Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Harlan’s eyes bug out. “No way. That is rich. You didn’t tell us that, either. Do you and Cletus do synchronized handstands in a ring or something?”
I roll my eyes. “No, asshole. He jumps and weaves through poles and climbs ladders like the badass dog he is. I taught him all that this summer, like the badass trainer I am.”
“You have a secret skill, and you kept it from us.” Harlan runs a hand through his long hair. “I cannot wait to have a field day with this.”
I hold up a finger. “If you have a field day with this, then I will steal all your clothes from your locker and leave you with nothing but a little pie-baking apron to wear after a game.”
Harlan seems to consider that. “I would gladly wear an apron and nothing else. I’m not ashamed of my body or my baking skills.”
“And we are now legally required to prank Harlan with an apron,” Rick declares, drumming his hands on the stand in front of us.
“And yes, Cletus won the blue ribbon because he is smart and I am awesome. Case closed. I don’t brag about it because I just do it for fun. For a break from the game and all that stuff. I’m not trying to make a name as a dog agility dude or whatever.”
Cooper holds up his fist for knocking. “And I thought the time you leapt ten feet in the air and nabbed a ball that was en route for interception was quite possibly one of your finest moments. But this might top it.”
Ford clears his throat. “Gentlemen, I know I’ve interrupted a critical moment as the four of you debate important issues while warding off scurvy, but I need to speak to this man.”
“Take him away,” Cooper shouts.
Ford waves for me to join him. “We have business to discuss. And go get your T-shirt. It’s not the equipment manager’s job to pick it up.”
I nod, oddly enjoying Ford’s directive. I like that the guy cares about little things, like not leaving clothes on the field.
I trot to the shirt, grab it, and tug it on, then say goodbye to the guys as I leave the field with Ford. He gives me the down-low on the potential deal. I nod, taking it all in.
“Call me later and let me know if you’re in. I have an idea I need to work on in the meantime to make this deal go swimmingly.”
I raise an eyebrow. “What’s the idea?”
“Don’t you worry about it. Let me take care of the details.”
Cletus parks his little butt on the tiled floor, waiting as patiently as a dog possibly can. It’s one of those sits where he’s on edge but doing his best to be a good boy.
I scoop some of the Paleo Pet food that’s supposedly made from ingredients Cletus would have captured in the wild ten thousand years ago if, you know, a ten-pound lap dog was capable of stalking deer or elk.
“All right, buddy. Give me your best Top Chef verdict.” I rattle the silver bowl and set it on his blue place mat with a cartoon bone illustration on it.
He chows down, finishing off his dish in less than forty seconds then giving me some serious puppy-dog eyes as he wags his tail.
I scratch his chin. “You might as well just say may I have some more, please, the way you wolfed that down in mere seconds.”
Let me be frank. Cletus doesn’t disdain a lot of food, being a dog and all. But he seems to dig this chow, so that works for me.
I hold up my palm, and he lifts his paw in response. “High five.” Cocking his head to the side, he puts his tiny paw against mine, and I get such a kick out of the size disparity that I snap a shot and post it online, tagging it #helpinghands.
I take him to the small backyard that’s a rarity in the city, and he runs through a few of his favorite obstacles on the mini course I set up. “Good boy,” I tell him as he races up a ramp then down the other side. Afterward, I leash him and we head through the hilly streets of our hood to burn off the rest of his energy.
Along the way, I check my email. A note from Trevor about when he wants to shoot his show again. An email from my mom saying she can’t wait to see me when I visit for dinner soon. I spot a reply from Garrett Snow, the left tackle who tore his ACL.
Recovery is taking longer than they all thought. But that’s just the way the cookie crumbles. Or the knee, I should say! Let’s grab a beer sometime? I’m in town.
I heave a sigh as I write back with a Yes, let’s make a plan, and I’m sorry to hear.