Page 14 of Blitz
“Uh, yeah. No problem.” His voice was guarded, and fuck, I wasn’t good at this.
“Your dad knows the guy who runs it?” I asked, attempting something resembling a normal conversation. I could talk to Noah. He was queer, but he wasn’t going to make me do anything; he wasn’t going to drag me out of the closet screaming; he wasn’t going to make my dad try to change me like he’d done before.
Noah’s expression softened slightly. “Yeah. Max married Ben and… you don’t need to know that… CrossRoads takes in allkinds of dogs—rescues, strays, and owner surrenders. Ben’s a dog whisperer.”
I nodded, searching for something else to say. “Cool.” There’s that fucking word again. I sounded like Tom.
We skated a few strides in awkward silence before I added, “I might check it out.” See? I could do normal conversation.
Noah’s face lit up as if I’d told him he’d made the first line. “Seriously? That’s awesome. They’re always looking for volunteers. I could, uh, put in a good word if you want. On Sundays, you can walk dogs for a couple of hours.”
“I don’t need a good word,” I said too quickly, my defenses snapping back up like a reflex. I didn’t want anyone else interfering in what I wanted to do. This was for me. Noah’s smile faltered, and I mentally kicked myself. “But thanks,” I add, trying to salvage this conversational disaster.
Practice started before I could dig myself any deeper, and I threw myself into drills with more intensity than usual. I understood hockey. Hockey has rules, patterns, and consequences that made sense. People, not so much.
The coach blew his whistle, and we broke into line rushes. I hung back, waiting for my turn, watching as the first line seamlessly connected on a tic-tac-toe play that ended with a one-timer into the top corner. They celebrated with fist bumps and quick pats on the back, and I felt something twist in my chest that I refused to call envy. I took the puck and drove straight to the net when it was my turn. Noah was open on my right, but I saw a gap between the goalie’s pads, and I went for it myself. I scored, but Coach’s whistle blasted immediately.
“Trick,” he called out, and I skated over, grabbing an energy drink, still high from beating Whitmore in the net. “You had Noah wide open for a tap-in.”
“But I scored?”
“That’s not the fu—point. You have an issue with Noah?”
“No.”
“Then why freeze him out on a perfect pass opportunity?”
I sipped my drink, trying to buy time. The truth was, I didn’t have a good answer. I’d spent the years with Atlanta being the primary scorer on my line, and old habits die hard.
“Wasn’t thinking,” I mumbled finally. “Just saw the opening.”
Coach stared at me, and I could tell he wasn’t buying it. “Hockey’s a team sport, Trick. If you want to be a one-person show, go play tennis.”
He skated away, leaving me to stew in my guilt. I knew I was being prickly, but I’d built this wall between me and everyone else so long ago that I didn’t remember how to take it down. I rejoined the drill, and when it was my turn again, I fed Noah for the one-timer. The kid buried it, and his genuine smile made me uncomfortable.
After practice, I sat in my car scrolling through CrossRoads’ website. Pictures of dogs with sad eyes and hopeful expressions stared back at me from my phone. I paused on a mutt with one eye, and an ear flopped over, something in its expression reminding me of myself—wary, a little beat-up, but confronting the world.
I switched over to my messages and stared at Tom’s text. Fetchadelphia. What a stupid name.
Then, I typed in the address for CrossRoads and headed out. I’d donate, get a photo with a dog or two, and then, I wouldn’t be lying to Tom.
The GPS led me to a large place about twenty minutes outside Harrisburg. The parking lot was half-full, and I heard barking as soon as I stepped out of my car. A sign withCrossRoads Animal Sanctuarywas over at the entrance, with a smaller sign beneath it that readAll Walks Welcome.
I hesitated at the door, suddenly questioning what I was doing there. I tithed fifty percent of my income to the Temple of the Radiant Truth, I could have just told Tom that, and he’d have understood. I didn’t know if he knew who my dad was, but my money helped charities.
A woman with gray-streaked hair opened the door before I could knock. “Can I help you?” Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh! You’re with the Railers, aren’t you?”
“Yeah,” I sad, shifting uncomfortably. “I, uh, wanted to donate.”
The woman’s smile widened. “That’s wonderful! I’m Margie, the volunteer coordinator. Come on in.”
She held the door open, and I stepped into organized chaos. The reception area was bright and clean, but a cacophony of barks came from deeper in the building. A wall of photos showed dogs with their new families, many wearingI Found My Forever Homebandanas.
“Ben’s in the back with a new rescue,” Margie explained, leading me through a hallway. “He’ll be thrilled to meet you.”
I followed her, hands shoved into my pockets, wondering how quickly I could donate and leave without talking to anyone. We passed several rooms with glass windows where dogs of all sizes lounged on beds or played with toys. None of them seem like the sad, caged animals I’d expected.
“Here we are,” Margie said, pushing open a door to a large room with windows overlooking a fenced yard. A man with salt-and-pepper hair knelt on the floor beside the dog from the website—the one with a missing eye.
