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“Morrow,” Alex heaves an exasperated sigh. “She said, and I quote, ‘tell Morrow do not worry’. How hard is that message to get right?”
It’s easy enough to getwrong. Especially when it means what I think it means. Cutting my shower short, I dress, do post game media – laughing at each version of the “career low penalty minutes” joke that the reporters try to make, reminded of Francine at the donut shop last night – and head out before anyone can ask me why I’m in such a hurry.
The address for Donut Worry is saved in my phone after last night, and it takes a little longer to get there from the Ren than it did from the community rink, and I push it just a hair over the speed limit to get there, afraid that if I don’t she’ll think I stood her up for…whatever this is. And when I pull into the parking lot, she’s seated on the bench where I waited for her last night. There’s a part of me wondering if Alex messed up her messageon purpose, or if he really isthatdense, but either way I’m here. And so is Francine.
We’re both wildly overdressed for this place with it’s sticky speckled floors and cracked vinyl booths, but my suit and her blazer makes this feel like a date without being a date, and I’ll take what I can get. Holding the door open, she passes me, throwing a smile over her shoulder as she enters the bakery. “Glad you got my message.”
“Next time, pick a better messenger,” I respond with a laugh. “And tonight is on me.”
Ursula is at the counter again tonight, grinning when she sees us. “Another off night,” she says as we scope out our options. I don’t have to ask what she means, this time her disappointment is directed at me. “Not a single penalty minute?”
Last night I never would have suspected she knew who I was. She throws me a wink as she readies two decaf coffees without having to ask, but tonight we mix it up with the donuts.
“Buttermilk glazed, please,” Francine points to a cake donut bigger than a hockey puck and Ursula plates it for her as Francine turns to me, pointing a finger at my chest. “If you want a piece of this, you better get your own. I’m not sharing tonight.”
“I’ll take the same please,” I laugh, passing Ursula my card and shoving a twenty into the tip jar. “And a maple bar for the road.”
With donuts and coffee in hand, we settle at the same table as last night, and our conversation picks up very nearly where we left off last night. Conversation with Francine is easy. It’s easy to laugh with her, to make small talk with her. Getting to know her is a joy.
“Do you have any pets?” She asks, taking the last bite of her donut.
“A dog. You?”
“Nope. No pets, but tell me about your dog. What breed?”
“You know, I don’t actually know? I rescued her just before moving to Detroit and the shelter had no idea what she is, just that she’s a mix of several breeds.”
Stevie is twenty pounds of sass and fur. Her tail reminds me of a Pomeranian, her dark, silky coat reminds me of a border collie, and her prickly personality makes her a little more catlike than most dogs. She was abandoned by her previous owners, and from the moment I met her, I was in love.
“Rescues are the best. I grew up with a rescue, and now my brother runs an animal shelter and free vet clinic out in the Seattle area.”
“Safe to assume he’s an MSU grad?” I ask and am delighted when Francine rolls her eyes.
“Unfortunately.”
As we’re cleaning up to leave, my phone buzzes in my pocket and normally I’d ignore it, but Erik Zimmerman’s name lights up the screen and I don’t make it a habit of ignoring calls from my captain.
“Do you mind?” I ask Francine, who nods before I step out onto the sidewalk. “Hey Zim, what’s up?”
“Morrow, I’m sorry this is so last minute, but the kids are sick. Leah says they won’t be able to watch Stevie for this roadie.”
Erik and his wife Leah live about five minutes from my house, and Leah and the kids usually watch Stevie for me when the team goes on the road. Leah doesn’t like taking the kids out of school for road trips, and sending Stevie to a house where she’ll get nothing but attention was an easy decision to make. But throwing a dog into a house full of sick kids isn’t ideal, and I can understand that.
“Thanks for letting me know, Erik. I’ll see if I can figure something out.”
“Anytime. See you Monday for the flight.”
“See you Monday.” I end the call and stuff my phone in my pocket with a frustrated sigh. Francine steps onto the sidewalk and pulls her coat tight around her body. “Any chance you know of someone that could watch a dog for me at the last minute?”
“I could,” she doesn’t hesitate, “I don’t have to work while you’re gone, obviously, so other than my usual appointments, I’m free. I can watch your dog, no problem.”
“Are you sure? She can be kind of a handful.”
“I don’t mind. You’re a handful and I babysit you every time you’re sent to the box.”
“Okay. What would be easier for you, if I bring her to you or you come to my place?”
“What would be better forher?” Francine asks, confirming that she is the right choice to watch my Stevie. “I don’t want to disrupt her routine or take her from a familiar place.”
