Tiny had come with me because the dog walker had canceled and because Olivia was still in Atlanta, delayed by weather and client demands. Bringing a bull mastiff to an NHL arena was not ideal, but leaving him alone for fourteen hours was worse. I’d shut him in my office with water, his bed, and enough toys to entertain a less entitled animal.
Apparently, Tiny had chosen crime.
I found him ten minutes later sitting outside the stick room while our equipment manager, Benny, fed him what looked suspiciously like part of a breakfast sandwich.
“Don’t feed my dog,” I said.
Benny, a fifty-year-old man with three daughters and no fear of authority, looked me dead in the eye. “He looked faint.”
Tiny licked egg off his jowls.
“He weighs more than you.”
“And yet, fragile.”
I took the leash from the hook by the door. “Come on.”
Tiny did not move.
From down the hall came the sound of players spilling toward the locker room. Voices, laughter, the scrape of sneakers on concrete. Milo appeared first, wearing sunglasses indoors and carrying two sticks like he’d forgotten he only had two hands.
“Coach, why is there a horse in the hallway?”
Tiny stood immediately, tail sweeping with enough force to hit the wall.
“See?” Benny said. “Miraculous recovery.”
Lowell stopped beside Milo, eyes wide. “Can I pet him?”
“If he lets you.”
Tiny allowed Lowell one polite pat, ignored Milo completely, then turned his massive head toward the next person rounding the corner.
Holloway.
Of course.
Jace came in with his hair damp, hoodie half-zipped, practice sheet in one hand, coffee in the other. He was talking to Roman over his shoulder and not watching where he was going until Tiny lunged forward with the enthusiasm of a dog who had found a long-lost brother.
“Huge baby,” Jace said, instantly brightening.
Tiny shoved his head into Jace’s stomach. Coffee sloshed onto the floor.
“Fantastic,” Roman said. “Even the dog has poor judgment.”
Jace scratched both sides of Tiny’s face, laughing under his breath. “He knows quality when he sees it.”
“He knows who drops food,” I said.
Jace looked up at me then. The laughter didn’t vanish, but it changed, tucked itself into something more guarded. “Morning, Coach.”
“You have the right drill sheet?”
The question was out before I dressed it up.
Jace looked down at the paper in his hand, then at the board posted outside the locker room. His face went blank for half a second.
Not careless. Not indifferent.
