Good Boy (WAGs #1)(49)

I follow her back to our table. The event organizer seated us with Wes, Jamie, and a few of my other teammates and their WAGS. Eriksson is the only solo gent at the table, and he slides closer to Jess as she sits down.

“You ready to cry your eyes out, J-Babe?” he asks her.

I bristle. What the fuck is he calling her J-Babe for? That’s our thing. I glare at Eriksson over Jess’s head, but he doesn’t seem to notice.

“Why would I cry?” she asks, puzzled.

“You never been to a Broken Paws event before?”

She shakes her head.

“Oh man.” He reaches into his breast pocket and tugs out a handkerchief. “Canning, you’re about to experience something petrifying—a room full of grown men crying.”

Jess glances at me. “I thought this was a benefit to raise money for animal shelters.”

I nod. “It is.”

“Then why…?”

“Just wait,” Eriksson warns.

“Just wait,” our team captain Luko echoes from the other side of the table. He’s already got his own handkerchief out.

Mic feedback screeches through the room, and we all turn to see the founder of Broken Paws take the stage.

“Hello, everyone, I’m Paula Anderson—”

I shove my fingers in my mouth and let out a deafening whistle.

“Go Paula!” Eriksson shouts, while our d-man Hewitt thumps both hands on the table.

The fifty-year-old redhead laughs into the mic. “Hockey players…can’t bring ’em anywhere.”

The crowd rocks with laughter.

“With a few exceptions, of course,” Paula says with a smile. “Because what many of you might not know is that every player on the current roster of this revered Toronto franchise volunteered at one of our animal shelters this past year.”

It’s true. We all have, though I know some of the guys didn’t do it willingly. Like me, Coach Hal is a hardcore dog lover. This is his pet charity—pun intended—and he made every player promise to work at least one shift at a Broken Paws shelter. Non-negotiable.

“But one player in particular has worked so hard and so relentlessly to raise money for our cause.” Paula’s voice thickens with approval. “So I ask all of you to give a big round of applause for Blake Riley, whose tireless fundraising efforts have allowed us to save the lives of a hundred more dogs this year than we did last year. He’s also made several sizable personal donations that have enabled us to provide veterinary care for the dogs of families with limited means.”

As applause fills the room, Jess turns to me in amazement. “You did all that?”

I shrug. “Dogs are awesome.”

Her eyes narrow, as if she’s trying to figure something out. Then she turns back to the speaker.

Another girl would probably give me at least a kiss for helping all the pooches. But not Jess. She only raises one lithe, elegant arm to take a sip from her wineglass. She swallows, and I watch her throat work, wishing I could put my lips right there and taste her.

Shit. Once upon a time we were briefly friends with benefits. Now we’re just friends at a benefit.

“And now I’d like you all to turn your attention to the screen,” Paula says, and behind her, a huge projection screen slides down. “All of you have donated tonight. All of you have donated in the past. I, along with everyone else at Broken Paws, thank you for it. We thank you, and we commend you, and we would like you to see where all your money has gone.”

“Oh God, here we go,” Eriksson moans.

The lights dim. The first strains of “Angel” float out of the speakers. And then the slideshow begins.

The first shot is of a scrawny chocolate lab puppy who’s missing his right eye. The caption reads: Wally. Four Months. Abandoned in a dumpster in Joliette, Quebec.

The second shot shows a slightly older Wally, still missing an eye, but now happily sitting in the lap of a smiling little girl with pigtails.

The caption: Four surgeries later. Wally’s new home with Katie.

Luko’s wife is the first one to sniffle.

Then we have a pic of a Great Dane with two broken legs. He’s followed by a litter of starving terrier puppies in a cardboard box that was found on the side of the road in Northern Ontario. And a husky that was beaten within an inch of his life.

With a little gasp, Jess slips her hand into mine. She’s trembling, and I look over to see tears sliding down her cheeks. When I check the table around me, I see Jamie give a teary smile to Wes, who discreetly flicks a drop away from the corner of his eye. Aw. They’re as cute as the fucking dogs.

There isn’t a dry eye in the room, mine included. This happens every year at this event. I don’t know why I keep coming back, except that it’s such a fucking amazing cause, and I guess even hockey players could use a good cry every now and then.

But Paula wouldn’t leave us in this condition. It’s bad for business to destroy your donors completely. So the music morphs from Sarah McLachlan to “Who Let the Dogs Out.” There are pictures of the new grooming facilities in the Ontario shelter, thanks to last quarter’s donations. A state-of-the-art operating room at the Quebec location. There are several shots of my teammates and various shelter dogs.

And then? The thing closes with a montage featuring yours truly. There’s a video of me being swarmed by a litter of Rottweiler puppies. Paula had opened their cage when I wasn’t looking and the six of them started jumping all over me, trying to get the sandwich I was eating. The audience cackles as they watch me hold up my sandwich so the puppies lick my face instead.