Page 1 of Just One Season
CHAPTER 1
Humiliated by Waffles
LUCY
Wednesday, September 11
“Waffles.”
My dog—actually, my ex-fiancé’s dog—tilts his head from where he’s sitting on the floor of my new office in the building that houses the Fort Collins Blizzard NHL team.
Waffles doesn’t look impressed with my most recent attempt at renaming him.
“Let’s try it out for a few days, okay?”
He barks once in agreement.
I clip his leash on, grab my laptop bag, and head down the hallway past my new boss’s office. Lina’s the vice president of public relations and sponsorship and is my manager while I’m here for six months to cover a maternity leave. She insisted I watch a practice to get a feel for Blizzard hockey, so I head to the arena, which is attached to the administrative offices for the team. When I reminded her that Atticus, my little brother—little being a funny word to describe the six-foot-four hulking twenty-nine-year-old man—is a forward on the Blizzard, and I regularlywatch his games, she waved a hand in the air and turned back to her laptop and her mug embossed with the words:Sorry. Can’t. Hockey. Bye.
The hallway cement wall is decorated with framed pictures of past Blizzard teams in between the mostly closed doors of the administration. There’s a hallway split into a T shape behind me, and in front of me are more offices and doors I’m not familiar with before the players’ gym on the right. At the end is the entrance to the Blizzard’s arena.
My phone buzzes in my pocket after I push through the doors to the arena, but I ignore it and head to the stands. Waffles might seem docile and calm trotting next to me, but by now I know his tricks. If I let my guard down for one second, he’ll take advantage and escape from my hold to run, bark, jump, and pee in random places.
Which is why he’s with me right now instead of back at my brother’s apartment. Atticus wants no part of a dog destroying his bachelor pad.
I settle into one of the rink side seats closest to the glass. Waffles sits calmly at my feet, the picture of perfect behavior, back straight and head still like a statue of Zeus or some other godly character.Ohhh, maybe I should name him Zeus?I pet his head, and he stretches at my feet and closes his eyes with a soft sigh.
Maybe Zeus is too powerful a name for this little dog—I can’t imagine him wielding a thunderbolt.
Ron, my impulsive, passionate ex-fiancé, came home with the Boston terrier puppy in March, after we’d moved in together post-engagement. There was no warning, no planning, just a spontaneous decision to buy a puppy.
I should’ve known there were far less pleasant surprises to come.
When I discovered he’d been cheating on me for our entire relationship, he begged me to give him another chance. I walked away instead.
And after I moved out, he decided he was allergic to dogs andwas going to drop his dog—then Max—off at an animal shelter. We fought over that. I called bullshit. How can a thirty-five-year-old man not know he’s allergic to dogs? Later that weekend, he showed up at my short-term apartment rental with a box of my remaining belongings.
And Max.
I’m not really a dog person, but I couldn’t bear to see the somewhat lovable animal dropped off at the shelter or given to a random person to be fed to a giant snake or something. Colorado sounded like a better place for a dog anyway, so I brought him with me.
It’s not a permanent situation with Waffles, just like I’m not permanent here in Colorado. This is just one little stop on the road to my dream job in England. If things go as planned, I’ll be booking a one-way plane ticket in six months. Waffles will be with a new family. I fully intend on finding him a great one before I leave.
And I’ll be far, far away from my old life.Fartheraway.
Down on the ice, the Blizzard are doing a fast-moving shooting drill, the forwards trying to put the puck in the back of the net and the goaltender attempting to stop each one.
Despite the fact that Atticus has played professional ice hockey for the past eight years, I still kind of zone out when watching. Soccer has been more my sport as I played from kindergarten through high school. Not that I was exceptionally good. I wasn’t terrible, but I know I only made the teams because my father is part owner of the Washington D.C. Football Club (DC FC), a Major League Soccer team—but I love the sport. I loved working for an MLS team, volunteering for the soccer charities we helped fund, sometimes coaching little kids, and watching games live and on TV.
Ron worked at DC FC, too, his office just down the hall from mine. Deep down, I hadn’t expected my father to fire Ron when everything went down, but it was a bit shocking whenhe didn’t even pretend to take my side. When I told him what happened, Richard—Dad—just took off his glasses and rubbed his face. He’s used to swooping in to help me. He got me an interview—and almost definitely the job—at DC FC after I struggled working at shitty organizations for a few years after college. How could I say no to a job at an MLS team when it’d been my dream to work in professional sports?
And Ron. Dad loves Ron. They went to the same business school. Well, not really, but they might as well have. Ron knows exactly how to kiss my father’s ass.
Maybe even by dating his daughter.
And Dad wants me to take Ron back. Return to my old job. My old life. But Dad’s on his fourth wife, and I think he doesn’t understand why women make such a big deal out of cheating partners. So I’m not really into taking relationship advice from him.
I shift on the uncomfortable seat and set Waffles’s leash on my lap. My shoulders are tight, and I will the muscles to relax by pushing thoughts of my father away.
