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My brother shakes his head. “My manager is no longer on your menu. She’s got a boyfriend.”
“Damn. Guess I’ll have to settle for a filet then. Thanks for the offer. I appreciate it.” I do need to get out of the house. Shower. Shave. But just putting on a shirt is damn difficult when I can only comfortably lift one arm.
The doorbell rings, reminding me our mom said she was stopping by this morning, too. “Hello,” she calls out, letting herself in.
“Back here,” I return, dropping my feet to the floor and sitting taller. A sharp pain slices through my collarbone. I hiss in a breath, not happy about my brother noticing my discomfort. I don’t want the sympathy I see in his eyes. I want to hurl this sling across the room and feel like my old self.
“Hello, darling—darlings,” Mom corrects as she enters the family room wearing her customary bright smile and carrying a—
“Is that a puppy?” I ask. Our mom is passionate about animals, taking in strays and fostering dogs for as long as I can remember. She’s never brought one here, though.
She kisses Ethan’s cheek. “Hey, Mom,” he says. “New tennis partner?” He nods to the bundle of fur in her arms.
“Isn’t she the cutest thing ever?” she answers then turns to me. “I got her for you. To cheer you up.” She extends her arms, the puppy dangling from her hands.
Ethan chuckles. He’s finding this morning quite amusing, and probably remembering the time I was five and peed my pants when the next-door neighbor’s golden retriever rushed me, only to attempt to lick my face off. “I was thinking about getting him a female to cheer him up too, but one with two legs.”
I let my brother’s joke that I can’t find a woman for myself slide. Is my mom insane? I don’t want—or need—a pet. Especially right now. When I don’t reach for the puppy, Mom sits down beside me, cradling the dog in her lap. “I’ve brought himappropriatefemale company. He doesn’t need another ball girl.”
I choke on my dignity. I live and breathe baseball. Nothing matters more to me than my career. A nice benefit of being one of the best players in the league is having companionship when I want it. I play by my rules and make that clear to any woman I choose to spend a little time with. Which is far less often than the media portrays.
“Never hurts to have someone give your balls attention,” my brother says with a smirk.
“Ethan,” Mom reprimands. “You know I don’t need details about all the fans your brother likes to spend the night with.”
I scrub a hand across the scruff on my jaw. “You do know I’m sitting right here.” And the topic of my sex life is one I’d rather not discuss with my mother sitting beside me.
“Anyway,” Mom says. “This is Sammy. She was abandoned on the side of the road. She’s approximately ten weeks old. A husky, mini Labradoodle mix, we’re guessing. When I saw her, I knew you had to have her. I’m worried about you getting bored while you’re recuperating.”
So am I, but I wasn’t thinkingpuppyto remedy that.
“Sammy” looks up at me. Her eyes are an unearthly shade of aquamarine. And sad. Puppy dog eyes right here, folks. The cable-knit fur around those eyes, on her ears, and on parts of her body is beige. The fur on her front paws and circling her very pink nose is white. Who would abandon this adorable animal? She crawls into my lap like she understood exactly what my mom said. I’m so screwed.
“How am I supposed to take care of a dog with one arm?” Not to mention a dog is a distraction I don’t need even when I’m 100 percent healthy. I’ll come right out and say it. I’m selfish when it comes to my time, and I make no apologies for it. I’m breaking baseball records, focused on breaking more.
“She just needs love,” Mom says like it’s that easy.
“She needs more than that,” I argue, even while I pet her soft fur. She drops her chin on my thigh.I’m going to snuggle here all day, her relaxed posture says.
I repeat, I’m screwed.
Mom shifts so she’s facing me fully. “I’ve taken care of everything. All her things will be delivered shortly.”
“Her things?” I mentally picture all the equipment and paraphernalia my teammate, Mike, has for his one-year-old daughter. Half the stuff I’ve never even heard of and would be hard-pressed to know what to do with.
“Yes, you know food, toys, potty-training pads, a leash—everything I could think of.”
A wave of panic hits me. “Dogs don’t do their business outside anymore?”
Ethan laughs. I glare at him.
“They do, but you have to train them to go outside, and accidents are inevitable the first few weeks.”
I run my free hand through my hair. The only training I want to do is with my ass-kicking trainer, Dwayne, back in the gym and on the field. “Mom, this is very nice of you, and Sammy seems like a sweet dog—” she’s resting comfortably on my lap “—but I can’t deal with a puppy right now.”
“Of course you can,” she says with love and optimism and there is no way I can refuse when she’s also looking at me and Sammy like we’re a perfect pair.
That is until I feel something warm and wet on my sweatpants. With quick reflexes—I am the best center fielder in the AL—I scoop Sammy into my good arm, jump to my feet, and shake my leg out. “She just peed on me,” I grit out. Mostly because of the sharp pain radiating through my shoulder blade. Sammy’s accident is a common initiation into dog ownership, I assume.
