Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Knox

“So he is actually a her ,” the vet, Dr. Karlson, says as she ushers me into the back room of the emergency veterinarian facility.

There are floor-to-ceiling kennels, most of them empty, but a few of them house cats and dogs who look like they’ve had better days.

Including the little guy I scooped up from the side of the road.

Or girl, apparently.

“Now that we’ve got her cleaned up we have a better idea of what her injuries are.” She stops and bends down next to a crate, and I see him— her .

God, she’s even more of a pathetic sight than when I first spotted her on the side of the road.

Her back right leg is wrapped in a pink cast and the parts of her that aren’t covered in blankets are dotted with shaved patches of fur. I wince at the array of abrasions and cuts, some deep enough that they obviously required sutures.

Damn. Poor thing

“—and they’re not good.”

My heart squeezes and I tear my gaze from the pup, glance over at the doc. “Not good in what way?”

“Her gums are pale, and her tummy is bloated. Her temperature is still far too low. Likely there’s some internal damage that didn’t show up on our original scans.” She shakes her head. “She needs more tests and, likely, surgery.”

I glance at the tiny thing and find her eyes locked on me.

She looks pathetic.

Tiny and pathetic and miserable.

And my heart squeezes again.

“Can you fix her?” I ask softly.

There’s a long moment of quiet and then the vet exhales. “I can try.” A beat. “But it won’t be cheap.”

“Whatever it costs,” I tell her. “I’ll pay it.”

Dr. Karlson is quiet for a minute, but I don’t miss the glimmer of approval in her eyes before she nods. It makes me…

Feel things I shouldn’t.

But I knew from the moment I heard that whimper I wasn’t walking away.

“Okay,” she says, brushing her palms on her thighs and straightening. “You can swipe a card with the receptionist before you leave. We’ll draw up an estimate and take a deposit.”

I wave a hand at that. I could give her cash right now if she needed it. More importantly?—

“You’ll do your best to save her?”

A nod. “Yes, Mr. Adler. I’ll do my best to save her.” She tilts her head to the door we walked through a couple of minutes ago. “Why don’t you wait out front while the nurse draws up the paperwork and I’ll get started on back here.”

“Ok—”

But I don’t even finish the word before she’s turning away, already down to business. “Tiff, Rachel,” she calls. “You’re both with me. Ronnie, can you work on that estimate and payment for Mr. Adler?”

There are more clipped out orders, all accompanying a flurry of activity as I move back out to the front of the vet office.

It’s quiet, and the wait is interminably long.

But eventually they come out with an estimate and the news that the pup is in surgery.

I sign away on the eye-wateringly expensive paperwork and even though they say I can go home and they’ll call me, I wait.

And wait .

Until the dawn sunlight begins creeping into the windows.

Until the waiting room begins to be filled with different patients—these of the far less emergent variety.

I sit through a shift change and dawn turning to morning and I’ve pretty much lost all hope when the doors to the back swing open and I see Dr. Karlson come out.

She looks exhausted and pale, but…

She’s smiling.

And my heart squeezes so hard that it feels as though I may pass out.

“She’s stable” are her first words.

The relief is so intense that my head spins. It makes no sense. The dog’s not even mine, and it’s not like I can keep her. I’m on the road for half the fucking year.

“Really?” I rasp.

She nods. “Really. She’ll need to be in here for the next week or so, at the very least, but I’ll keep you posted so you can come by and visit.”

I nod. “I can visit but I can’t?—”

Only before I finish that, the door to the vet swings open and a man runs inside, holding a huge German shepherd in his arms. Blood stains its sides and Dr. Karlson takes one look at him before running over.

I don’t hold it against her—of course I don’t.

The dog is in rough shape, and it needs her.

But it does take away the opportunity for me to make it clear that I can’t keep the little pup.

“Let’s get some help out here!” she calls.

And then everyone’s moving at once—a stretcher is brought out, the pup is taken into the back, information taken, and…

I’m in the way.

And the pup is stable.

And fatigue is gnawing at my bones.

They have my number—both for my cell and my credit card. They’ll be in touch.

So, I go home.

I shower and collapse into my bed, my back and shoulders aching from sitting in the unforgiving reception chair for hours.

Thankfully, my exhaustion is louder.

And it doesn’t take long for me to slip off into sleep.

But it also doesn’t escape me that I make sure to turn my phone on full volume before I do.

“Shoot!”

I hold the puck on my stick, the shouted command from the stands almost making me smile.

If I wasn’t in the middle of a game, in the middle of a power play, trying my best to not fuck up against the surprisingly challenging opponent, the Grizzlies, I might have.

But the league’s newest expansion team made some key trades in the off-season, and now they have a formidable roster that makes them dangerous to play against.

“SHOOT!”

I ignore that—as I always do—and keep the puck on my blade as I cross over the top of the circles, trying to draw one of the assholes from the other team near enough to me that one of my teammates will be open. Of course that means I earn a slash to the hands, a shove to the back, and shoulder-to-shoulder contact that nearly knocks me off my skates for my trouble.

But it also buys me enough time to make a play—and Lake enough space to skate hard to the net.

Riggs is right behind him, streaking down from his position at the blue line, stick down, ready for me to pass.

So I do.

I flick the puck, and it flies toward Riggs, landing just before his stick. He corrals it without issue—and without stopping, moving hard to the goal.

He winds up, and it seems as though everyone holds their breath, waiting for his wicked slap shot.

But he doesn’t follow through—or not with the ripper of a shot.

Instead, he slides the puck to the left…

And right onto Lake’s stick.

The net is wide open, but it wouldn’t matter if it wasn’t.

Because Lake Jordan doesn’t miss when he’s that close to the goal.

Almost faster than my eyes can track, the puck is off his stick and flying into the back of the net.

The red light goes.

The crowd explodes.

And that goal is what sends us straight into winning the game and earning those two points in the standings.

When I get off the ice, finish my post-game interviews, cool down, and then, finally, shower, I see a text from the vet’s office on my phone.

Or, I guess, a text from Dr. Karlson herself.

“Shit.” My heart sinks and I hurry to open the message.

And then it sinks another few inches.

Because I know I’m fucked.

She misses you. Come and visit tomorrow around ten.