And that right there tells me everything—Jason’s well aware I’m damaged goods. He might want me to find someone for the short term, but he knows there’s no way it’d be anything more.
Which is why I should stop thinking filthy thoughts about his sister. But does it matter? Nothing is going to happen with her, so who cares?
“All right. We’ll see,” I say, then hang up, unclip Wanda from her seat belt and dog seat, and walk her to the arena. She stops before the door to pee, then we head inside.
“Ready for doggy daycare?” I ask the little cutie.
She wags her tail as we head down the corridor. At the end of the hall, the team photographer is there with her camera, snapping pics.
“Hey, Rae,” I say. “How’s it going? How’s the little one?”
“He’s great. Two years old now. I hardly have to put him in air jail any longer when I walk him,” Rae says.
“That’s serious progress for a little dog.”
“Don’t I know it,” she says.
I keep going, making my way to drop Wanda off at Dog Tails. She usually stays with my parents when I travel, but during home games, and often when I practice, I drop her at the dog daycare that opened recently at thearena. It’s for players and their pets—and for fans on game nights.
Sawyer Dumont owns and runs it, a cool guy I’ve gotten to know. He’s dry and relatable, and a kindred spirit since he’s had a rough road in romance too.
When he opens the door, I say hello, then ask how he’s doing.
“Well, considering I’m getting ready to sell the house I owned with my cheating fiancée, it could be better,” he says, then pastes on a smile. “But at least I’m free of all the romance bullshit.”
I knock fists with him in anti-romance solidarity. “I hear ya, man.”
The predicament isn’t the same, but the shitshow of love is.
“But dogs? They never disappoint,” he says, then smiles at Wanda and checks her in for the evening.
I’m so damn glad the team opened up a dog daycare facility here. It’s made life so much easier—and it made it easier to have a dog in the first place.
But I push all that out of my mind to get my game focus on. I head to the locker room, ready to shed my suit and do some stretching. Once I reach my stall, I spot the whiteboard and eye it suspiciously.
Better known as the DickNose board, it’s supposed to be for team strategy notes, but it’s pretty much just an announcement board used for roasting each other. Like right now, as it reads:
Five Things the Future Mrs. Bishop Needs to Know About Rowan
He secretly has a stash of candy cane boxers.
He used to decorate his Christmas tree as a kid with horse ornaments during his horse phase—and he still has them in a box, so just ask him to show you.
He bakes cookies for Santa, ostensibly, but it’s just to eat them himself.
