Hockey pants themselves don’t really allow a person to appreciate how amazing the hockey butt—also real—is because of the padding, but when a player wears them without a shirt on under their jersey so you get a peek at their abs when they lift their hockey sweater—oh boy, that’s something special.
Football pants are a thing of skin-tight, drool-worthy perfection.
And I would be remiss if I didn’t mention those tiny shorts our fighters wear.
Sign me up for all of it.
Poor Dex looks lost while most of our squad argues—nicely—over fictional characters. I’ve been watching him—as discreetly as possible so Peggy doesn’t get any wedding bell ideas—every chance I get. There’s been a furrow between his brows for at least five minutes, but it smooths out when he turns his attention to Trident and Navy ambling back into the living room.
During hockey season, Jake and Jordan usually host book club at their home, but in the summer we alternate between houses. The times we all cram into my house, Navy is typically the only other canine to join to help keep the crazy at tolerable levels.
Except…
The longer I watch my two favorites labs, the more I feel a furrow form between my own brows.
“Trident, baby?” The kernel of uneasiness in my gut increases more the longer my dog doesn’t come running. “Trident come here, baby.”
Nothing, not even a lift of the head.
I’m out of my seat, the coldness of the hardwood floors barely registering when I drop to my knees and cup my puppy’s head in my hands, raising his face to mine.
Pressing my nose to his, I notice a glassy sheen in his brown eyes. Something is most definitely wrong.
I only just finish thinking the thought when Navy falls with a plop, Trident falling a second later, his weight tipping me to the side.
“OH MY GOD!” My baby.
There’s the shuffle of feet and bodies, but I’m not paying any attention to it as I cradle my dog’s head in my lap, rubbing him viciously to rouse him, but to no avail.
Jordan is next to me in an instant, doing the same with Navy, and I’m sure the panic swimming in her hazel eyes mirrors what must be swirling in my blues.
What do we do?
What do we do?
What do we do?
“Tink.” The simple weight of Dex’s hand on my lower back is enough to quell the hysteria so I can assess.
Heartbeat: pulsing against my palm.
Breathing: a little slow and labored.
No foaming of the mouth or anything, so I don’t think they got into something poisonous. There is a considerable amount more drool, though; the front panel of my denim cutoffs is already soaked.
Okay…what next?
The vet?
No, the animal hospital. They will be better equipped to handle anything—but it’s half an hour away.
Think, Maddey. Think.
“Justin,” I cry out.
“Madz.” My big brother is down at my side in a flash. “What do you need?”
“Please tell me you drove the Charger today.” He and Paul don’t always drive separate, but I’m hoping they did today. I need the advantage the after-market lights and siren will provide to get my baby to the doctor as fast as possible. “Thank god.” I breathe a sigh of relief when he nods.
“Let’s get them loaded,” Jordan says, shifting out of the way for the guys to lift the dogs.
“I’ll call the animal hospital.” I run for my phone on the counter.
The ringing sounds in my ear as I follow behind Justin and Dex carrying Trident and Ryan and Jake with Navy. When the call connects, I give all the pertinent information.
Jordan links her arm with mine, and side by side, we watch as they get the dogs loaded into the vehicle. I move to climb in with them, but with a professional hockey goalie, a Navy SEAL, and two dogs closing in on a hundred pounds, it’s too tight of a fit for me to squeeze in.
“Here, Madz.” Ryan holds open the passenger’s side door when he notices my predicament.
I shake my head. Even though it goes against every maternal instinct I have not to be with my baby during his time of need, there’s no way I would be able to help carry him. It’s more important for him to have those who can help him than for me to be close to him, especially with how frantic I am.
“You are not driving yourself,” Dex orders, and I’m too worried about Trident to bristle like I normally would.
Why are they still here? They should be gone already.
“Fine.” I whip around, searching for a solution. “Paul, will you drive me?” He may not have his cruiser, but I’m hoping having a cop driving will at least mean he’ll speed.
With haste, I close the distance to Paul’s SUV and open the door. Standing on the runner, forearms braced on the hood, I see Justin’s Charger is still here. “Happy?” I lock eyes with Dex, and he gives me a nod. “Now go!”
Chapter Forty-Eight
“Trident is going to be fine, Madz.” Paul reaches across the center console, trying to comfort me by patting my leg.
I’m beyond consoling at the moment, a complete basket case with every worst-case scenario about what is wrong with my baby flashing through my mind like a movie reel. It doesn’t help that I’m in a different vehicle than him.
Yes, I know I was the one who suggested the carpool arrangements. As much as it hurts, I would make the same decision every time if it meant my kid (Trident) and my nephew (Navy) got to the vet that much sooner.
At least I’ll be joining them, whereas poor Jordan had to stay behind because of her human children.
“Justin is driving with both lights and sirens, so they will be there in no time, and you called ahead to the vet, so they are expecting them. Everything will be alright.” Paul pats my knee awkwardly, but I appreciate the attempt at comfort.
Rolling my head along the headrest, I give him my best attempt at a smile and pull out my phone to text Dex for an update.
QUEEN OF SMUT: How’s my baby?
* * *
HOOK: I’m good.
* * *
QUEEN OF SMUT: NOT the time for jokes.
* * *
HOOK: No change. Still unconscious, breathing a little labored. I know you’re freaked, but it’s also a good thing their symptoms haven’t worsened.
That may be true, but Trident is so much more than simply my dog. I’m perfectly okay with being one of those crazy dog moms; I’ll wear that badge with pride.
HOOK: *picture of Trident’s head cradled in Dex’s lap, paw in hand*
* * *
HOOK: I got him, Tink.
I don’t know if it’s because of the words or the sight of Dex literally holding my dog’s hand, but tears spring to my eyes and start falling down my cheeks like twin rivers big enough for Pocahontas to step into while singing about the colors of the wind.
“Oh, Maddey.” Paul reaches over, fumbling around inside the glove compartment until he pulls out a handful of napkins and hands them over.
“I’m sorry,” I mumble around blowing my nose like a foghorn.