Page 48 of Fake it ’Til Fall

“No,” I tell him.

Puck’s ears lift.

The squirrel blinks.

I swear the thing smirks.

“No,” I repeat, because apparently I’ve reached the part of my life where I negotiate with a dog and a rodent before four in the afternoon.

Puck looks at me.

Then the squirrel.

Then me again.

That look says, I have considered your leadership and found it lacking.

“You’re not chasing it.”

His tail thumps once.

“You’re also not eating whatever you find under that wall.”

Another thump.

“That includes leaves.”

He turns away from the door with a sigh so dramatic it feels rehearsed. I swear he has to stop hanging out with Daisy Thorn. She’s teaching him to be all drama and emotional punctuation. Big eyes. Loud sighs. Deep personal disappointment over reasonable boundaries. At this rate, he’ll be carrying a tote bag, recommending comfort reads, and pretending he’s fine by Tuesday. All with a big attitude.

This is outside my comfort zone. I’ve had teammates with less attitude.

I tug my jacket off the hook by the door, grab his leash, and check my phone for the third time in two minutes.

Nothing.

Which is good, unless silence is back to being bad news.

Back in hockey, silence in the locker room meant someone was injured, someone was pissed, or someone had done something stupid enough that the rest of us were waiting to see who would confess first.

Now that I’m off the ice, silence means, ‘I’m free from emails.’

Emails mean people using words like “opportunity” when they want to hand you a problem wearing a napkin as a hat.

My phone buzzes.

Puck looks at it, then at me, like he’s been expecting this too.

Unknown Number.

I stare at the screen until it stops ringing.

Then it immediately starts again.

“Wolfcraft,” I answer.

“Forrest?” A woman’s voice comes through, clear and carefully pleasant. “This is Principal Mary Whitcomb from Winterberry Cove High.”

My grip shifts on the leash.