50. Cock-A-Doodle-Doo

50

COCK-A-DOODLE-DOO

Asher

Maeve isn’t just secretly pleased five days later when a local rescue tells us no one has claimed the pup. We’ve scoured Petfinder, lost and found boards, and nearby shelters, even after the vet confirmed the little cutie has no microchip.

Maeve’s outwardly thrilled. She calls while I’m in Vancouver, right as I’m leaving the hotel to head to the arena for tonight’s game. After giving me the “cutie update,” as she calls the dog, she launches into how well-behaved the stray has been at the arena. She’d planned to bring her to a nearby dog daycare but decided to take her to work instead. Eleanor insisted on it when she learned Maeve had found a dog. No surprise there—this is the same woman who dresses her own dog up for portraits.

“She stays in a dog bed or sometimes a crate, and she’s practically perfect in every way. She was even pretty good when I took her in the Lyft to work. Sooo…can we keep her?”

Can we?

The two-word question tugs on my heart. Like it’s a we thing. Like it’s up to us.

“Maeve, I’m not in charge of this,” I say.

“Oh please, you love being in charge,” she teases.

“In bed,” I point out.

She scoffs. “Asher, you love control in general.”

I bristle a little—maybe because it’s true. “Fine, but that has nothing to do with keeping a dog.”

But deep down, I’m secretly thrilled she’s asking me if we can. Every time she says we , this romance feels more real, more permanent. A life with her. Like we’re inching closer to the moment when I’ll finally tell her I love her. But I hold back. I won’t scare her away.

Adopting a dog feels like a commitment, even though I know it’s Maeve’s dog—she’s the one taking care of her while I’m on the road, arranging vet visits, and walking her. Still, that we is pulling me closer to what I’ve wanted for a while now. To find that perfect moment to tell her she’s the love of my life. I’ve been trying to show her for the last several weeks. Maybe she’s finally ready to hear it.

“I can’t say no to you,” I admit.

She cheers. “You can stay, girl,” she says to the dog, who makes an unusual sound in response—one that sounds strangely like a rooster’s crow.

“What was that?” I ask.

“Oh, she has a weird bark.” There’s a pause, then an excited gasp. “That’s it! Her name is Rooster.” I laugh as Maeve continues, “She cocked her head—yup, it’s her new name. Actually, hold on. I’m getting a message from the goddess of dog names…wait for it…Her name is Ruby Rooster! Since she was red–thanks to our paint–when we found her, and she barks like a rooster.”

The Vancouver arena comes into view as I say, “Or maybe it’s because you really like…roosters.”

She snort-laughs. “I really like your rooster.”

I grin, then ask about the mural. She updates me, telling me more about the love lessons mirrors, the night market, and she suddenly brightens. “Oh! And this coffee shop called. It’s called High Kick Coffee—they have an art gallery run by a former Vegas showgirl. She saw the piece in California Style earlier this week, and she loves to support women artists and wants some of my paintings on the walls. They sell a lot of art there.”

I think about that for a beat. “You know, now that you mention it, you do see a lot of art in coffee shops these days.”

“Exactly! I think they’ve become the new galleries, making art more accessible,” she says. I can picture her sinking into the couch, feet tucked under her, wearing one of her signature T-shirts, hair in a messy bun, and the image nearly makes me blurt out, I love you.

“Funny thing is,” Maeve continues, “once upon a time, I really wanted my art in galleries like the Frieda Claiborne or Julien Aldridge galleries—you know, the really fancy ones I used to cater for.”

I like where this is going. “And now that’s changing?”

“I think so. The idea of my mirrors being in stores, my paintings at coffee shops—it just feels right. I finished that tree mural at the vegan café, and I’m working on the moon and stars at the yoga studio. Maybe this is what it was supposed to be all along. Maybe it was never about fancy galleries. Maybe it was about getting my art in front of people every day, where they can enjoy it. It doesn’t have to sell for five thousand dollars to make me happy. If regular people get to see it, that makes my dream come true.”

“And you’re making art for, well, everyone. Not just rich people.”

Her voice catches. “Yeah, I am. And I think that’s really what matters to me.”

I smile to myself. She’s finally finding her footing, figuring things out. Selfishly, I wonder if this newfound certainty about her career might help my cause. Maybe if she’s sorting out these parts of her life, she’ll be more open to the biggest question of all: Do you think you could love me too?

I’m nearly at the arena when she adds one more thing. “Oh, my aunt wants to take us out again when you’re back in town. She said she has exciting news for us. I have no idea what that means, but is that okay?”

“Of course,” I say, though a small knot of suspicion forms in my gut. With Vivian, “exciting news” could mean anything—from a surprise dinner to something far more complicated—like she’s giving Maeve her catering business and needs her to take it over right now.

But it’s a good thing I’ll be there—I can protect Maeve from whatever curveball Vivian throws.

I’m walking up to the arena now, and the noise of the city fades into the background as the game looms closer. I should be focusing on the matchup, running through plays in my mind, but the conversation with Maeve lingers. Balancing hockey and this thing with Maeve—it’s getting more complicated. And soon, really soon, I’m going to have to tell her I’m madly in love with her.

It’s on the tip of my tongue. I’m just waiting for the right moment. I’ve been romancing her slowly so I wouldn’t scare her away. So I wouldn’t lose her.

And maybe, just maybe, she’s finally ready to hear that I love her.

But for tonight, I have a game to win. I shake off the thoughts of the woman of my dreams as I near the doors.

It’s early in the afternoon the next day, and I’m in the deadlifts zone at Beckett’s gym, when he hops off the elliptical and strides over, motioning for me to take out my AirPods. I set down the weights and turn off the music. “What’s up?”

We already lifted together earlier. I’m just doing extra sets now.

“When are you going to, you know, tell my sister you’re madly in love with her?”

I blink, stepping back. He’s more direct than I’d expected. I’m not entirely sure what to say to him about Maeve. I guess I figured I’d be risking our friendship if I ever did anything about the way I felt, but I also never truly thought he’d have an issue with it. That’s just not his style. He trusts me. “How long have you known?” I finally say.

“Dude, you’ve had it bad for her for years.”

Okay. So before I did. Great.

“Now’s your chance. Figure it out. Treat her well. And don’t forget about me. Got it?”

I swallow. Nod. “I won’t. And thanks,” I say, wondering if it’s as obvious to the world as it is to him.

Or, more importantly, to her.

About a week later, we’re getting ready for Vivian’s dinner, and Maeve’s twisting her hair into a clip while Ruby Rooster sits at her feet, thumping her tail as she watches Maeve get dressed.

I understand this dog so much.

Maeve checks her reflection in the bathroom mirror, and I notice it again—the twist of her wrists.

My brow furrows. “You okay?”

“Totally,” she says with a bright smile, but I can’t take my eyes off her wrist as she grabs the ibuprofen. She tosses back three pills this time. I count.

“You’re not okay,” I say, sharper than I’d intended.

“I am,” she insists, her smile dimming a little. “They’re just a little sore. Like I said, it’s normal. That’s why I do the stretches.”

I draw a deep breath, trying to keep calm. “How is that normal?”

“I work with my hands, Asher,” she says, then looks me up and down. “Don’t you ever get sore?”

All the time. But I’m an athlete. It’s literally part of the job, and I fucking deal with it. I handle it. “Yes, but it’s not the same.”

“How is it not the same?” she counters, already leaving the bathroom and sweeping through the bedroom where she grabs her bag.

Ruby Rooster trots after her, and Maeve coos at the dog, scratching her chin.

She stops and gives me a thoughtful look, then sets a hand on my chest. “Asher, it is. You work with your body. So do I. It happens.”

I open my mouth to argue, but the words stick in my throat. I can handle it when it happens to me, but what if it gets worse for you? What if you can’t heal quickly? Your hands are your livelihood.

“We could look into it,” I suggest, a knot in my chest tightening.

She tugs me closer. “Let’s just go to dinner. Seeing my aunt is stressful enough.”

I inhale, trying to just focus on the night ahead. When the dog rubs her head against me, the tightness loosens for a minute, and I lean down to give Ruby Rooster a kiss on the head, catching a whiff of something floral. “Why does the dog smell so…fancy?”

Maeve grins, then says offhand, “Oh, that’s paw-fume.”

I blink. “Paw-fume? Did you just say paw-fume? What the hell is that?”

She nods seriously. “Yes, I got it at the pet supply store. It’s cruelty-free, and it makes her smell so pretty.” She bends to the pup, cupping her snout. “Such a pretty girl. And you love your paw-fume, don’t you?” Maeve asks, stroking the dog’s face.

I can’t help it—I start laughing. Only Maeve would get something like paw-fume. It’s so her —a little quirky, a little over-the-top, but absolutely charming. And in that moment, I know. Tonight. I’ll tell her tonight that I am absolutely, wildly in love with her. How could I not when everything she does melts my heart?

We say goodbye to the dog, but as we drive to the restaurant, I can’t stop thinking about her wrists. I should do something to help her. I should fix this.

At the restaurant, I slip off to the men’s room to wash my hands—and to Google wrist pain for artists. Tendonitis. That’s it. Could be tendonitis. Wrist braces…splints…strengthening exercises. I’ll order her some wrist braces toni ght and find better exercises. I’ll look up more later. I can fix this.

A little less tense, I join Maeve and her aunt at the table, pushing my worries aside. “How’s everything going, Vivian?” I ask, trying to focus.

“Great! You had a fantastic game against Vancouver. In fact, I like the way your whole season is going.”

This is a good sign—maybe she’ll just chat about hockey. Maybe she won’t get into Maeve’s art career.

But then Vivian turns to Maeve. “How’s everything going with you, Miss California Style ?”

Maeve squares her shoulders and smiles. “Really well, actually. The mural’s almost done, and I’ve gotten a few more jobs from it—and from the piece, of course. I can still probably cater for you now and then, but I’ve had so much going on with commissions that I don’t know if I can take on more catering work.”

Oh my god, she’s doing it. She’s moving forward. She’s making a living as an artist. This is her dream. I squeeze her hand, letting her know I’m so fucking proud of her.

But the thought comes crashing down when I remember her wrist pain. What if it gets worse? Will she still be able to paint? Will she still be able to make the mirrors and lamps for the night market? Will she be able to have a career?

We order, but my mind is stuck on the same loop. She’s too young to worry about tendonitis. I need to figure out a long-term plan for her.

I push back in my chair, and just as I’m about to excuse myself again to do some more research because that’s what I should be doing right now, Maeve shoots me a funny look. Right. Vivian had news for us. I settle back in, focusing once more on the dinner .

Vivian flashes a pleased smile. “I’m going to throw you a wedding party.”

What? I blink. “A wedding party?”

“Yes. I didn’t get to throw an engagement party because you got married right away without family. We didn’t have a reception. I really want to do this for you.” She turns to Maeve, her eyes softening. “I always promised your mother I’d be here for you. Whatever you need.”

Oh no. There’s no way Maeve can turn her down now.

Maeve’s eyes shine with unshed tears. She’s clearly touched, but she says, “You really don’t have to do that.”

Vivian thinks this is real. Maeve must be freaking out that the truth might unfold. How much longer can we keep pretending?

Maybe this isn’t simply a sign. Maybe this is the opportunity I’ve been wanting. This is my chance to tell Maeve we don’t have to pretend.

“I’ll handle the catering free of charge,” Vivian adds. “I have friends who own a venue.” She turns to Maeve. “We can invite your brother and Reina, of course, and any of your friends. Just give me some dates that work for you.”

“I appreciate that, Vivian, really,” I say, cutting in before Maeve can answer. “It’s an incredibly generous offer. Maeve and I will need to take a look at our schedules though. We’ve both been swamped with work.” I glance at Maeve, offering her what I hope is a reassuring smile. “But I promise, we’ll figure something out that works for everyone.”

“We will,” Maeve says, sounding relieved, then stretches her hand once more, like she did earlier.

Vivian’s eyes flick to her wrist. “You’re doing that again? You used to do that all the time when you were younger, back when you’d spend hours painting.”

What the fuck? She’s been doing this for years? My jaw ticks.

“I’m fine. I took ibuprofen, and I do my wrist stretches…”

Vivian cuts in, “You’re overworking yourself, Maeve. Maybe you should consider catering full-time.”

Whiplash. The way Vivian switches gears grates on me. I hate that Maeve’s overworking herself to the point of pain, but I hate even more that she’s being told to give up her art. “When your passion has physical effects on your body, you find ways to mitigate the effects,” I say. “You don’t give up your passion.” The words come out strong, and I meet Vivian’s eyes. “Don’t worry. I can help her.”

Vivian’s face softens. “That’s so sweet of you. I feel better knowing you’re looking after her. I can tell you’re in love with her.”

I can’t hold back completely. “I am,” I say to Vivian before I can stop myself. The truth feels good. And it’s good practice for when I say it to Maeve, just Maeve. When I tell Maeve this romance isn’t for show. It’s for real.

Vivian beams. “I knew it.”

Maybe Maeve knows it too. Maybe she won’t run. Especially if I can help her. And I need more info. I waggle my phone. “Sorry, I’ve got to make a call. My agent’s been texting.”

I excuse myself and rush back to the restroom, pulling up more websites for wrist exercises. There’s so much that can be done—stress balls, finger stretches, therapy options. I can help her. I can tell her I love her, and I can fix this for her .

I return to the table, feeling a little more in control, until Maeve looks up. “What did your agent say?”

Shit. “Uh…just a new CheekyBeast campaign. Nothing big.”

Then I keep my ass in the chair until dinner ends.

“You seemed a little…all over the place at dinner,” Maeve says on the drive home. “Everything okay?”

Well, shit. I was hoping she wouldn’t notice. “All good,” I say, trying to sound confident. “Just thinking about the next game. Seattle’s always a tough opponent.” It’s a fair excuse since we travel tomorrow with the game the next day. “But hey, a wedding party sounds fun.”

It sounds great to me—celebrating this marriage would be perfect. And isn’t that a step in letting her know my feelings are real? Not simply when I claim I’m in love in front of her aunt—I know Maeve could think that’s for show.

“Sure,” she says, and it’s almost too easy. She glances over at me again. “Are you sure you’re okay? You really seemed distracted.”

I can’t have her thinking I’m not all in. And there’s one surefire way to get Maeve’s mind off this: sex. Because my girl loves sex. “Sorry, honey. I was just thinking…about how much I want you to sit on my face when we get home. Will you forgive me for being horny?”

When she laughs and says, “Fair enough. Me too,” I feel like I’ve pulled off the heist of the century.

Especially since, fifteen minutes later, we’re in bed, and she’s riding my mouth, grabbing the headboard like she’s a cowgirl riding a bucking bronco. She’s grinding down on me and groaning. “Fuck, Asher. Why are you so good at this?”

Because I fucking love you .

She rocks faster against my mouth, using me to chase her pleasure. “It’s never been like this,” she cries out.

It can always be like this.

“Yes. Just like that,” she moans, and she’s close, so close to losing control, and hell, so am I. My dick is aching, leaking at the tip, but my wife is hosting a slip-and-slide party on my face. Hell, she’s trying to smother me, and what a way to go.

But I focus on my one job.

Make. Her. Scream.

I devour her sweet pussy, flick my tongue against her clit, and yank her down impossibly closer to my face till she comes in the loudest, longest orgasm in the history of San Francisco.

When she finally climbs off me, she looks like she’s about to collapse, and that’s fine by me. I’ll straddle her waist and come on her tits like she likes. Only, she’s faster than I am. She slides down between my thighs and covers my dick with her lips.

I unleash a feral groan from the unholy pleasure of her wicked mouth, but there’s something I want more. Tugging her off me, I say, “Get on your back. Legs over my shoulders. Need to fuck you till you’re dripping with my come,” I say.

She scrambles off me.

Soon I’m balls deep in her, fucking hard and ruthlessly. “I love fucking you, Maeve,” I bite out, getting closer to what I mean.

“I love it too,” she murmurs.

“I love it when you come,” I grunt as I drive in .

“Same here,” she pants out.

“I just fucking love it all,” I rasp out.

I could confess everything right now, but that’s crass, even for me. Instead, I thrust deep until she cries out.

I follow her there, filling her up. When I ease out, I stare at the come dripping down her thighs before I run my fingers through it and push it inside her once more till she’s arching and asking me to finger fuck her. Well, I’m not turning that down. I finger fuck her with my come till she cries out my name again.

After a quick shower, I say, “I’ll walk Ruby Roo one more time.”

“Ruby Roo,” she repeats, like she enjoys the way the new nickname sounds.

All these things are bringing us together for real. All I have to do now is say it. As I walk the dog in the dark, letting her sniff to her heart’s content, I make a plan. I’ll tell Maeve when I return. I’ll tell her I love her and that I want to go on a real date with her, then on another, then on many, many more.

But once I’m back in the house, Maeve’s asleep, lights off to the world. The dog jumps up on the bed and curls into a tight dog ball at the foot of it, sighing as she settles in, close to Maeve. Always close to Maeve. I sit next to the two of them and practice. “I love you,” I say to my sleeping wife.

Something eases inside me. I feel a peace I didn’t expect. A hope for the future. My shoulders relax. I breathe out, then breathe in, imagining the days unfolding with her. Without the worry of them ending. Without an expiration date. With just… more .

But the second I think that, something nags at me. Like a fly buzzing around my head. Like a hum that won’t go away. A fear I’ve been afraid to face.

What if I lose her?

The thought grips me for most of the night, and I toss and turn until nearly five in the morning when I’m wide awake, staring at the ceiling.

Fuck it.

I get out of bed, get dressed, and go downstairs. When I turn on the laptop, I’m ready to fix this problem for my wife.