Stay: A WAGs Novel, Page 2

  HTE: Hey, Sniper. I’m SO SORRY about the dog-walker! I will let the service know right away that their employee behaved inappropriately. And obviously Fetch won’t ever hire them again. Watching that video made me ill, and I feel terrible about this.

  We only hire services that have four stars or higher, blah blah blah, but it’s really no excuse.

  Immediately, telltale dots appear below my message, indicating that he’s typing a reply. And just as immediately I feel an inappropriate tingle in my nether regions.

  Since I’ve done so much work for this client, we chat pretty often. And I enjoy it much more than I should.

  Sniper87: Hey, deep breaths! I know Fetch is awesome. Specifically you! That’s why you hear from me so often. And this shit happens to me sometimes.

  I already wrote Wag Walkers a scathing note, firing them. And it’s not your fault, H! I trust you completely. But what are we going to do now? I’m on the road and Rufus needs a walk tonight and tomorrow morning.

  HTE: I’m looking for another service as we speak.

  Sniper87: Is there any way you could walk him yourself? I know it’s against company policy to enter clients’ homes (learned that when I wanted you guys to put together my kids’ beds) but I’m in a bind here. Heck, you don’t even need to go inside. Open the door with my security code and whistle. Rufus will bring his leash if you use the word “walk.”

  I hesitate. And then I hesitate some more.

  He’s right about the policy. Our employees do three things: 1) make reservations and other online plans 2) purchase and deliver goods, and 3) hire neighborhood services. That’s what our workers’ comp insurance covers. So we always hire out other tasks. No exceptions.

  Yet I’d sent a creeper to this man’s home. If photos of his apartment end up on the internet, I will die of shame.

  HTE: All right. How about if I send a trusted employee to walk Rufus. Someone who loves animals.

  Sniper87: You are the best ever. Thank you, H.

  His words give me a warm, gooey feeling inside. But if Jackson finds out what I’m going to do, he’ll freak.

  This will be a stealth mission. Not even Jenny can know.

  Two

  My Gentle Soul

  Matt

  Our game against Chicago is brutal. We lose 4-3. And by the time I trudge back into the locker room to shower and change, every muscle in my body has rigor mortis.

  The past eighteen months have been humbling. My wife left, and I turned the big 3-0. Thirty isn’t old, unless you play professional hockey. Sure, I’ve got maybe five years left, but I’m starting to understand that each one is going to feel harder than the last.

  And I fucking hate that.

  It’s made worse by the fact that I’m surrounded by young, strapping, nowhere-close-to-arthritic men. Like twenty-three-year-old Ryan Wesley, who saunters toward his locker with an honest-to-God spring to his step. You’d think he’d just spent three hours lounging on a beach chair instead of skating like a madman and scoring two goals.

  Will O’Connor, our new forward, is in his mid-twenties, but he acts even younger. Bare-chested, with his hockey pants undone and a towel draped around his neck, O’Connor does a weird dance shuffle move across the room before coming to a stop in front of me and Blake Riley, who also scored a goal tonight. Unfortunately, Blake and Wesley’s efforts didn’t pay off for us.

  “Yo, Riley,” O’Connor drawls, running a hand through his wavy hair. The kid has pretty-boy hair. And a pretty-boy face. He’s…well, a pretty boy. With plenty of arrogance to go with it.

  “Yo, O’Connor,” Blake mimics.

  “Lemming and I are heading up to the rooftop bar—supposedly it’s the shit. You in?”

  Blake shakes his head. “Nah. I got a date.”

  O’Connor’s eyebrows shoot up. So do mine, because last I heard, Blake was still living in bliss with Jess Canning, Wesley’s sister-in-law. I swing my head toward Blake, which earns me a loud guffaw.

  “Chillax, Matty-Cake,” Blake says. “It’s a Skype date with J-Babe.”

  I relax. But only slightly, because the sonuvabitch knows how much I hate his stupid nicknames. “Tell her hi for me,” I reply.

  “Will do.” Blake grins broadly. “Well, if I remember. I might not, you know, cuz Skype sex with Jessie always puts me in a love coma right afterward.”

  O’Connor rolls his eyes. Hard.

  A few lockers down, Wes groans. “Dude, that’s my sister you’re talking about,” he calls out. “You’re not allowed to say the words ‘Skype sex’ and ‘Jess’ in the same sentence.”

  Blake snorts. “Yeah? But it’s totally okey-dokey for you to look at dirty pictures of J-Bomb when you’re sitting beside me on the plane?”

  “Those weren’t dirty pictures!” Wes protests. Cheeks red, he glances around at our snickering teammates. “He sent me pics of his new suit! He was fully clothed.”

  With a loud sigh, O’Connor turns toward me. “What about you, Eriksson? Rooftop bar?”

  “Pass,” I grunt. One, it’s the middle of fucking November—who wants to be up on a roof? And two, I’m dead-ass tired.

  “Pussy,” O’Connor accuses. Then he chortles. “Or, actually, pussy is what you’re gonna miss out on.”

  I smirk at him. “Little boy, I was getting pussy while you were still in grade school. I got drafted at eighteen, remember? And we all know the bunnies love the young ones.”

  “Yeah, ’cause it makes it easier to scam a ring out of the poor sucker,” O’Connor shoots back. “Which is what happened to you, old man.”

  Not quite. My ex-wife isn't even a hockey fan. To this day, Kara changes the channel when a game is on. And during the entirety of our six-year marriage, she never failed to remind me that I was a dumb jock who obviously married up.

  There was plenty about the world of hockey that she didn’t like, and she held me responsible for all the female attention I received. Like it was my fault that the groupies would swarm me and the boys after a game, or come on to me every time I stepped outside the house.

  The attention is nice, but I never cheated on my wife. Nope, I kept my pants zipped from the second I said “I do” straight through to the ugly morning I signed those divorce papers and bleakly watched the ink dry.

  “Whatever,” I tell O’Connor, because he really doesn’t want to hear the real reasons for my divorce. “This old man is going back to his hotel room and crashing. Have fun freezing your balls off on the roof.”

  The youngster winks. “Don’t you worry. I’ll find a sweet Chicago bunny to keep my balls warm.”

  “Enjoy,” I grumble. It’s hard to believe I was like that once—brash, overconfident, and sex-obsessed. These days, the only thing I’m obsessed with is figuring out how to spend more time with my kids.

  I trudge out of the locker room with Blake and Wes, who are both engrossed with their phones. Outside, the bus waits to take us back to the hotel. I climb in next to Riley and close my eyes for the short drive. Yeah, I feel old, all right. Just turned thirty and I feel like I’ve already got one foot in the grave. Ah, fuck, okay. I’m being melodramatic. But I’m just…tired.

  The green light letting me into my hotel room is the cheeriest thing I’ve seen all day. I tug off my suit the minute my door closes. I need sleep.

  But first I need to check on Rufus.

  The security app on my iPad opens to show me a view of my apartment. The place still feels a little sterile to me, even though Hottie at Fetch has made it her personal cause to feather my nest.

  She’s done a great job, too. The furniture and dishes are attractive but unassuming. All I sent her was a floor plan and a cry for help, and she went to town. I didn’t even know what I needed to buy, but she just handled it, including the stuff I probably would have overlooked. Like hand towels and a soap dish for each bathroom.

  She even found this picture-frame thing for the kids’ art that hangs on the wall. All I have to do is slip each new crayon drawing behi
nd the glass, framing it like magic. Since I don’t see my girls as often as I’d like, it’s nice to have their artwork nearby to make me think of them.

  Yeah. If my place looks lonely, it’s not the apartment’s fault.

  Then, two weeks ago, I’d had to fire up the Fetch app and ask Hottie to find me a dog bed and dishes. My ex-wife decided without warning that Rufus was too much for her to handle. I got a text message asking me to choose between taking him in or sending him to an animal shelter.

  The shelter. Who does that? But I really shouldn’t be surprised. Since Kara kicked me to the curb, why should my dog fare any better?

  My security cam comes into focus and I spot my furry pal immediately. He’s napping happily on the sofa, his chin on his paws.

  “Hey, buddy,” I say, even though he can’t hear me. Then I drag my finger across the timeline at the bottom of the app, rewinding the day, while I squint at the thumbnail images that pop up. Rufus with a chew toy on the rug. Rufus napping. Rufus eating dinner and…

  There. Another person in my apartment. I go back even further so I can see how this encounter began, then play it forward at regular speed. The door opens and a young woman steps inside. I catch only a quick glimpse of her slender frame before she drops to her knees in front of Rufus, who has slid cautiously off the sofa. He gives her a cursory sniff, and she bends kindly toward him, offering her hands and words I wish I could hear.

  Rufus’s tail begins to wag like crazy, and I don’t blame the guy. This chick is cute, in a punk-rock kind of way. She’s got long black hair with messy bangs, huge eyes, and tons of silver on her ears—how many ear piercings does she have? I squint, but the image isn’t sharp enough to tell me. She asks Rufus a question, and it must contain the word “walk” because he spasms with happiness before running off to find his leash, skidding on the wood floors with excitement.

  A moment later they’re out the door together. No stalking, thank goodness.

  I glance at the clock so I can figure out if the new walker took my boy out for a proper ramble. There’s nothing to see on the screen except my empty apartment, so I open up the Fetch website, because I have a theory.

  There on the login screen is a photo I see each time I visit the site. It’s an appealing woman in an office somewhere. She has her black hair swept up in a messy bun, exposing the soft skin of her neck, and a pencil in her teeth. Every time I use Fetch, which is pretty much every day, I admire her. It could easily be a stock photo. But it might be Hottie, the woman who handles most of my requests.

  Okay, her name’s not really Hottie. But I don’t know what HTE stands for. In my head, I think of her as Hottie. And—this is pathetic—she’s the only woman I speak to on a daily basis. We’ve never even met.

  Except I’m pretty sure she was in my apartment today. The woman I saw on my security cam looks a lot like the one I’ve been ogling on the login screen.

  A lot like her.

  The security app shows no activity for a long time. I brush my teeth and get ready for bed. I check the scores of the other hockey games played tonight to see how the competition is shaping up.

  Finally there’s movement on camera again. The door opens and Hottie steps inside with Rufus. His wagging tail smacks her in the thigh. She’s wearing slim jeans that make her legs look a mile long.

  Then she bends over and gives Rufus a kiss on the nose.

  Lucky beast.

  Despite the fact that I’m exhausted, I find myself clicking on the chat icon in the Fetch app instead of shutting it off. Chances are, Hottie’s asleep, but I still type in a quick note.

  Sniper87: Looks like Rufus had fun with his new dog-walker. Success?

  To my surprise, little dots appear on the screen, indicating that someone’s typing a response. A second later, her message pops up.

  HTE: You tell me. Only the client can determine if something was a success.

  Sniper87: Seems so. You’re good to walk him tomorrow morning, too, right?

  There’s a short delay.

  HTE: I’ll send the same employee, if you’re happy with her.

  I study the screen for a moment. I don’t know why, but I’m convinced that Hottie walked Rufus today. I want her to admit it, but, again, not sure why I care so much. We’ve been chatting for almost a year, but it’s not like we’re online dating or some shit.

  This is a business relationship. Except…it’s not. This woman decorated my apartment. She knows the brand of boxers I wear. It feels pretty fucking personal by now. She knows I’m divorced. That I wish I saw my girls more. In fact, it was her idea to buy the twins the same exact beds they have in their bedroom at my former house. It will feel more like home when they’re with you, Hottie had suggested.

  Sniper87: I’m very happy with this employee.

  That was an understatement, so I add a little more.

  Sniper87: I’m grateful to her. Plus, she’s cute.

  I press Send on a whim, and I’m not surprised when there’s another delay.

  HTE: Are you hitting on my employee right now??

  I have to resist the urge to actually type: No, I’m hitting on you.

  Truthfully, I’m shocked the thought even entered my head. Since the divorce, I’ve barely thought about women. Okay, not entirely true. I’m a man—I’ve jerked off a bunch, watched some porn. But I haven’t made any attempts to hook up with a real-life chick. I turn down women left and right when I’m at the bar with my teammates. I’m in a weird place. I feel like I’m too old for one-night stands, but too jaded for anything more serious. That leaves only one other option: celibacy.

  Sniper87: Just pointing out how cute my new dog-walker is, that’s all.

  HTE: I’ll be sure to pass that along (sarcasm).

  Sniper87: She a hockey fan?

  HTE: Why do you ask?

  Sniper87: Just curious.

  HTE: I think she might be. Are YOU a hockey fan?

  I snort to myself.

  Sniper87: I prefer chess. Hockey’s all right. A bit too violent for my gentle soul.

  HTE: Uh-huh. I’m sure.

  I narrow my eyes. Okay, I feel like she’s goading me now. Actually, she must be, because this woman must know exactly who I am. When I first started using Fetch, there were several different sets of initials popping up to fulfill my requests. But lately it’s always HTE, and her signature says “co-owner, manager.” Sure, I asked to remain anonymous, but I figured that only made me anonymous to the Fetchers. As the owner, HTE must have access to all the client profiles. Which means she is well aware that I’m Matt Eriksson, Toronto forward.

  Sniper87: JK. Hockey’s the best. What are you doing up so late?

  A long, long pause. I can almost hear the grudging note in her reply.

  HTE: I stayed up to watch the Chicago game, and now I’m too keyed up to sleep.

  A huge grin splits my face. Fuck, why am I having so much fun right now? And my exhaustion seems to have dissipated like a puff of smoke. Chatting with Hottie always lightens my mood.

  Sniper87: Hope the loss didn’t devastate you too badly.

  HTE: It did, actually. I’m inconsolable.

  My fingers itch to reply: I’d be happy to come over and console you… I would, too. My libido has suddenly woken up and shaken itself off. My dick’s actually getting hard—and we’re not even talking about anything sexual.

  Sniper87: Make sure you send the same dog-walker tomorrow morning at ten. There might be something for her on the kitchen counter.

  HTE: What the heck does that mean?

  Sniper87: Don’t worry about it.

  Though…crap. Now I have to find a way to leave my little gift at the apartment when I’m still in Chicago. I search my brain until an idea forms. Katie Hewitt, I think in triumph. My teammate’s wife has a spare key to my new place, and she’d totally be able to make this happen for me. Katie is a superwoman.

  HTE: What do you mean, there’ll be something on the kitchen counter??

  Still gri
nning, I ignore the question and type three short words.

  Sniper87: Good night, HTE.

  HTE: Answer the question, Sniper!

  HTE: We here at Fetch don’t like surprises.

  HTE: Sniper? You there?

  HTE: Sniper??

  Three

  Shoulder Fetish

  Hailey

  I toss and turn all night after that chat with Sniper. When my alarm goes off at six thirty the next morning, I groan loudly at the ceiling.

  He called me cute. He said it more than once!

  Maybe I’m the most pathetic girl in the world, but I read over that chat conversation about a hundred times before I shut off the light and tried to sleep.

  I shouldn’t have flirted with him. But, hell, it was fun.

  When I eventually haul my tired butt into the office, the morning creeps by. I meet with our programmer to discuss some new functionality for the mobile app, but I’m watching the clock the whole time.

  I’m desperate to walk a dog. That’s what my life has come to. A nice dog. But still.

  As ten o’clock approaches, I wrap up the meeting and shoo the programmer out of my office. I don’t want to be late to walk Rufus. And, damn it, there’s a flagged request waiting in the queue for me—a gig for Mr. Dick.

  I text Jenny, who appears in my office a moment later. “What’s he done this time?” she asks eagerly

  “Didn’t open it yet, because I know you enjoy being in on it.”

  “You’re the best kind of friend,” Jenny says, dancing around my desk to stand behind me. “Want to go out for drinks tomorrow night? I can’t do tonight because I have roller-derby practice.”

  “Sure.” Jenny likes to drag me out to bars in the hopes that we’ll meet some decent men. It never works out the way she plans, but it’s more fun than sitting around in my apartment like a loser. “Pick a place with a TV, though? We’re playing Buffalo at home. And I think we can win this one. I’m looking forward to it.”

  My friend groans. “Not a sports bar. I want glamour, not beer funk and peanut shells.”