you glance up slowly.

"trevor."

he pauses mid-sentence. “yeah?”

“…what are you even talking about?”

“the play from practice earlier,” he says, as if that clears everything up.

“you started this story about a dog you saw this morning.”

he blinks, like he can't recall what exactly he was on about, head tilting in confusion.

“oh, right. okay, yeah," he tries again, pacing a couple steps across the living room, “i’m leaving the coffee place this morning and this dog just bolts across the street out of nowhere.”

you raise an eyebrow.

“like, i'm talkin' full sprint,” he says, mimicking the motion with his hands. “and i’m standing there thinking i’m about to watch the worst thing ever happen because there’s cars everywhere.”

you nod, stifling a smile.

“but then this guy runs out of the café yelling the dog’s name,” trevor continues.

“and?”

"the dog's name was meatball."

there’s a beat of silence.

then,

“but it reminded me of practice because jamie tried this move and I swear the puck popped up just like that dog—"

"trevor!" you groan, burying your face in the nearest pillow.