The Trouble With Quarterbacks

by R.S. Grey

  He starts to pull again, having locked onto some kind of woodland creature up ahead. I panic and shove the salmon treat in front of his nose.

  “Wild-caught Atlantic salmon treats, Mouse! Remember?!”

  He doesn’t remember. He doesn’t give a shit about my stinky salmon treats, because whatever is up ahead is wild and uncaught. I guess that like a character in a cartoon, squirrels probably morph into bacon-wrapped filets in his eyes. He starts to pull and I trot after him, trying desperately to hang on to his leash. He is encouraged by the resistance and starts picking up speed. Suddenly I’m at a full sprint, and I’m convinced I see sparks flying from my high heels.

  “No! Mouse! NO. HEEL!” I’m shouting at the top of my lungs, but he’s not listening.

  He’s running and I’m tripping over my feet, trying hard to keep up.

  “SIT! DOWN! NO! DO YOU WANT A TREAT?!” I’m shouting nonsense at this point, hoping something will stick, but all he hears is the roar of the adoring crowd. He’s gaining speed and I lose my footing. I nearly go down, but I catch myself in the nick of time.

  I realize I look and sound hysterical at this point, but I have no choice. I remember seeing news stories about 90 pound teenagers summoning superhuman strength to lift entire cars off of their fathers, so I close my eyes and tug hard on his leash. Unbelievably, the message registers, and for a moment he stops, turns and faces me.

  “Good…boy…Mouse…” I whisper, fearful of breaking whatever spell I’d cast. Though he rarely acknowledges my commands, his eyes light up at the sound of praise. He finally notices the homemade treats in my left hand.

  “That’s right, Mouse,” I huff, trying to catch my breath. “All of this can be yours, and more, if you just—no, no, don’t look at that squirrel—”

  Mouse resumes course, leaping and jerking the leash out of my hand. I go down, limbs flying, and am greeted by the sharp sting of asphalt digging into my left knee and palm. I wince and squeeze my eyes closed, aware of the tears trying to escape down my cheeks. I will not cry. I will not cry over a dog.

  “MOUSE!”

  I sound bloodthirsty, irate—and I am. As soon as I catch up to him, I am going to surgically attach his leash to my hand, and then I am going to shove the rest of the salmon treats in the trash because the days of salmon treats are over. No more of the good shit—he can eat the store-bought crap like every other mangy mutt.

  “Jesus! What the—” a masculine voice says from around the corner.

  I whip my head up and the blood drains from my face. That’s where Mouse has gone. He pulled out of my hold and whipped around the corner. I push to my feet and hurry to follow after him, petrified of what I will find on the other side. He’s a friendly dog, but he can be overzealous at times. Like an escaped mental patient that just wants to lick all of the faces in the entire world.

  “Mouse!” I try again as I round the corner and find the most horrifying scene imaginable.

  The pieces are easy to put together. There is a man sitting on the sidewalk. Mouse is on top of him, licking his face, and maybe that wouldn’t be so bad if not for the mud. I cringe as I stare down at the massive puddle at my feet. I can imagine it now: Mouse rounding the corner, bounding right through the puddle, and then leaping on this stranger with enough force to knock him off his feet. His suit is completely covered in mud—his designer suit from the cut of it.

  Shit. Shit. Shit.

  I cannot afford to buy this stranger a new suit, so I only have one option. I will kill Mouse. I will kill him like Cruella de Vil and make him into a beautiful new fur suit.

  “I am so sorry,” I say, but then I realize he can’t hear me because my hand is still covering my mouth, as I’m completely shocked at the audacity of my puppy.

  “Are you kidding me?”

  That’s what the stranger says.

  Though his words aren’t nasty, the tone he uses definitely is.

  I leap into action, realizing it’s been nearly a minute and Mouse is still on him, licking his face. I grab ahold of his collar and yank him off.

  “Bad dog!” I reprimand, hoping to convey my anger into dog-speak.

  Mouse stares up at me, happy and oblivious. To him, it’s been a splendid morning. It’s not yet noon and he’s had a walk, leapt through mud, and mauled a perfect stranger.

  The stranger.

  I’m reminded that he’s still there as he gets to his feet and wipes at his suit, trying in vain to clear off most of the mud. It’s no use. There are massive, muddy paw prints covering the entire front of his pressed white shirt and blue jacket.

  “Are you hu—”

  I have every intention of asking him if he’s hurt, I do, but then I finally look up at his face for the first time and I am utterly speechless. Mouse didn’t just maul a stranger. He mauled what Daisy and I would call a perfect male specimen. If Mouse had killed him, I could have stuck a pin in his body and mailed him to the Smithsonian. Homo sapien perfectus.

  Even muddy, he gives most of Hollywood a run for their money in the looks department. And if he weren’t currently scowling at me, I’d swoon. Hell, even with the scowl, I swoon a little bit. It’s that perfect combination of piercing green eyes and strong jaw. He’s clean-shaven, and his brown hair has been tousled by careful hands. He’s tall, and even with his suit on, I can tell he’s in formidable shape. It takes all of three seconds to confirm that he’s the best-looking man I’ve ever seen in real life, and he’s currently telling me to get my dog under control. He says I shouldn’t have a dog like that if he’s not properly trained. He is the preacher and I am the choir.

  I can hardly do more than nod dumbly.

  “He’s a puppy,” I say. Like that explains everything.

  “Puppies aren’t immune to training,” he says, narrowing his eyes on me like I’m the problem—me, not the hellhound now sitting contentedly at my feet.

  I think he’s going to continue berating me, but he shakes his head and turns in the opposite direction down the sidewalk.

  No! He can’t leave. The last time a man that handsome stopped in this tiny town was back when Marlon Brando’s car broke down on the nearby interstate in 1954. The chamber of commerce had a plaque made up and everything.

  “Hey wait! Could I, umm…let me cover your dry-cleaning bill!” I shout after him. “Or maybe a chiropractor’s appointment? Are you hurt?!”

  He waves away my offer and heads back down the street, clearly in a hurry to distance himself from me. I stand there, frozen, admiring his retreating backside. It’s incredibly depressing. I haven’t come across a man who’s elicited that immediate stomach-churning, hands-shaking, brain-short-circuiting reaction in years—maybe ever—and this stranger did. He sure did, and now he’s walking away, retreating into the distance, and I know I’ll probably never see him again.

  I sigh and look down at Mouse. He’s watching me with his head tilted to the side.

  “You little monster. You could have at least kept him pinned a little longer, maybe given me a chance to win him over with my dazzling personality.”

  Mouse barks in response.

  I remember that I’m currently bleeding and running late for my vet appointment. I sigh, regretting this latest episode in The Life of Madeleine Thatcher—one in which the stranger in the blue suit will likely have nothing more than a brief cameo.

  Chapter 2

  Adam

  I hate Texas. I’m a northerner at heart. In Chicago, I could walk down a crowded city street and not have to make eye contact with a single person. Apparently in rural Texas, I can’t even make it to work without getting mauled by a stranger’s dog.

  I still can’t believe it.

  I’m pissed.

  And I’m late for work.

  I left the frazzled brunette on the sidewalk yelling something about dry-cleaning—as if a bit of starch could fix the problems she has. Her time would be much better spent training that puppy, which is only going to keep getting bigger. What if I’d been elder
ly? Injured? Not in the mood to deal with mud on my suit?

  I tear it off and toss it aside. There are a half dozen identical ones lined up in my closet, but I convince myself that one was my favorite. She ruined my favorite suit sounds much more dramatic than she ruined my suit.

  I’m good at holding a grudge.

  I brought that with me from Chicago too. That city knows how to really hang on to something. Just take the weather—eight months of winter just to spite the other four. Here in Texas, it’s late spring and it’s sunny and I wanted to enjoy a nice stroll to work, but she ruined that too.

  I add that to my growing grudge as I finish changing and head back out the door. I’ve already notified the staff that I’ll be running late, but it’s still going to throw off the entire day. I wish I could have told that to the brunette, but I settled on berating her about dog training instead—not my most dignified moment, but it’s hard to stay composed when a dog is trying to play hockey with your tonsils. I managed to suppress the obscenities that were filling my head. Just because I’m from Chicago doesn’t mean I have to be a stereotype.

  My car is waiting for me outside, so black and shiny. I apologize for thinking I could leave it behind. I learned my lesson the hard way.

  The parking lot at work is full when I pull in, which means I’m running even later than I thought I was. I whip into my reserved spot and run through the back entrance. I hate tardiness, and I hate being behind on my schedule. I’ll have to work fast to catch up.

  My white coat is hanging on the back of my desk chair; I snatch it as I nod to a few of the office staff and offer up my lame apologies for being late. It’s only my third week on the job, so I haven’t been here long enough to prove how timely I am. I have the brunette to thank for that as well. I swear, if I ever see her again, I’ll let her have it.

  “Dr. Foxe, you have quite a few patients lined up this morning,” one of the assistants says when I step out into the hallway. I’m adjusting the collar on my white coat before she hands me the first file.

  I nod. “Right, well, I don’t want to keep them waiting any longer. Who’s the first up?”

  “Looks like it’s Ms. Thatcher and her dog,” she squints at the scribbled paperwork. “Moose, I think.”

  A half step later, I turn the corner to find the infamous brunette standing at the reception desk, regaling half the office staff with a story.

  About me.

  She’s telling them about the incident and they’re all laughing, enraptured by her words. Her dog—the one I am now intimately acquainted with—has his front paws up on the counter, begging for a treat.

  “And you guys, I wish you could have seen the mud. I mean, I really did feel bad for the guy, but he just took off—poof—and now I swear to god, somewhere in Hamilton, there’s some hot guy tromping around with my dog’s paw prints all over his fancy suit.”

  Everyone erupts in laughter.

  “Did you catch who he was?” my receptionist asks as she passes over a Band-Aid to the brunette. Apparently my suit wasn’t the only casualty of the morning.

  She shakes her head, her back still facing me. “He definitely isn’t from around here. I’d have recognized him.”

  “Maybe he’s traveling for business?” the receptionist offers.

  “Yeah, he had that look about him.”

  “That has to be it. I haven’t heard of any newcomers in town. Well, except for—”

  I clear my throat. “Madeleine Thatcher and…Mouse.”

  What kind of dog name is Mouse? Moose would have been more appropriate. No wonder he didn’t listen to her earlier when she was trying to rein him in.

  She turns at the sound of her name and when she zeroes in on me, her jaw drops and her brown eyes widen in shock.

  “You.”

  Mouse whines and tugs on the leash, trying desperately to get to me. Round two is seconds away from happening. I walk up to Madeleine and extract the leash from her hand while she still tries to recover from shock. She probably thought she’d never see me again. I expected the same, but somehow this is better. I’ll get the last word, just the way I like it.

  I hold Mouse’s collar close by my side and walk him into the first exam room. He tolerates having to heel, but I can tell his energy is simmering just below the surface. He’s spring-loaded, and if Madeleine isn’t careful, he’ll grow even more out of hand.

  “You’re my vet?” Madeleine asks, trailing after me. “What happened to Katherine?”

  “She moved.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me,” she whispers under her breath.

  “I take it you liked Katherine?”

  “She was a few years above me in school. I’ve known her my whole life.” She shrugs and continues, “And she gave me a fat discount.”

  I close the exam door behind us, but I don’t let go of Mouse’s leash. He’s lost roaming privileges.

  “He’s a good dog once he settles down and gets to know you,” Madeleine says, trying to vouch for him.

  “I’d say we were pretty well acquainted this morning.”

  She crosses her arms and leans against the wall, nibbling on her lip nervously.

  “How long have you had Mouse?” I ask, changing the subject. Although I could easily find the information in the chart, I want to learn it from her.

  “A few weeks.”

  I nod and force myself to look back at the chart.

  “I got him from the shelter as a puppy. Well, more of a puppy than now.”

  She says it like that will win her sympathy.

  “What breed of dog did they tell you he was?”

  “I believe the word they used was multinational. Something like that.”

  I smile. “He’s a Bernese Mountain Dog.”

  “No. They said he was a small lab mix.”

  “And you trusted them,” I reply with a flat tone. “Now you’re the proud owner of an untrained dog that will weigh more than you. Your small lab mix is going to easily be 120 pounds by next month.”

  “First of all, thank you for the compliment. Secondly, I don’t care what he’ll weigh—I just didn’t want him to get killed.” She pushes off the wall and yanks Mouse’s leash away from me. “I’m sorry, do you interrogate all of your patients? Or is this some kind of special treatment?”

  I look down at Mouse, who’s staring up at me fondly. I like him much more than his owner. “You’re not my patient, he is.”

  “Right, well, if you’re finished, he just needs his next round of shots.” She checks the watch on her slender wrist. “And I really need to get to work.”

  An assistant comes into the room with Mouse’s shots, and it takes no time at all to administer them. He’s docile and sweet, especially when I hold a treat out for him while I stick him with the needle.

  “There. All set.”

  Madeleine is looking at her phone and shaking her head. “No. No. No.”

  “What?”

  “Are you 100% positive about his breed?”

  I’m guessing she’s been doing some Googling.

  Now, I have to laugh. “Yes. I’m positive. We can send off a DNA sample if you’d like.”

  She turns her phone around and shows me a photo of an adult male Bernese Mountain Dog. “He’s going to be…well, a mountain!”

  Though I shouldn’t seek retribution, seeing her shock slightly makes up for the ordeal this morning. I feel much better when I walk out of that exam room. I’m scanning the next chart when I let myself dwell on her for a second. Even with the annoying first impression, it’s obvious she’s beautiful. I studied her surreptitiously during the exam, mainly because she was being so quiet—I wanted to make sure she wasn’t doing anything nefarious. Still, it seemed like a waste not to take in the details. She was dressed for work in a cream sheath dress that was tight and cut perfectly for her long legs. Her hair was a rich brown, long, and curled softly down her back. The fact that she was in great shape probably has something to do with lugging Mouse aroun
d all day. Maybe on another day, I’d find her irresistible—but here, today, there are too many reasons to push her to the back of my mind and move on to the next customer.

  And I do. I forget all about her.

  Right up until I walk into my bedroom that evening and trip over my crumpled, dirty suit.

  Chapter 3

  Madeleine

  Today, I think I finally see why my mother adoringly refers to me as her “lost cause”. For years I fought the nickname, arguing that my generation actually tries hard to cultivate the hipster image of not having one’s life together. But my ruse falls apart when I line up next to my older brother. He’s a doctor. Married. Good hair. You know the type. The fact that he’s a wonderful big brother only makes matters worse. He’s never missed a birthday. He always makes a point to call me at least once a week, even now that he’s back in Hamilton, though I mostly ignore these phone calls because he’s married to my best friend, Daisy. I don’t have time to talk to them both, and anything I tell her, she can pass along to him.

  Not to mention, lately I feel like he’s been operating as a spy for our mom during these weekly chats. He can’t help but ask about my job, my future, my investment holdings, my love life—can’t we just argue politics or religion like a normal dysfunctional family?

  Even now, there’s a voicemail from him waiting for me on my cell phone, telling me about a housewarming party, but I have no time to call him back because I’m currently circling the toilet bowl of life. I’m late for work again, and I’m tripping into my heels as I rush out the door. My coffee is in one hand. My keys and cell phone balance precariously in the other. A banana is wedged in my mouth and a granola bar tucks into the front of my bra. I bolt out of my apartment, lock up, and turn just in time to find my landlord, Mr. Hall, pruning his herb garden across the covered pathway. He looks so innocent with those tiny shears, but I know better. Those damn herbs have already been trimmed to perfection. He’s outside, pretending to garden for another reason.