Cheryl brushes me off. “Stevie, you are twenty-six years old, and it’s a Saturday night. I’m sure you have better things to do than hang out here with an old lady and some old dogs.”
Cheryl may be a sixty-something-year-old widow, but there’s nothing old about her. She’s still got a total pep in her step and works insane hours at the shelter. And that’s because she loves this place and these dogs, as do I.
Senior Dogs of Chicago is a nonprofit that Cheryl and her late husband founded, rescuing dogs from kill shelters or taking in abandoned pups that families had the audacity to give up once their family pet got too old for them.
Don’t get me started on it. I don’t cry too often, but it happens every single time an older dog gets dropped off by its owners for some god-awful excuse or another.
How do you not choose the one who has loved you unconditionally?
The building has started to get run-down ever since Cheryl’s husband passed away, and unfortunately, most people still choose to buy puppies over adopting an older animal. The donations are slim to none, barely keeping the doors open and keeping food in the dogs’ bowls.
My brother Ryan is our biggest donator, and I think that’s because he feels guilty I can’t bring any of them home.
I’d spend all my time here if I could, but unfortunately, it doesn’t pay the bills. Not that I have many, I don’t even pay rent. But, when I do move out, I need to keep my paying job to make ends meet.
“Seriously, Stevie, go have fun!” Cheryl takes a seat at the front desk, slides her glasses up her nose, and begins to organize the pile of bills I’m afraid she doesn’t have enough money to cover.
Do I tell Cheryl that my version of fun is putting on my softest pair of sweatpants and curling onto the couch to watch movies, seeing as Ryan is playing in a road series and Indy is on a date with her boyfriend? No, I keep that little fact to myself. I let her think she’s living vicariously through me, but to be honest, Cheryl probably has a more exciting life than I do.
Or does she? Because it was just a week ago that I was having the best sex of my life with the most notorious jerk in the NHL.
“See you tomorrow.” I give Cheryl a quick wave before ducking out of the shelter for the night.
Pulling out my phone for the quick walk back to the apartment, I check the score from the Raptors game. They had a rare afternoon start time, and I’ve become oddly invested in hockey since I started flying the team around less than two months ago.
The headline that pops up first is a winning score of 4-2 against Anaheim.
The second headline has Zanders’ face plastered below it with a stunning woman beside him, walking out of the arena together.
This is Chicago’s fourth game since we’ve been back in town, and this is the fourth woman he’s been pictured with.
No surprise there.
I knew what I signed up for when I reached out that night in DC, and I wouldn’t say I’m necessarily jealous over it.
Okay, that’s a lie. I am jealous, but only because I cannot stop thinking about that night. It was so good and so needed, and I was right—my vibrator hasn’t done shit for me since.
Zanders’ words have been ringing in my mind all week. “Because one time sure as hell wasn’t enough for me.” I don’t think it’s enough for me either, but that doesn’t change that it can’t happen again. And there’s no way in hell I can be his road hookup. I don’t know why he’d even suggest it. The guy has women clambering for him in every city we visit, and that clearly includes the one we live in too.
More headlines go on about Zanders and the fight he got in this afternoon during the game, the fine he has to pay for hitting his opponent a little too hard and a little too dirty, and even more about the reputation he wears as a badge of honor—the reputation I can’t stand.
Shoving my phone in my bag, I ride the elevator up to my apartment in silence. Well, silence minus the piano keys serenading the metal box. I’m sure Ryan’s neighbors have questioned if I actually live here on more than one occasion when I come in wearing my baggy flannels and not-so-white sneakers, covered in dog hair with my hair in a big curly mess.
When I make it home, I find an envelope hanging on Ryan’s front door with our house number printed on the outside. I remove the tape, unlock the door, and throw my keys on the console table inside.
Slipping off my shoes, I take a seat at the kitchen island and open the envelope. There’s a few fun-sized pieces of candy, all individually wrapped, as well as a letter inside.
Hey, Neighbor,
We have a three-year-old daughter who didn’t get to have Halloween with her dad because he was on a work trip. We’re planning to make up for it tonight by going door-to-door trick or treating.
If you’re willing to participate and make our daughter’s night, please leave your front door light on, and we’ll come by between 6-7 PM. If not, no worries! We hope you enjoy the candy instead!
From your neighbors,
-The Maddisons
Well, that might be the most precious thing I’ve ever heard of. We flew from Philly to Buffalo the night of Halloween, so I know exactly the work trip this note refers to.
Part of me wants to turn off the outside light because, as far as I know, Maddison doesn’t know I live in his building, and maybe I could keep him from finding out who my brother is for a bit longer. But most of me wants to make sure his daughter has a good Halloween, with plenty of stops to trick or treat.
I spend the next hour or so on the couch, mindlessly scrolling for something to watch when I hear a small knock. Quickly hopping off the sofa, I grab the candy from the envelope and open the front door.
The cutest little girl with bright emerald eyes and wild brunette hair stands on the other side, a pumpkin-shaped basket in her hand. Her puffy yellow dress tells me exactly who she is, and the rose embroidered on her satin gloves confirms it.
“Trick or treat!”
“You must be Belle.” I bend down to make myself eye level with her, watching as the deep-set dimples in her cheeks sink even further into her porcelain skin with a smile.
“Stevie?”
My head snaps up at Maddison’s voice, finding a hallway of full-grown adults, primarily men, dressed as Disney princesses.
“You live here?” Maddison asks with genuine curiosity, though he’s wearing a light blue dress with puffy sleeves, styled with a black choker necklace, so I have a hard time not just laughing in response.
“Stevie?” The woman dressed like Ariel turns to ask him. Judging by the red hair and the pictures I’ve seen online, it’s his wife, Logan. “Like...” She puts her hands out as if they were the wings of an airplane, and Maddison wiggles his brows suggestively, nodding in confirmation.
“Oh, I see,” Logan adds with a knowing smile and an even more understanding tone.
Clearly, Maddison told her about Zanders and me.
Speaking of the 6'5" defenseman, all eyes shoot to the back of the group, where a huge man with black inked tats and gold jewelry stands, wearing an icy blue sparkly dress and a long blonde braided wig.