Chapter 75
Sienna's POV
"Buddy?" The name came out barely above a whisper.
Bobby grinned. "Looks like you remember him."
I stared at the dog, my chest tightening painfully. Six years ago, this had been a tiny, shivering puppy in a soaked cardboard box behind the school field. Hayes had scooped him up in his jacket, and I'd named him Buddy because he was supposed to be ours—our companion, our shared responsibility.
We'd raised him together that year. Now his coat was thicker, his frame broader, but the white blaze on his forehead and the small notch on his right ear—exactly the same.
"Hayes asked me to bring him over," Bobby said, handing me the leash. "Said Buddy should keep you company while he's gone."
I took the leash, unable to tear my eyes away from the dog.
Buddy didn't rush forward. He just stood there, head tilted slightly, ears twitching as if trying to place me. His tail didn't wag. He looked... uncertain. Almost wary.
My heart sank.
He doesn't recognize me.
Six years was a long time. Long enough for a dog to forget.
I crouched down slowly, extending my hand palm-up. "Buddy... it's me."
The dog stayed put, watching me intently.
I tried again, softer this time, using the nickname I used to call him in that ridiculous baby-talk voice I'd reserved just for him. "Buddy... buddy boy..."
Buddy's ears perked up. He took one cautious step forward.
Then another.
He lowered his head and sniffed my fingers. Paused. Moved to my wrist, sniffing more intently. Then he pressed his nose against the inside of my wrist and stayed there, breathing in my scent for what felt like an eternity.
And then—slowly—his tail started to wag.
Not frantically. Not excitedly.
Just a slow, tentative rhythm, like he was testing the memory, confirming something he thought he'd lost.
He lifted his head and looked at me, the wariness gone from his eyes. Then he stepped closer and nudged his head against my knee.
Gently. Almost apologetically.
Like he was saying, "I remember you."
My vision blurred. I bit down hard on my lower lip, but it didn't stop the tears from spilling over. I slid my fingers into Buddy's fur, feeling the warmth of his body, the steady rise and fall of his breathing, and I couldn't hold it together anymore.
"I'm sorry," I choked out, pressing my forehead against his neck. "I'm so sorry I disappeared..."
Buddy whined softly and pushed harder against me, as if trying to comfort me in return.
Bobby cleared his throat, pulling my attention back. "Hayes has been raising him the whole time. When he's too busy with training, I take care of Buddy at my place. I brought his food and stuff. He's well-behaved—won't give you any trouble."
I looked up at Bobby, my face probably a mess, and managed a shaky nod. "Thank you."
Bobby gave me a small, understanding smile. "He really missed you, you know. Both of them did."
Before I could ask what he meant by that, Bobby turned and headed back to his car, leaving me kneeling on the doorstep with Buddy pressed against my side.
I closed the door and led Buddy inside. He followed me into the living room without hesitation, his steps light and confident, like he'd been here before.
When I sat down on the carpet, Buddy immediately came over and tugged gently at my pant leg with his teeth—the exact same thing he used to do as a puppy.
I laughed through my tears. "You still do that."
I tested him with a command. "Sit."
Buddy tilted his head and just looked at me, completely ignoring the instruction.
I laughed harder, wiping my eyes. "You still don't listen to that one either."
And just like that, memories came flooding back.
---
High school. October. A night when the rain fell so hard it felt like the sky was trying to drown the world.
Hayes and I snuck out through the back exit of the field, sharing his umbrella. The rain hammered against the fabric, nearly drowning out our voices.
I stopped suddenly. "Wait. Do you hear that?"
Hayes frowned. "Hear what?"
"Listen."
We both went still. And then I heard it again—a faint, desperate whimpering coming from beneath the concrete steps near the back door.
I pulled away from Hayes and crouched down, peering into the shadows. There, inside a soaked cardboard box, was a tiny puppy, shivering violently, its fur plastered to its small body.
"Hayes," I whispered. "Look."
He knelt beside me, lifting the flap of the box. The puppy flinched but didn't try to run. It just curled tighter into itself, whimpering.
"It's going to die out here," I said quietly.
Hayes sighed, running a hand through his wet hair. "Sienna, we can't keep it."
"Then I'll keep it myself."
Hayes was silent for three seconds, then shrugged off his jacket and wrapped the shivering puppy in the fabric, holding it against his chest. "Fine. But just for tonight. We'll figure out what to do tomorrow."
I stared at him, my heart doing something reckless in my chest.
---
We hid Buddy in an abandoned storage shed behind the training facility.
I'd sneak dog food in my backpack, and Hayes would stop by after practice to feed him.
I gave him his name: "Let's call him Buddy. It means companion."
Hayes: "...Whatever you want." But his lips curved despite himself.
One night, Buddy spiked a fever. Hayes snuck off campus and took him to the 24-hour vet.
When I found out the next day, I was furious and worried: "Are you crazy? You could've been caught!"
Hayes said flatly: "He's your dog. I had to take care of him."
---
Before winter break, the coach called Hayes to his office.
"You've been keeping a dog in the storage shed?!"
Hayes, unfazed: "Yes, coach."
"You know that's against school rules?"
Hayes, deadpan: "It provides emotional support. Research shows interacting with animals lowers cortisol levels and improves athletic performance."
The coach stared at him, momentarily speechless. "...You still can't keep it on school property!"
Hayes: "I'll handle it."
The coach finally relented: "Take it home this weekend."
When Hayes left the office, I was waiting in the hallway: "What did he say?"
Hayes: "He's moving."
"Where to?"
"...My place."