerator that was, I noted, sparse—a professional athlete’s refrigerator, protein and drinks and condiments and very little else—and folded himself onto the couch. He gestured for me to sit. I sat across from him on a leather armchair and Aspen immediately put his chin on my knee.
He picked up a printed list from the coffee table and handed it to me. Walk schedule. Food measurements—down to the half cup. Two treats max per day. Regular vet, emergency vet, a note about which park he preferred. It was the kind of list a person made when they genuinely loved another living creature and were terrified of leaving him with a stranger.
“As you already know, I train in the mornings,” I said, setting the page back on the table. “Will he be okay alone while I’m at the facility? Is he crate trained?”
“He is,” Derek said. “Usually I give him a long walk before I leave—at least 30 minutes—and that tires him out enough to sleep most of the day. There’s a pee pad in the bathroom just in case but he rarely uses it.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I feel bad leaving him alone so much, honestly. He gets a little... squirrely if he doesn’t get enough exercise.”
“That’s fine. I’ll be back by lunchtime so he won’t be alone as long.”
Something in Derek’s expression eased. “That would be great, actually. He’ll probably love having the company.”
I looked down at Aspen, who was gazing up at me with those pale blue eyes with an expression of complete and devoted trust that animals extended to strangers before they had any reasonable basis for doing so.
“The bells on the doorknob. Rings it himself when he needs to go out. He figured it out in about two weeks.” There was a particular pride in his voice when he said it. “He’s a good boy.”
“You’re a good boy, aren’t you?” I said, scratching under his chin. “You’ll be good for me while daddy’s away?”
I felt it before I registered what I’d said. The air in the room changed.
Derek blinked. Swallowed. Looked at the list on the coffee table like it had just become extremely fascinating.
“He will,” he said. His voice was carefully even.
I looked back down at Aspen.
The goosebumps had not entirely gone away.
“Walk me through his routine,” I said.
11. Derek
Aspen was asleep on his bed next to the fireplace, back legs twitching in whatever dream he was running through. The tape Coach had sent over was still playing on my iPad, X’s and O’s moving across the screen in patterns I had stopped actually seeing about twenty minutes ago.
I closed out the window.
Pulled up YouTube instead.
I told myself I was just unwinding. That it was idle curiosity, the same thing anyone would do. The list of most recent searches popped up and I clicked on the first.
Théo Beaubien jump compilation.
I clicked on the second video. Someone had set it toEye of the Tiger.It should have been cheesy. Instead, they had timed every jump to the music—the buildup, the rotation, the landing—and it worked. I couldn’t look away.
I watched it the way I always did. All the way through. Then I let it autoplay into the next one.
Théo had called me Aspen’s daddy and now my brain wouldn’t shut up about it.
