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1
ADAM
The lumpy clouds above Vancouver,British Columbia, groan into the sky before opening up to drown us beneath a heavy pour of rain. It wets my hair, making it stick to my forehead as I continue my morning run.
I’m on my seventh mile, and even though the weather just gave me the middle finger, my house is only a couple of blocks away. I can’t exactly stop now, even if that means I’ll have to listen to my twelve-year-old son scold me for bringing wet clothes into the house as soon as I walk through the front door.
Cooper loves to poke at the bear, as long as that bear is me. I can’t help but take complete responsibility for that. He learned at a young age that the majority of the time, I’m all bark and no bite, which only makes him enjoy picking on me like a little shit even more.
Our two-story craftsman-style house pokes its head around the eyesore of a spruce tree planted dead smack in front of Mrs. Yollard’s house. It’s almost the size of her entire front yard and looks like it hasn’t been trimmed once in its lifetime. I’ve tried convincing the widow to have it cut down, even going as far as to offer her my assistance, but she’s shut me down each time.
My persistence has no limit, however. I’ll get her to agree one of these days.
I jog past the neighbouring yard and toward my house, noticing the open garage door. Cooper’s bike is leaning up against my workbench inside, his Marvel-sticker-decorated helmet dangling from the handlebars.
Neither my son nor dog are anywhere to be seen, but I can only assume they’re close by. My kid wouldn’t dare leave his precious bike out in the open without protection, and Easton doesn’t move from his best friend’s side for a second longer than necessary.
Slowing to a walk, I move up the driveway, patting the hood of my Mercedes when I pass it. I maneuver around the array of hockey gear and dog toys scattered on the concrete pad in the garage before shaking my hair free of rain and opening the door that leads to the mud room, stepping inside.
The mud room is as big of a mess as the garage, with large piles of laundry stacked in front of the washing machine and a collection of shoes everywhere but the designated rack. I’ve been telling myself I’ll get this room cleaned up eventually, but I may have put it off a bit too long.
“Coop?” I yell, slipping off my wet sneakers.
Taking a step out of the mud room, I wince when my socks make a squelching noise and water seeps to the floor. With rushed movements, I pull off my socks and add them to a pile of dirty clothes before collecting all of it in my arms and tossing everything in the washing machine. I’m throwing in a pod of detergent when I hear the familiar click-clack of nails on the floor.
“You’re lucky Dad wasn’t home to see that, East. You would have had to sleep outside—” Cooper’s words cut off when he enters the mud room.
Chuckling, I start the washing machine and turn around. Easton, the ninety-pound German shepherd we adopted when Cooper was five, flops onto his back immediately, his tongue lolling out of his mouth and paws folded beneath his chin.
“Yeah, that’s not suspicious.” I snort and look at Cooper as he rocks back and forth on his heels. “What did he do?”
Cooper is the spitting image of me. Staring at him is like going back in time and looking in the mirror.
His milk-chocolate-coloured eyes have the same green flecks around the irises as mine do, and his puffed bottom lip twists to the right just enough to rest in a half-smirk that’s gotten me in trouble once or twice over the years. He’s tall for his age, coming in at just under five foot four—just like his dad was.
“Uh . . .”
“Cooper,” I groan. “Let’s do this the easy way, please. What did he do?”
His eyes roam around the room, focusing on everything but me. “He might have eaten one of the jerseys you had lying in that pile.” He points to the laundry on the ground.
“He might have? Or he did?”
Cooper gulps. “Okay, he did. But in his defense, he probably thought it was going in the trash anyway. It had been sitting there for at least a couple weeks.”
He’s not completely off base there. It’s been over a week since I brought WIT’s spare jerseys home to wash, and they have yet to see even a dollop of detergent. I’m sure they smelled ripe for the picking.
“Did he eat the entire thing?” I ask with a weighted sigh.
Cooper shakes his head. “No. Just the sleeve. And he puked it up in the backyard already.”
Flicking my gaze to the dog wrapped around Cooper’s foot, I give my head a shake. The troublemaker is smiling at me.
“Fine,” I say. “But make sure he doesn’t do it again, Coop. This room is off limits, yeah?”
“Got it, Dad.”
I nod before checking my watch for the time and muttering a curse. Cooper raises a curious brow.
