If it isn’t him, I really don’t want to know.
And secondly, if I look up his account, that makes me a creepy stalker, just like the intrusive dog-walker in the video. At the moment I’m just guessing at my client’s identity. It’s a game I invented to amuse myself. But if I actually verified that Sniper87 is truly Matt Eriksson, that crosses a line that shouldn’t be crossed. He’s using Fetch because it promises anonymity. And keeping that promise is a bedrock principle of our business.
Enough with the speculation, anyway. There’s a problem that needs solving. I open up a chat window in our Fetch app.
HTE: Hey, Sniper. I’m SO SORRY about the dog-walker! I will let the service know right away that their employee behaved inappropriately. And obviously Fetch won’t ever hire them again. Watching that video made me ill, and I feel terrible about this.
We only hire services that have four stars or higher, blah blah blah, but it’s really no excuse.
Immediately, telltale dots appear below my message, indicating that he’s typing a reply. And just as immediately I feel an inappropriate tingle in my nether regions.
Since I’ve done so much work for this client, we chat pretty often. And I enjoy it much more than I should.
Sniper87: Hey, deep breaths! I know Fetch is awesome. Specifically you! That’s why you hear from me so often. And this shit happens to me sometimes.
I already wrote Wag Walkers a scathing note, firing them. And it’s not your fault, H! I trust you completely. But what are we going to do now? I’m on the road and Rufus needs a walk tonight and tomorrow morning.
HTE: I’m looking for another service as we speak.
Sniper87: Is there any way you could walk him yourself? I know it’s against company policy to enter clients’ homes (learned that when I wanted you guys to put together my kids’ beds) but I’m in a bind here. Heck, you don’t even need to go inside. Open the door with my security code and whistle. Rufus will bring his leash if you use the word “walk.”
I hesitate. And then I hesitate some more.
He’s right about the policy. Our employees do three things: 1) make reservations and other online plans 2) purchase and deliver goods, and 3) hire neighborhood services. That’s what our workers’ comp insurance covers. So we always hire out other tasks. No exceptions.
Yet I’d sent a creeper to this man’s home. If photos of his apartment end up on the internet, I will die of shame.
HTE: All right. How about if I send a trusted employee to walk Rufus. Someone who loves animals.
Sniper87: You are the best ever. Thank you, H.
His words give me a warm, gooey feeling inside. But if Jackson finds out what I’m going to do, he’ll freak.
This will be a stealth mission. Not even Jenny can know.
Two
My Gentle Soul
Matt
Our game against Chicago is brutal. We lose 4-3. And by the time I trudge back into the locker room to shower and change, every muscle in my body has rigor mortis.
The past eighteen months have been humbling. My wife left, and I turned the big 3-0. Thirty isn’t old, unless you play professional hockey. Sure, I’ve got maybe five years left, but I’m starting to understand that each one is going to feel harder than the last.
And I fucking hate that.
It’s made worse by the fact that I’m surrounded by young, strapping, nowhere-close-to-arthritic men. Like twenty-three-year-old Ryan Wesley, who saunters toward his locker with an honest-to-God spring to his step. You’d think he’d just spent three hours lounging on a beach chair instead of skating like a madman and scoring two goals.
Will O’Connor, our new forward, is in his mid-twenties, but he acts even younger. Bare-chested, with his hockey pants undone and a towel draped around his neck, O’Connor does a weird dance shuffle move across the room before coming to a stop in front of me and Blake Riley, who also scored a goal tonight. Unfortunately, Blake and Wesley’s efforts didn’t pay off for us.
“Yo, Riley,” O’Connor drawls, running a hand through his wavy hair. The kid has pretty-boy hair. And a pretty-boy face. He’s…well, a pretty boy. With plenty of arrogance to go with it.
“Yo, O’Connor,” Blake mimics.
“Lemming and I are heading up to the rooftop bar—supposedly it’s the shit. You in?”
Blake shakes his head. “Nah. I got a date.”
O’Connor’s eyebrows shoot up. So do mine, because last I heard, Blake was still living in bliss with Jess Canning, Wesley’s sister-in-law. I swing my head toward Blake, which earns me a loud guffaw.
“Chillax, Matty-Cake,” Blake says. “It’s a Skype date with J-Babe.”
I relax. But only slightly, because the sonuvabitch knows how much I hate his stupid nicknames. “Tell her hi for me,” I reply.
“Will do.” Blake grins broadly. “Well, if I remember. I might not, you know, cuz Skype sex with Jessie always puts me in a love coma right afterward.”
O’Connor rolls his eyes. Hard.
A few lockers down, Wes groans. “Dude, that’s my sister you’re talking about,” he calls out. “You’re not allowed to say the words ‘Skype sex’ and ‘Jess’ in the same sentence.”
Blake snorts. “Yeah? But it’s totally okey-dokey for you to look at dirty pictures of J-Bomb when you’re sitting beside me on the plane?”
“Those weren’t dirty pictures!” Wes protests. Cheeks red, he glances around at our snickering teammates. “He sent me pics of his new suit! He was fully clothed.”
With a loud sigh, O’Connor turns toward me. “What about you, Eriksson? Rooftop bar?”
“Pass,” I grunt. One, it’s the middle of fucking November—who wants to be up on a roof? And two, I’m dead-ass tired.
“Pussy,” O’Connor accuses. Then he chortles. “Or, actually, pussy is what you’re gonna miss out on.”
I smirk at him. “Little boy, I was getting pussy while you were still in grade school. I got drafted at eighteen, remember? And we all know the bunnies love the young ones.”
“Yeah, ’cause it makes it easier to scam a ring out of the poor sucker,” O’Connor shoots back. “Which is what happened to you, old man.”
Not quite. My ex-wife isn't even a hockey fan. To this day, Kara changes the channel when a game is on. And during the entirety of our six-year marriage, she never failed to remind me that I was a dumb jock who obviously married up.
There was plenty about the world of hockey that she didn’t like, and she held me responsible for all the female attention I received. Like it was my fault that the groupies would swarm me and the boys after a game, or come on to me every time I stepped outside the house.
The attention is nice, but I never cheated on my wife. Nope, I kept my pants zipped from the second I said “I do” straight through to the ugly morning I signed those divorce papers and bleakly watched the ink dry.