Chapter 6

6

JACK

By the time I reach the private airport, my stomach feels like I drank a gallon of bad gas station coffee as reality snakes its way back. The future is like ice splitting in a pond, heading directly my way.

As I emerge from the SUV, a slim and dark figure rushes toward me. Pieces of long red hair cascade from a black beanie as she pulls it off. “Jackie, Jackie, it’s me, Cassandra.”

I look at her blankly, wondering if I should hire a bodyguard, not that anyone has the bad sense to mess with me, but the fans are getting a little wild. The airstrip is a restricted area.

“It’s me, Cass, remember? We went to the Melted Candle for dinner.” She waggles her eyebrows. “You melted me afterward.”

Breezing past her comment, my concern isn’t only because she’s on private property—unless she works for air traffic control—but that her sweatshirt is moving. Like shifting and wiggling.

Nodding slowly as a scene from a space alien movie comes to mind, I gesture over my shoulder. “I have a plane to?— ”

“Jackie, I brought you something.” She lowers the zipper on her hoodie and produces …

I tilt my head because I was not expecting a dog.

“Remember, you told me all about how you went to the animal shelter and love rescues and wanted a dog so badly?”

Vaguely? I generally like dogs, so it sounds like something I may have said.

“I got you one from the pound. He didn’t have a home, so I thought you could give him one. Well, and me. Like we could be a family. Isn’t he adorable? I named him Jackie after you.”

First of all, I hate it when anyone tries to call me Jackie. Second of all, I cannot have a dog named after me. Thirdly, this is absolutely absurd.

She coos, “Don’t you love Jackie, Jackie?”

“You can’t name a dog Jackie.”

She pouts. “Fine. How about Mark? That’s what they called him at the pound. Or it may have been the security guard’s name, but?—”

My mouth falls open. “You stole the dog?”

She waves her hand dismissively. “Rescued him.”

I start to shake my head when she plows forward for a group hug, sandwiching the animal between us. “As I said, I thought we could start a?—”

Just then, sirens blare. Lights shine off the damp tarmac as official vehicles approach.

This week has not pulled any punches, so if I somehow got involved in an international dog trafficking ring, I wouldn’t be the slightest bit surprised.

Cass shoves the dog into my arms. “Uh-oh. Technically speaking, I’m not supposed to be here and may have bribed someone for access.”

The mutt scrambles as if scared of the noise and activity—or from being stuffed inside Cass’s sweatshirt .

She pulls her hat back on and runs away, shouting, “Come visit me in jail and bring Mark.”

“Mark isn’t a dog’s name either,” I mutter, but it’s lost in the wailing of sirens.

I stand there dumbly as the security cavalry whizz across the open space—where my plane should be taxiing for takeoff. A cop stops in front of me and I recognize him from a call I made when I found a woman wearing nothing but her birthday suit and pointed hat with a pom pom on my condo’s balcony.

He asks, “Pressing charges this time?”

Giving my head a shake, I figure it’s not worth it. “No, but you can give her this dog back.”

“Sorry, you’ll have to call animal control. I’m not allowed to have animals in the patrol vehicle.” He skids away before I can say more.

The dog? Puppy? He’s medium brown and has a bit of white around his muzzle. I can’t tell the breed or age, but he looks up at me with big brown eyes.

The assistant crew member pokes his head out of the plane’s door. “Sir, are you ready to depart?”

I look around and the runway is now clear with the flashing lights at the far end of the fenced-in property.

“Yes, but this dog.” I point to the animal and tilt my head, then chuckle.

He bears an uncanny likeness to the actor Mark Wahlberg with a certain wry look across the brow and a tough expression.

“She busted you out of the pound, huh? Sounds like you’ve been kicking around these mean streets awhile.”

He lets out a pathetic little whimper and intensifies the doggy-eyed look.

Shaking my head, I say, “That’s not fair. You can’t do that. Don’t even try to pierce my cold heart.”

I set him down, deciding that he can do what he wants. If he runs, he’s on his own. The police will likely come back and call the dog catcher. If they locate the animal, they can bring him to a shelter.

However, he remains glued to my side, looking up at me with incredibly expressive eyebrows, you know, for a dog.

“Go on. You’re free.” I gesture into the night.

He doesn’t budge.

“Someone will spot you and give you a good home.” I feel like a monster, reminiscent of a book I had to read in high school. I promised myself I’d never turn my back on a dog. Yet here I am.

Wow, Jack. You’re really winning at life lately. A real pro.

I rub my hand down my face. Looking around as if for an assist, none comes. I guess I’m on my own. Well, not really because as I mount the stairs to board the plane, the dog remains glued to my side.

“Jackie, go home.”

He lets out a sharp bark that sounds a lot like disapproval.

Well, okay then. “Mark?”

He yips again as if insulted.

“You need to go back to where you came from.”

His expressive eyebrows rumple and turn down, tugging at my heart. I give him a pet. Turns out I’m a softy. So is he. He stares at me for a long moment. Again, the actor from an action flick I watched on a recent flight comes to mind, you know, if he were a dog. I’m not implying the movie star looks like one. I’m actually a big fan. I chuckle to myself because this might mean I need a mental vacation.

Maybe he does, too, after being sent to the pound and then held hostage by Cassandra.

“I could really go for a cheeseburger right now.”

The dog barks as if he agrees.

“What do you want to be called? ”

He barks again.

“Not Jackie. Not Mark. How about Bark Wahlburger?” I say, joking because, if nothing else, I have to see the humor in the culmination of my week.

The dog barks a third time and wears a big, goofy grin.

My breath does something funny: catches, releases, doubles back like a boomerang. I can’t quite explain it, but whatever it is results in me letting out a long and hysterical laugh.

The dog stands on his hind legs and puts his paws on me. I lower him down and then crouch, giving him a long scratch behind the ears and pet along his flank. “I really needed that laugh. Thanks, buddy.”

The dog, smiling and hopeful now, stares at me as if I’m the one holding up the works. I start to climb the stairs and stop when the dog whines. “Well, Bark Wallburger, go do your business and get onboard. We have an island to get to.”

Once situated on the airplane bound for Jewel Island, instead of some much-needed rest, my mind whirls with questions. After drinking an entire bowl of water, the dog settles down by my feet, lets out a contented sigh, and falls fast asleep.

I’ll deal with him later. Right now, I have career-breaking things to consider.

If I want to remain on the ice, I’ll have to up my game and win. Totally doable. But what my father and Aston said about the Knights echoes in my mind. Maybe I need to show commitment now, to my current team and the organization at large if they’re concerned about my reputation.

That’s an easy fix.

Ideas fly through my mind until I land on a solution. I’ll ask someone to wear my jersey to my next game because it would be a first. Even though I‘ve dated around, everyone will know that it’s a big deal.

However, if anyone so much as catches the scent that I asked a woman to wear my jersey, the press could become suspicious. I attract the Astons of the world and can’t trust them. That wouldn’t end well.

My thoughts circle back, around, up, and down.

Whereas Remy is partially composed of pudding, Coach Badaszek from the Knights is pure steel.

While Cole, Duffton, Gunther, and the rest of us have a me, myself, and I mentality, the Knights are a real team … and they’re family men. No puck bunnies front and center or on the side. No partying. The only flash is their history of Stanley Cup wins. It’s a lot to live up to, and if I’m completely honest with myself, everything I’ve ever wanted.

However, the Knights organization is the diametric opposite of the Storm and I wouldn’t fit in, so the Zamboni can run over that option.

It’s back to the drawing board.

By the time we touchdown, the eastern sky lightens with the blush of dawn. I could go crash in the suite the hotel management has held for me all week, but I have the dog with me.

While the shuttle brings us to the resort property, I shoot Carlos a text to contact the local shelters and find out about the jailbreak.

Outside, Bark Wahlburger does his business and then trots next to me as I enter the resort.

Starving, I pop into Bon Jour , the only place on the property that serves breakfast at this early hour. Mom and I used to order the crepes—egg and cheese first and strawberries with chocolate second. She insisted on chocolate at every meal. I wonder if they’re still on the menu.

The hostess smiles as I approach, no doubt wondering if a pirate washed ashore. At least, that’s how I feel. It’s safe to assume I look ragged. A king-sized bed has never been so appealing, but first, I need food.

Recognition flashes in her eyes and her cheeks flush. “A table for how many?”

“Party of one,” I answer.

She purrs, “Sounds like a good time. Wish I could join you.”

Bark Wahlburger nuzzles my hand, reminding me he’s here. Typically, dogs wouldn’t be allowed on the premises, but that’s one of the benefits of being me.

“Two, actually.”

Her expression lights up and then she glances down at the dog by my side. “Well, if you want dessert, you know where to find me.”

After breakfast dessert isn’t a thing unless you count chocolate, but I keep that to myself. Not to sound like an arrogant jerk, but I cannot seem to escape the flirtation or notoriety. I have no one to blame but myself and my big fat ego. It’s my own doing. I’ve had more than my fair share of fun with women, but it never left me feeling full.

Except that one time with Jasmin.

Bark Wahlburger settles under the table and doesn’t even beg. “What a good boy,” I say, rubbing behind his ears.

He looks up at me with those puppy dog eyes.

My icy heart melts a little. “Before I was wondering what I was going to do with you? Maybe the more important question is what am I going to do with myself?”

After I order crepes, I wonder what my mother would think. She’d be disappointed. She’d want me to find someone special. She’d love the dog, well, maybe after a bath and trip to the groomer.

Again, Jasmin drifts into my mind. That night with her was electric. It felt so real—nothing at all fake about her—except maybe her name. The kiss we shared in the pool was like a tsunami, crashing against all the previous kisses I’d ever had.

I sigh, finish my meal, and then wander to the Ruby Room, shuffle through the door, and go directly to the shower, eager to wash off and sleep through tomorrow and Sunday before I have to fly out again for a Monday face-off against the Knights. It could very well be my last game. I’ll deal with the career crossroads—and Bark Wahlburger—then.