Page 109 of In It to Win It

Lacey cracks up at that, leaning into Théo. “He really doesn’t like changes to his routine.”

Mom laughs too. “No, he does not.”

Théo rolls his eyes. He knows it’s true.

Everly brings me another drink and takes a seat in the armchair near me. “Try this.”

“Eggnog?”

She nods. “With a kick.”

I take a sip. “Whoa! That’s good.”

“It’s the Kraken.”

“Huh.” I swallow more. “Never been a huge fan of eggnog, but this is goddamn delicious.”

She’s got one of her own. “We’re going to need a lot of this.”

She’s not wrong. We toast each other.

There are multiple conversations going on around us, including as usual an argument between Dad, Uncle Mark, and Grandpa. But at least it’s about hockey, not over money and theft and lawsuits.

First they’re comparing points. The Golden Eagles are ahead in the standings, but the Condors are doing surprisingly well this season. Then they move on to arguing about goalie interference challenges.

“There should be a two-minute delay-of-game penalty for an incorrect challenge,” Grandpa says. “There are too many of those.”

“I don’t like the idea,” Uncle Mark says.

Théo speaks up. “Coaches are using it incorrectly.”

“Isyourcoach?” Uncle Mark demands.

Théo grins. “No.”

“It’s supposed to be used when the refs completely blow a call,” Dad puts in. “But when it’s close, they challenge it for other reasons, and that has to stop.”

I reach down to pat Byron, and discover he’s gone.

Shit.

I jump up and sweep the room with my gaze. Then I spot him . . . in the dining room, paws up on the sideboard where Chelsea laid out a bunch of appetizers and goodies. He’s scarfing down . . . something.

I shoot across the room, shouting, “Byron! No!”

All heads turn to follow me. I skid to a stop and survey the empty box of chocolates on the floor, then the nearly clean antipasto platter on the table. Except for the black olives. He turned his nose up at the olives.

“Oh sweet Jesus.” Memory of Taylor warning me about how he likes to eat strange things slams me. I groan.

“Oh mon Dieu,” Mom says delicately from behind me, setting her fingers over her mouth.

“Chocolate is bad for dogs!” Jackie says. “It can kill them!”

I close my eyes. I think this is true.

I gaze in horror at Byron, whose head is down in shame. He walks his paws out in front of him slowly, lowering himself to the floor. Jesus hopscotching Christ. Have I killed Taylor’s dog?

I drop to a crouch in front of him and rub his ears. “It’s okay, buddy. Sorry I yelled. Are you okay?”

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