Chapter 2: Tate

I wakeup every day at 5 a.m. to lift weights while my roommate, Natasha, sleeps in her room. I don’t know how the hell she’s always sleeping when I wake up. The chick is always in her room. It’s like she’s addicted to sleep. I yawn, running my fingers through my chest hair before getting my ass off the couch. Water. Caffeine. Gym. I text Dylan Callahan, my typical morning routine.

Tate: Get your ass out of bed. Deadlift day.

Deadlifting before 6 a.m. separates the men from the boys. Dylan texts me back quickly, which means he won’t be late this time. Natasha is gonna be so mad when she wakes up. Once I’m done with the gym, I’m picking up my new puppy from the local dog rescue affiliated with the fire station, aided by my cousin Terran Whitmarsh.

Natasha has made it clear that she has a negative opinion of dogs around the house, especially any dog I might bring into the situation. She accused me of being “just the type” to surprise her with a “mutant Cane Corso”, whatever the fuck that means.

She talks a big goddamn talk about hating my guts, but she won’t say no to a new pet. We could use something around her to brighten her constantly sour mood. Tonight, she’ll have to get used to my new dog because we have another Nor’easter blowing in and this one will be even bigger than the one before it.

I have a feeling I’ll get a call in the middle of the night, which is normally the case when you expect a comfortable day off. This job is a whole lot of nothing happening, so when something happens its a shitshow and in this line of work, it’s normally something completely fucked up.

If we get monumentally lucky, which I doubt we will, Central New Yorkers might be smart enough to keep their asses off the road tonight considering each blizzard gets stronger than the last and dumps enough snow on our part of the state to bury us. The media keeps calling the snowstorms more and more dramatic names, but nothing stops folks from driving if they want to drive.

I don’t know how Terran handles it out there in the boondocks, far away from the Walmart and further away from the good Wegman’s. I’m only out here because of unforeseen circumstances. The bullshit crazy past I couldn’t run away from if I tried.

I guess I could get used to the quiet out here, because there’s a part of me that’s just tired of the craziness. And pretty fucking happy Natasha doesn’t seem to know about it. Feels good to have a roommate that hates me for her own petty reasons instead of the big reason that everyone else in this town hates me. Everyone has shit they prefer to keep locked up in the past…

When I get to the gym Dylan stands in the front of the bar, warming up without me and somehow already dripping in sweat.

“How long have you been here?” I ask as I strip off my pump cover and try not to be the type of guy who compares myself to Dylan. The man is the size of a goddamn horse.

“I’m just warming up,” he says calmly. “Been up all night with the baby.”

He does have crazy dark circles under his eyes. And he looks like shit. Makes me feel better about being so much smaller than the guy, although it’s not like I’m unimpressive.

“You look like it,” I grumble, enjoying the opportunity to smack Dylan down just a little.

“Thanks,” Dylan responds, letting my jab roll right off him.

“Seriously. When was the last time you shaved?”

“Take the bar,” Dylan grunts in my direction. I take a warm up set and we work out in peaceful silence for another half hour, until we build to our heaviest lifts for the morning. I’m pretty tough, but Dylan is 6’7” tall – about an inch shorter than me. And if he stops lifting for even one week, his muscles will turn right to fat. My body is cut and lean, with a little extra muscle, but not enough to make me look like a monster.

By the time we’re done, I’m ready for some breakfast and another nap. We’re both off for the next 48 hours, but always on call since we’re in such a small town. We should spend the rest of the night unbothered and hunkering down from the snowstorm unless some major shit happens tonight that requires more manpower than normal.

Lately, aside from the constant snow dumps, there hasn’t been much of anything interesting going on around here.

After our workout, every inch of my body is ready to die. It’s hard not to push yourself when you exercise with a Callahan. They are all dangerously competitive and they all enjoy winning almost as much as they love rubbing their victory in your face. Deep down, they’re all pretty decent guys. Dylan and I head down to a local diner together for a post-workout fuel session and he eats like he never saw a plate of food a day in his life.

I ask him if he wants to help me get the dog, but Dylan has fatherly duties after our diner breakfast, so we talk about hockey playoffs a little more, the huge Bills upset last season, his cousin Cormac’s gambling addiction, a drug call Fletcher Sweeney answered at the trailer park, and typical small town stuff.

Once we’re done catching up, I drive out to the Amish farm alone. This part of the country I like. The natural beauty and rolling green hills. The fresh air.

I hear Terran’s dog Rogue howling and howling when I’m half a mile down the highway. I missed that dog while I was away. Didn’t think he would survive long enough to see again considering bloodhounds have big-dog life spans, but Rogue has the energy of a puppy.

Terran’s farm is far off the main road and I swear, he only comes to town to shop for groceries and then he heads back out here to keep being his gruff, uncouth self. My cousin has been out here with his wife Viola since she fell out of the sky and I won’t lie… I’m envious. Terran has made it clear exactly what he thinks is wrong with me, but I can’t figure out why I haven’t met the perfect woman.

I’m hot. I have blond hair. Grey eyes. A smile.

Women should be melting in my arms.

He told me once that my problem is this – “Women aren’t lining up to screw washed up Division III athletes who don’t know how to treat them right.”

Terran is ridiculous. I know how to treat women right. I just seem to always sink my teeth into the wrong women. There’s no way I’m the problem.

Look at me and Natasha. She hates my guts, but I’m completely innocent. Terran of all people should understand that the world – especially America – is incredibly biased against tall, handsome white men.

Today, I’ll try not to get into another argument with him about my failure to get married. Country folks are way too obsessed with marriage and having kids. I don’t see the point in rushing through all the traditional steps until I meet the right person.

I step out of the car and Rogue bounds over to me from the farmhouse’s open front door. Rogue’s howling didn’t leave much guessing about my arrival. I let him get his kisses in and scratch his ears before I see Terran tearing up the path from behind his apple trees, halfway out of breath. Terran is such a goddamn bastard.

He manages to look like he spends all day in the gym while doing absolutely nothing on this farm. At least I assume farm work is easy. Maybe not. He already has a disapproving look plastered on his face when he sees me standing there.

I grin and tease him a little to lighten the mood, “How the fuck are your arms twice the size of mine when all you do is split wood?”

My cousin smiles at my joke, which means his character has improved significantly since I left town. His wife Viola is definitely good for him. Terran has the moods of a hermit. He didn’t smile for three years before he met her. The entire family had bets going about who could get him to smile. I came close once because I nearly chopped my finger off with a butcher knife. He’s a lot less sour than I remember him. And I like the new Terran a lot better.

My cousin gives me a hug as his big old bloodhound Rogue bounces around us, trying to get between us. His big booming barks echo around the farm and he jumps up high with gigantic paws, drool flying everywhere and floppy ears whipping mud from the farm all over the place. Terran pats me so hard on the back he nearly knocks the tobacco out of the bottom of my lungs.

“Are you sure you’re lifting weights?” Terran asks. “You seem skinny.”

“I could say that you seem fat,” I shoot back. “I long surpassed your bench record. You should get your ass back in the gym.”

Terran scowls.“Shut the hell up, Tate. I have your puppy for you.”

Lately, Viola and Terran have been helping shut down suspicious dog breeding operations out in the country. Partnering with the fire department, they only expanded their operation and now, I get a cheap dog with a bunch of mental health issues that Natasha and I can raise together. I know she has the compassion to give our puppy the therapy he needs.

Our precious rescue comes from one of those animal abuse situations.

“How many illegal breeding operations do these people have going on out here?” I ask him, looking around with wonder at how anyone could have so much space out here and keep dogs cooped up in their farmhouse bathroom.

Terran brings his lips together seriously and shrugs. New dog breeders keep popping up due to an unfortunate new social media trend and he’s spent the past few breeding seasons rescuing more and more puppies.

“Hopefully this is the last one we find,” Terran says. “Come along to the barn… you get your pick of the litter.”

I walk into the barn where I see the little bitch with her pups. My favorite breed of dog… landlord friendly. Adorable…

I know instantly what I want. Natasha is going to love this dog. Terran seems impatient that I’m taking more than thirty seconds to choose. I point to the dog that first captures my attention.

“I want that one.”

“He’s yours,” Terran says, sticking out his hand for an unnecessary official handshake.

And with that, I head home with a 15 week old chihuahua puppy that I name Terrorist. He was the biggest bully of the litter, so Terran wanted to get rid of him. I don’t think he’s too big for a chihuahua. He’s cute. Our precious baby barks and whines the entire drive home. Natasha is still sleeping in her room when I get there, so I spirit Terrorist into my room, where I show him his new home.

I’ve been planning for this in secret, which is pretty easy considering Natasha’s sleep schedule and the fact that she primarily communicates with me through glaring.

He whines and freaks out a little bit, pissing like crazy on the floor and dragging some dookie behind him.

I’d better clean that up…

I sneak into the common space for some paper towels, when I see Natasha making her best effort to sneak past me to the bathroom. She has her towel wrapped around her body with enough of her back and legs exposed that my imagination immediately runs wild. The second she sees me, she glares. I give her a big, warm smile.

“Good afternoon, Natasha, did you sleep well?” I ask her politely. She communicates with one of her signature glares. She has a pretty face, even when she’s angry.

“Go fuck yourself, Tate.”

Goddamn. There’s something unexpected and crazy about how much she hates me. I bet she has some type of mental health issue. Our new puppy can help with that.

“I want to show you something.”

“I’m taking a shower,” she replies with disinterest.

She steps into the bathroom and slams the door dramatically before turning the shower on and playing music from her little speakers. I like her shower music. Sometimes, when she thinks I’m sleeping, I listen to her shower concerts. She can’t hit a note, but I find her shower concerts incredibly cute regardless.

Today, I want her to hurry up so she can meet Terrorist. I head back into my bedroom armed with paper towels and disinfectant so I can clean up after the puppy. He’s tiny and he won’t get much bigger, but I know he’s going to be the perfect best friend. Terrorist barks and whines more and more as I play with him and hang out with him.

I’m so distracted with the new puppy that I don’t hear Natasha stop her shower. I want to get ahead of the dog story so she doesn’t freak out, but then I hear her knocking on the door. I press my finger to my lips, making eye contact with Terrorist. His cute, tiny eyes bulge out of his apple shaped head. He tilts his puppy head to the side and I pray that he doesn’t start barking.

I hope Natasha can handle him on the nights when I work… I’ll need all her help to raise our new baby.

She knocks again – way louder.

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