Page 24 of Playing Santa

“What the hell, Garino? What’d you do?”

“I just got off a call with her. She was wobbling about your arrangement and I told her about our phone conversation. I might have hinted that you thought of hiring her full time."

“WTF, Garino? Remind me never to share with you again.”

“I know, I know. I thought I could help, but it backfired.”

Scoffing, I say, “Fucking backfired.” In a big way, but I calm myself. I’m serious about not sharing. “Now I need to hire a dog-walker starting tomorrow. Know anyone from the area?” She gives me the name of a local woman and we end the call. It’s eleven o’clock, so I’ll have to wait and call the dog walker in the morning.

I hire her at half what I was paying Ronnie. But then I don’t expect Dasher—or me—to get half the time and attention Ronnie and Jimmy gave. When I announce to the locker room that there will be no more cake, there’s more disappointment for the loss of sweets than my loss of a pet-sitter or a girlfriend—not that Ronnie was my girlfriend. Not exactly. Besides, no one else really knew the extent of my involvement, such as it was, except Tate.

“Want to go for a beer?” He says as we walk outside together across the lot to our cars. It’s an odd invitation considering it’s a Tuesday night and he has his wife and baby at home.

“Naah. Go home to Chloe and junior where you belong.”

“What’s up with Ronnie? I thought you two had something going. With all the cakes.” We stop at my SUV. “Those were killer cakes. She put a lot of heart into them if you ask me.”

“Your point?” I agree with him, but that doesn’t make Ronnie any less gone.

“I don’t know. Maybe you shouldn’t give up on her.”

“Who says I did?”

He slaps my back. “Glad to hear it.”

I get in my car and wonder how the hell I can make good on my assertion that I’m not giving up on Ronnie—without getting into stalker territory.

Contemplating my next move, I try to balance my legitimate need for communication, in person preferably, with the need to avoid stalking. There’s no way I’m giving up on her. If Garino spooked her, she can be unspooked. Besides, I’m worried about Jimmy. He’ll miss Dasher.

After running through my options and need for patience, I plan to stop by the Shelter on Friday at three because we’ll have a light practice that day. I only need to make it through the week without overstepping. No calls or texts. Give her some space. Luckily coach is stepping up the team’s preparation intensity and I need to keep my head in the game anyway.

It’s a tough week even with football largely occupying me. Going all week without a word from Ronnie, no notes, no cake, no texts, and of course no calls, I wonder how Jimmy is doing without seeing Dasher. Concern gets under my skin. It takes all my will power not to go over to Ronnie’s apartment with Dasher as soon as I get home each night, but I know that’s over the line aggressive. I can’t push her or she’ll be justified in shutting me down.

By Thursday, I’m downright morose.

“Hey,” Tate leans against my locker on his way out. “You’ve been quiet lately. I’m beginning to think you have laryngitis because we all know it’s impossible for you to keep your mouth shut.”

I shrug. I have nothing to say because I’m not sure what the hell I’m doing. I only have my last ditch move left tomorrow. If my visit to the shelter falls flat I might need to let her go. The idea causes a stitch in my gut and I grimace.

“Spill it, Sean. You need a clear mind for the next game—we need the win to get home field in the playoffs.”

“Don’t worry about it.” I’m about to shut my locker and blow him off when my phone rings. That familiar quickening of my pulse until I check the caller, makes it hard for me to stay cool, but I do. It’s only the new dog walker calling. I put the phone to my ear.

“What’s up?”

Tate stands there watching me while I talk.

“I’m so sorry Mr. Patrick—” I can hear her tears. Her panicked voice sends a shiver through me.

“Take a breath Betsy. Slow down and tell me what’s happened.” I sound calm, but my heart hammers like a motherfucker until she tells me she’s lost my puppy. Taking a deep unsteady breath, relief shudders through me. Lost is okay. I can deal with that. She didn’t say Dasher’s been hit by a truck. The less than worst case scenario soothes me back to normal. Tate frowns at me while I calm Betsy.

She says, “I reported her missing to animal control and I’m out scouring the neighborhood but—” A new bout of tears and a hiccup interrupts her. I reassure her that I’m not mad because the girl is already distraught enough without me piling on.

“I’m confident that we’ll find Dasher. I’m on my way home now.” She continues sobbing and I contemplate paying her a bonus just to stop the sobs because it’s killing me, when I get another call.

The other call is Ronnie. I tell Betsy to hang on and switch calls.

“Ronnie—”