“And where are you in the standings?”
“I can’t believe you don’t know that.” I shake my head in mock disappointment.
“Sorry. I like hockey, but I don’t know all the stats.”
“I’m kidding. The Islanders have a spot right now, but we don’t. So we need them to lose.”
“Ah. I see.” Her forehead pinches. “Does that mean you’re out of the playoffs?”
“Hell no.”
“But you just said—”
I grin. “Never mind that. It’s not over until it’s over.”
She laughs.
“We’re one point out of a wild card spot.” I grimace. “We can do it, but the truth is our defense is a problem.”
She listens intently and I fucking love it. “Yeah?”
“Yeah. Last year we lost a few core members of our D, and—”
“That sounds really dirty.”
I pause. “Yes. Yes, it does.”
She grins. “Go on, sorry.”
“Early in the season we were scoring enough goals that our deficiencies on the blue line weren’t as obvious. And our goal tenderhas been stellar; he’s stolen so many games. But our numbers are dipping—possession rate, shooting rate. Five on five, our goals have been flat and we’re giving up way too many chances.”
“Does that mean you need to score more?”
“Well, scoring more is always good, but I think we really have to do something about our defensive shortcomings. We could still sneak into a wild card spot, but if we want any hope of surviving more than one playoff round, we need more depth.”
“Does that mean a trade?”
I shrug. “I think so. We’ve called a few guys up from the farm team, but they’re just not quite ready yet. We need someone with experience. There’s been talk…” I trail off, remembering the rumor that the Stars are looking for offensive power. And remembering who plays defense for them.
“I have faith in you.”
“Thanks.”
She tells me about one of her new dog clients, Rusty. “We were walking along Seventy-fourth and there’s a little cigar shop, which is so weird—does anyone smoke cigars anymore?”
“Yes,” I say.
“Well, the old guy who owns it saw Rusty peeing on a tree near the shop and he yelled at him. He yelled at Rusty for peeing!” She shakes her head. “Crazy. I mean, I’m a responsible dog walker. I always pick up their poop. But they pee where they pee.”
I watch her talk animatedly, gesturing with her hands, and I’m so amused and entertained, I’m just smiling like crazy. “What did you do?”
“Nothing. We just kept going. But here’s the best part.” She leans forward, eyes dancing. “The next day we went by there, Rusty saw the man, and he walked over to the same tree and lifted his leg and peed again.”
I bark out a laugh. “No!”
“Yes. And he’s done it every day since!” She sits back in her chair. “I love Rusty.”
Her smile glows, her eyes sparkle, and she tosses her hair back over her shoulder, so clearly delighted with Rusty. And I’m delighted with her.
Chapter 16
Lilly
I picked up the ingredients for a dish I plan to make to take to the potluck dinner. Thursday morning, I get busy in Easton’s kitchen. I don’t cook much, but this recipe I found on Pinterest seems easy.
I sauté chopped bacon until it’s crispy, then add some onions and garlic.
“That smells fantastic.” Easton saunters into the kitchen. He’s wearing his gray sweatpants, which I love because he doesn’t wear underwear and I can catch a glimpse of the outline of his cock. Yes, I am a dirty girl.
He steals some of the bacon which is sitting on a plate on the counter.
“Hey, don’t eat that! It’s for the potluck.”
“I have to eat it. It’s bacon. Bacon and onions.” He breathes deeply. “We could just eat that.”
“I guess we could.” I stir the onions and garlic, then check the recipe on my phone. Time to add the corn. I have a couple of big bags of frozen corn, and I open them and dump them in, then add half the bacon, salt, pepper, and red pepper flakes. The pan is pretty full, and corn spills out onto the stove. “I’m making a mess.”
“That’s okay. Thanks for doing this. I would have picked up a few bags of chips.”
I grin. “That might be better. We don’t know how this is going to turn out.”
I move the pan off the burner and turn to mix up cream cheese, milk, and some parsley I chopped up. Then I dump that into the big skillet. More mess ensues as I try to mix it all up, then turn it in to a big tinfoil casserole I purchased. I sprinkle the rest of the bacon on top and study it.
“It looks like the dog barfed it up,” I pronounce.
Easton guffaws. “No, it doesn’t.”
“Yes, it does.” I wrinkle my nose. “Oh well.”
“I’m sure it tastes good.” He goes to dig a fork into it, and I smack his hand.
“It has to bake first.” I slide it into the oven and set the timer. “We’ll see how it tastes when it’s done.”
He helps me clean up, even though I’m the one who made the big mess in the kitchen using multiple cutting boards and utensils and scattering food everywhere.
“What time are we supposed to go over there?” I ask him, wiping the counter.
“Some guys are going this afternoon to watch football. But dinner’s at six.”
“I need to go see my grandma. It’s Thanksgiving.”
He nods. I’ve told him about Grammy in the care home. “We can go there right after lunch.”
“We?” I turn to him. “You don’t have to come with me.”
He shrugs. “Why not? Grammy sounds entertaining.”
“Are you sure? You can go watch football with your friends and I’ll come later.”
He meets my eyes. “I’ll come with you.”
I bite my lip. “Okay. We can even take Otis.” I pause. “As long as you have his vaccination records.” I know he took Otis to the vet to get him checked after he decided to keep him.