Charlie assumed that Stephanie would plan their trip to the Alameda Animal Shelter for some distant point in the future, but she schedules it for an off day, the day before his next start. Right as he gets there, Gordon pulls his truck up next to Charlie’s and hops out.
Gordon greets him, then nods toward the low building of the animal shelter, painted tooth-white with a mural of smiling dogs on one side. “Stephanie say why she got the sudden need to have us do this?”
And Charlie knows he should tell him, even if avoiding it is easier. “It’s because Christine and I split up. Are splitting up.” He adjusts how he’s gripping his coffee cup, emphasizing his ringless ring finger.
“Oh, shit. I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Stephanie thinks I need a divorce dog or something. Something that’ll keep people from asking questions about the whole thing.” Which seems like a lot to put on a dog.
“Is it—” Gordon shakes his head. “What’d your people say about this?”
“My mom is taking the whole thing about as well as can be expected.” A phone call that involved a lot of her swearing, a lot of apologizing for swearing, and finally ended with his mom asking flat out if Charlie strayed in his marriage vows. Said disappointedly. Or if Christine had. Said knowingly. And Charlie didn’t hang up on her so much as he told her he needed to go all of a sudden.
“I haven’t really told anyone else,” Charlie adds. And he doesn’t mention Reid, even though it felt easier talking to him than to anyone else, like Reid wasn’t going to judge him.
“That’s good. You know if you wanna come by the house, you’re welcome whenever. Can’t guarantee it’ll be quiet. Pretty much the opposite. But that can sometimes help too.”
“Thanks. It hasn’t quite sunk in yet.”
“Be patient with it. Maybe find something to get you out of your head so you can focus on the season.” And Gordon probably means a new hobby or a new car, something to keep Charlie’s divorce from being an on-field distraction. But Charlie gets a brief image of Reid in his living room, the cling of his shirt at his sides and his eyes reflecting the lamplight. Something that feels dangerous even to think about a teammate with Gordon watching.
He takes an edifying swallow of coffee. “I hear there are roster moves coming.”
Gordon nods like it isn’t news to him because it probably isn’t. “Could be. Bullpen is, well, it is what it is.” Because there are few universally acknowledged truths in baseball but having doubts about the bullpen is perpetually one of them. “Your boy Giordano seems to be doing all right.”
Which startles Charlie into sloshing his coffee. Because the night Reid came over, Charlie went to bed confused and woke up with the sheets tangled around him, the remnants of pleasurable, if unspecific, dreams sticking until he showered them off. “What’s, uh, that mean?”
“Just seemed like you all were getting along.”
“I don’t think the team’s said anything, one way or another,” Charlie says. “To him, I mean. About staying.”
It churns his gut, that Reid might get sent down or more likely traded, the Elephants flipping him like a dilapidated house, getting him in good enough shape before the deadline and seeing what they can get in return. More prospects, probably, for an organization that seems to have them in infinite supply.
“I know uncertainty isn’t exactly your thing, but most guys just gotta live with it. We can’t all be Charlie Braxton, can we?” Though Gordon’s on a long contract too, the kind that’ll probably have his jersey number retired at the end of it.
Stephanie pulls up on a lemon yellow Vespa scooter, hair unaffected by her helmet. She greets them, then turns to Charlie, who still has his sunglasses on and hat pulled down. “Are you trying to be inconspicuous? You’re six-six and about to be on camera. Also, your name is on your jersey.”
“Yeah, I guess not.” Though he doesn’t remove his sunglasses.
And Gordon laughs at him.
She hands them a set of printouts that look like scouting reports but are, on closer inspection, profiles for dogs. “Here, I know you don’t like to be unprepared.”
“What am I supposed to do with these?” Charlie asks.
“You will be adopting one of these dogs, and it will be heartwarming and adorable. And we will get a bunch of photos of it, and you will give a nice interview about how much the animal shelter means to the community of Alameda County.”
Gordon looks over the papers she handed them. “Who else is coming to this?”
“You guys,” she says. “And Giordano’ll be here too.”
Charlie takes another swig of coffee, wishing it was hot enough to burn his tongue. So he doesn’t say something he shouldn’t, like that he’s grateful for Giordano’s company. He looks through the profiles, the dogs listed by age and weight and personality type. A lot of them are younger and active, and their listings mention needing someone at home to take care of them. “I live alone. I’m not sure if I can leave them by themselves for that long.”
Stephanie pinches the bridge of her nose, possibly in an effort not to yell at him. “How do you feel about cats?”
“Cats?”
“Yes. Cats, turtles, hell, adopt a freaking bunny, I don’t care. But you gotta give me something. You absolutely cannot come to an animal shelter and not at least pretend like you’re gonna take a pet home.”
“Can I do some kind of temporary thing?”
“They’re not library books. If you’re having commitment issues, we can maybe consider fostering.”
She’s still muttering to herself when Reid pulls up. He drives the same kind of SUV they all do, though his looks a few years older and in need of a trip to the car wash. He’s wearing one of their kelly green jerseys with Oakland in script across the chest and a pair of jeans that show off the strength in his legs. He comes over, hugs Stephanie in greeting, then turns to Charlie.
“Hey, man.” He wraps an arm around Charlie’s shoulder, tapping his fist against his back. He smells like coffee and some kind of hair product, and Charlie doesn’t lean into his neck at all. When he pulls back, Gordon is looking at them, eyes narrowed slightly.
Stephanie explains how the visit will work: a tour of the shelter, some footage of them playing with the dogs, a few more or less scripted interviews about how great shelter pets are. “This better be like something out of Tiger Beat or God help me.”
“What’s Tiger Beat?” Reid says, though he’s grinning and grins even further when Stephanie tells him to hush.
Inside the shelter, dogs are kept in a long series of kennels behind chain link. Most get up and wag their tails when they come in, a few barking, some nosing at the fencing, seeking pats and affection. Soothing classical music plays faintly in the background. It smells like clean dog and kibble, enough to make Charlie regret thinking of this as a chore.
A shelter volunteer introduces themself as Jordan and goes over the protocol for taking the dogs out. They point to a few of the handwritten nameplates next to various kennels. “I hope you don’t mind.” And they’ve renamed the dogs: Rookie, a one-year-old puppy with enormous paws. Closer, a pit bull whose nose is like velvet against Charlie’s hand.
“And this is Charlie.” Jordan points to a dog that looks more like a small polar bear, shaggy and heavy-bodied. “We think she’s a Great Pyrenees–Labrador mix.”
Next to him, Reid’s shoulders are vibrating with stalled laughter, especially when Charlie runs a hand over his beard.
Charlie the dog comes over. She puts her snout into Charlie’s cupped hand, licking his palm. And Stephanie gives him a look that says that if he does not adopt a dog, specifically this dog, she might throw him into San Leandro Bay.
“You wanna take her out?” Jordan opens the kennel before Charlie can respond.
There’s a courtyard with a grassy area at the back of the shelter. A bucket of slobbered-on toys sits on one edge of it. They spend the better part of their visit throwing toys for various dogs, who romp and chase and roll around.
Stephanie shoots pictures from her phone and from a camera she’s wearing around her neck on a padded black strap, choreographing directions, though she spends half the time laughing and tossing a ball for Rookie.
Many of the dogs are pit mixes, a few with torn ears like they’ve been in fights. “We don’t recommend them for people with young kids,” Jordan says, before hastily adding, “because of their size. Not because they’re aggressive. They’re loyal dogs, sweethearts, just get a bad rap sometimes.”
They transition into doing interviews. Charlie mumbles through the talking points Stephanie gives him. Gordon smiles that endorsement-deal grin of his and talks about what wonderful family dogs rescues make.
Reid’s been quiet throughout the visit, throwing tennis balls, running around and having the dogs chase and tackle him. When Stephanie corners him to do his interview, he smiles, a shadow of his normal smile.
“I should’ve mentioned it, but I’m still living out of a hotel. I don’t think I can take one of these guys home.” One of the pitties interrupts the shot, licking Reid’s hand and demanding that he get down and rub her on the belly.
“Sorry,” Reid says to the dog, laughing as she lolls her tongue. “I wish I could adopt you. Maybe I can come back and visit.” He sounds genuinely regretful. And Charlie didn’t argue when Reid turned down the room—his reasons are his own. But maybe, if Charlie has a dog, he’ll have a reason to come over.
Stephanie motions for Charlie. “Let’s get a few of you together.”
Charlie crouches down next to Reid and the dog, joining in on patting her sides. She’s white with gray flanks, a wide eager smile. Her tail is thumping in obvious enjoyment.
“That dog—” Reid nods over to where Charlie the dog is resting on the grass, wind ruffling her fur majestically. “You know how they say people look like their pets?”
Charlie squints jokingly. “I guess I don’t see it.” And he laughs when Reid shoves him gently on the shoulder.
Reid’s jeans have smudges of grass at the knees, stray clippings stuck to his jersey, green against green, a few others flecking his cheek. He looks flushed, happy, if a little wistful. “I had a pittie back when I was living in Florida. My ex still has him.”
“When was the last time you saw him?”
“It’s been a while. We’re only sort of on speaking terms, I guess—me and my ex, not me and the dog.”
“The other Charlie seems like a good family dog. I’d hate if someone with kids wanted a dog like that and I took her.”
“You thinking about getting this old girl instead?” Reid pats the pit bull in front of them, who’s transitioned to napping in the sunshine.
“I’m not sure.”
“Not ready to commit?”
“Just don’t want to rush into anything.”
“Yeah, you don’t seem like the type. But older dogs, they can be easier. Most are just happy to lie around or be near you.”
“You trying to get me to adopt her?” Charlie scritches between the dog’s ears. She gives a slight woofing huff.
“You know, it’d be nice to have a friend to go visit.” He smiles and Charlie swallows the urge to invite him back over right then, an invitation that will inevitably sound as overeager as he feels. “If the club decides not to get rid of me.”
“They still haven’t said anything?”
Reid shakes his head.
“You’ve got—” There’s grass dotting Reid’s cheekbone. Charlie reaches, plucking a sliver off, fingers oversized, clumsy. Reid’s stubble is slightly rough; his eyes close momentarily. And Charlie has twenty years of controlling his heart rate in tense situations. Now his breath quickens, his pulse, a flash of a question, not if this is different—which it is, undeniably—but the exact dimensions of that difference. If he’s being as obvious as he feels in the midday sunshine.
“You got all of ’em?” Reid opens one eye, smiling at him with the kind of smile that makes Charlie want things he can’t articulate, especially not with Stephanie around, immortalizing this whole thing on camera.
He withdraws his hand reluctantly, returning it to pet the dog—whose name is Avis, according to her tag. “You think I should get her?”
“Not my decision,” Reid says. But he sends another pat down her flank.
Stephanie practically breaks into applause when Charlie tells her he’s thinking of adopting Avis. “Oh, a rescue dog who’s been through it.” Her eyes light up a little maniacally. “I—and Instagram—are gonna love you.”
Avis seems less thrilled with the decision. She hovers behind Reid’s legs as Charlie fills out the paperwork. “Older dogs can have acclimation issues,” Jordan assures him. “With time, she’ll probably get used to you.” Charlie’s mind sticks on the probably, but he says he’ll do his best.
He stops at a pet store on the way back, getting a crate, a few bags of food heavy enough to use in weight training, and all the stuff he probably needs for a dog and some more he doesn’t. A dog-walking service promises to fast-track him when he says his name and confirms that, yes, he means that Charlie Braxton.
Avis goes for a cursory walk that lasts exactly one circuit around the block before retreating to her crate. Charlie sits beside her, wondering if he should be doing something else like putting in a shirt that smells like him. He extends a hand, and she actually whimpers, moving farther back. The way she didn’t with Reid.
It’s silly to be jealous of someone else over a dog, Charlie realizes. Less so to feel helpless because he doesn’t know what she needs other than the essentials. Maybe just time. He probably should have told Stephanie no, if only to save Avis from being in a place she clearly doesn’t like. She whimpers again.
“Okay, we’re gonna call in some reinforcements.” He takes a picture of her and texts it to Reid with the caption getting settled in. She looks sad, but maybe dogs are supposed to look sad in pictures. He gets a picture in return, a selfie of Reid making puppy eyes at the camera, the curve of his bottom lip exaggerated. He looks ridiculous, and carefree, and Charlie wishes he just invited him over after the shelter. That with him here, he’d know what to do.
You should come visit.
Now?
Though Charlie’s pitching tomorrow. I gotta prep. After the game?
Reid doesn’t respond immediately. Charlie waits, ignoring the tablet of hitter footage he’s supposed to review. A stack of bankers boxes sits on one of his shelves. He leaves his phone on the coffee table and spends a few minutes unloading gaming manuals, the kind with maps of imaginary worlds printed on flyleaf.
His phone beeps; Avis raises her head at the sound. Charlie takes three deliberate breaths before crossing to it. A message is displayed on-screen. Sure. You pick the food. And he figured they’d drive back from the ballpark together, Reid would see Avis, and that would be that.
But this sounds like something Charlie should plan. Think about. Look forward to.