“Yesterday at the game,” I begin.
“Right,” he jumps in. “I overstepped and touched your hand. I shouldn’t have.”
My eyes widen with shock. “No! I yanked my hand away. It was a dick move. It . . . it upset you.”
“I was upset with myself for making you uncomfortable.”
“I shouldn’t have been uncomfortable. It was a harmless touch. I felt bad for—well, feeling weird about it, I guess.”
Tahegin holds up his hands, stopping our circular reasoning. “Okay, wait. We both feel bad about what happened for some reason or other. As you said, sorry doesn’t change the past, so I’ll be more mindful of touching in public—”
“—and I won’t be so jumpy.” I add in my two cents, nodding in agreement. “Wow, we just rocked that. A-plus for . . . What was it?”
He laughs, flashing a crooked smile at my words. “Communication, Rix. We just sat down and talked about our feelings.”
My mouth forms an O. “Huh.” Then, “Are we done? That was a lot of . . . feelings.” The word feels drunk on my tongue. I don’t often think about feelings, much less talk about them. Hell, I rarely talk. About anything.
“Yeah,” he says with a grin and a soft chuckle. “No more feelings for now.” Standing, Tahegin stretches his arms out and up, exposing a strip of skin at his waist. He’s wearing a pair of stained jeans and an old college T-shirt, not his usual look at all. “You ready? We’re already running late.”
I stand, too. “Late for what, exactly? And I borrowed some clothes. Hope that’s okay.” I’d gone for the cheapest stuff I could find—some old grey sweatpants and a Rubies practice jersey from his rookie season. The pants are rolled at the hips and ankles, and it’s obvious I’m free-balling, but whatever. The jersey kind of fits.
The apple in his throat bobs as he swallows, eyes looking over me before snapping to meet mine. “You look fine. Let’s go.”
Following him to the garage, I’m surprised when he chooses his least expensive car—a crossover SUV made a few years ago. I take the passenger seat, buckle in, and watch the passing buildings with growing anticipation. I’m not familiar with the neighborhood we end up in. It’s not quite rich but not far from the Housing Authority or my apartment.
He pulls into a parking lot, and the sign out front is impossible to miss. My eyebrow quirks, but I remain silent as we park and head inside.
The lobby is nice but small, barely enough room on this side of the counter for Tahegin and me to stand with a comfortable distance between us. A few outdated posters are scattered along the walls, but the one behind the front desk is newer—at least in the last four years. How do I know? Because Tahegin is standing in the center of the poster, wearing Rubies merch and holding a fluffy, scowling cat.
“Miguelito, my man.” Tahegin leans over the counter to clasp hands and one-arm hug the kid behind the counter. By kid, I mean he’s probably fifteen or sixteen. “How are you?”
The kid—Miguelito—pulls back from the hug, smiling wide. He’s wearing an oversized Rubies shirt that has seen better days, so I assume he is quite a fan of Tahegin. “You’re late, which means my old lady is back there cleaning the kennels. You know what that means, bro? Means I get to hear her complaining about a broken nail all day.”
Tahegin claps him on the shoulder. “I’ll make it up to her. And I was late because my friend is not a morning person.” He gestures to me, and Miguelito finally looks my way.
“Hey, you’re Hendrix Avery.”
I needlessly adjust the backward cap on my head, trying to cover the strange feeling I get at being recognized because I’m on a professional football team. “Hey.”
I swear I can feel Tahegin’s eyes rolling.
Thankfully, Miguelito isn’t as judgy as my friend. He continues as if my simple greeting is an invitation for more conversation. “That catch you made against the Hellhounds—Wow! Seriously, you caught the ball behind that defender’s back! Insane, bro!” He makes the “mind blown” gesture on either side of his head, accompanying it with an explosion sound effect.
Heat blooms across my cheeks at the praise. This won’t be a common occurrence, will it? I mean, there can’t be that many people out there who care about a rookie wide receiver. “Thanks,” I mutter as Tahegin shoots me a look that clearly says ‘say something’. I nervously rub the back of my neck. Should I be saying something else?
“Oh, good. You’re here,” an accented feminine voice says from a doorway I hadn’t noticed. She’s obviously Miguelito’s mother, though with her flawless caramel skim and long, ebony hair, she hardly looks a day over thirty. “It’s about time, too. I broke a nail on the first kennel I cleaned.”
“Sorry, Rosa.” Tahegin crosses the small room to hug her, planting a kiss on her cheek. “I owe you a trip to the nail salon, but for now, we’re here to work. Put us where you need us.”
And she does. I follow them through the back rooms to the kennels, ignoring all the puppy dog eyes from the strays in favor of wondering about Tahegin’s history here. Clearly, they know him well and expect him to arrive on time for . . . volunteer work? He’s on a promotional poster for the shelter, he knows the workers by name, and he even greets some of the dogs by name as we pass their kennels. How is no one talking about his work here? It definitely wasn’t mentioned in his documentary—not that I watched it—and there hasn’t been any coverage of his work here. So, what’s his play? Why does he do this?
I spray a water hose over the concrete floor as Tahegin uses a rubber push brush to get rid of a German shepherd puppy’s waste from last night. Filling the silence that’s fallen upon us, Tahegin explains the trough running through the floor outside each kennel. Apparently, it leads out to the yard and empties directly into a makeshift septic—a large trash can with drain holes and river rocks that is buried in the earth. It’s stocked with bacteria, similar to that found in a septic system to absorb waste.
A few kennels in, we cross paths with an Aussie puppy with wiggly butt syndrome. Tahegin goes to his knees on the concrete floor, abandoning all work ethic to scratch the dog behind its soft, fluffy ears. He coos at the thing as it slobbers and licks all over him. When he stands, the knees of his jeans are wet—with water from the hose, not anything gross, thankfully.
He smiles at me. Well, probably because of the dog rubbing against his legs while he pets it, but he’s looking at me when he does it. “Why are you standing in the corner? Come here. Princess won’t bite.”
“I’ve never had a dog, but even I know Princess is a way overused name.”
Gasping, Tahegin puts his palms over Princess’ ears. “How dare you? Princess deserves love and respect because she is adorable. Aren’t you? Yes, you are.” His attention returns to the dog as he ruffles her fur all over and talks in an annoying baby voice. “Who is the prettiest, goodest girl ever? Huh? You are!”
He gets up close and personal with her snout, and I catch a glimpse of sharp teeth. “Watch out!” But instead of biting his face off, the puppy just slobbers all over it.
“Hey.” His voice is calm as he meets my gaze, his smile unwavering. “It’s okay. She’s just playing.” Then, his head cocks to the side—not unlike a puppy—and he studies me. “You’ve never had a dog?”
“Pets are a liability for foster homes.”
“Have you ever pet a dog?”
“No.” And I don’t want to. Those teeth are huge, and I have seen the damage they can do when they attack—on cop TV shows, at least.
He huffs and rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so dry, Rix. It’s just you and me—and Princess. Come on, step out of your comfort zone for a minute. You won’t regret it, I promise.”
With anyone else, I would have no trouble saying no, but with Tahegin . . . He’s looking up at me with those blue eyes impossibly wide, his head tilted slightly, and his full lips in a half pout, and I—
My hand barely extends from my side before Princess starts running at me. I unintentionally yelp and cram my body against the concrete wall as those big teeth get closer. “T! Ah!” I look away, blind panic making my heart race. This is it. This is how I go—
Something warm and wet traces my palm, and while the feeling is not pleasant, it doesn’t hurt either.
