Page 14 of Kitty Season
I’ve watched a lot of his games.
A. LOT. All for strictly research purposes, of course. And in all those replays, never have I ever seen him playthisbad. So bad, it’s not funny anymore. I can’t help but wonder if I’m a little responsible. I mean, I have taunted him. Challenged his masculinity.
Have I pushed him too far? Broken him? Looks that way.
Do I regret it? Possibly. But here’s the thing. Apart from fucking around with Quinn, messing with Brady Basse’s head has been the highlight of my year.
Even before Quinn, I’d taken one look at the Bear’s intensely focused, routined, hot but bat shit-boring import during his first US game, and knew he needed to relax. Who better than me to loosen him up?
It took a bit of creative thinking, but at each home or away game since, a crisp twenty has fallen into the palm of Terry, a geeky PR team photographer, resulting in dozens of photos of me, weeks of torturous messages for him. And it’s not just theweekly texts. Winding him up while he’s guarding the net, seeing his cheeks flush red in real time, is even better.
If I was truly concerned for his sanity, I could stop at any time. But it’s just too much fun, honestly, I could kanga this roo forever. Shit, Coach is eyeballing me.
“Becker, are you even listening.?” I am not, and he knows it, so he follows up. “What did I just say?”
“Pucks deep. Pound the D.”
Of course my festering turd of a coach is so predictable, I guessed right, and he moves on. “There’s only a handful of games before the end of the season, and this is the Bulldog’s last game against these BC fuckers. Agents and scouts for both AHL and NHL teams will be watching, so treat every minute on the ice as your personal audition tape. Give it everything.”
Wait. Shit. Something this blowhard said is actually sinking in.
Obviously, the NHL bit, ‘cause, duh. I want to play in the big leagues, the NHL. But an AHL career would be a dream come true, too. Not only because I live and breathe hockey, but because for an undrafted kid like me, hailing from a family like mine, the Goddamn AHL is an oasis in the no-hoper desert, and I am one thirsty son-of-a-bitch.
But that’s not what has my stomach twisted.
This is the Bulldog’s last game against these BC fuckers
I am a senior. Like Quinn, Brady is a junior. Unless the Bears and the Bulldogs progress to the Frozen Four, this will be the final time I can poke this particular Bear. Not only this season, but forever.
Fuck.
I jump the boards and line up for the puck drop. Having Brady Basse’s glistening blue eyes trained on me shouldn’t consume my thoughts. And when I hold the puck behind the net, slowing down play, I definitely shouldn’t be watching hishulking frame effortlessly glide across his crease. I am, though, because there’s a very real chance that my fun, and his misery, will be over in thirteen minutes.
Damn, I don’t feel so good.
Chris skates up beside me, tapping my helmet with his stick. “You look like you’re going to hurl. Don’t let Pollard and his agent talk get to you.”
Hey. Yeah, that’s probably why I feel kind of … sick? Yeah, those golden locks peeking out from beneath his helmet have nothing to do with it. It’s uncertainty and pressure that have an ominous dread following me around like my own personal storm cloud.
Yeah. Must be.
“You really think there’s agents here?” I say, trying to convince myself.
With a shrug, Chris taps my ass and points towards the stands. “Forget them and Pollard. Focus on that.”
‘That’, is Quinn. The one ray of sunshine capable of breaking through my gray.
As always, that girl has jumped and cheered and clapped every time I’ve been near the puck. Which is a lot ‘cause as I said, I am on fucking fire. I may not have scored a goal, but I’ve racked up four assists and created plays that will give Coach a boner when he watches the replay tonight.
Eww. What the hell, brain?
I take my mind off geriatric erections and focus on causing mayhem on the ice, laying three hits and making two dirty shots on goal before the end of my shift. The minute I take my set on the bench, Coach Pollard leans in till his face is within an inch or two of mine.
“Becker,” he almost whispers. “Their backup goalie is a freshman twig, so I want you pushing on Basse every chance you get. He’s been the key to their success since Petterson left. Theycan’t possibly make the Four without him, and right now, he’s low in confidence. From what I hear, you’re the annoying smart-ass that’s worn him down, so you’re also going to be the one to finish him off.”
No further instructions are given. None are required. I know what he wants.
Supplied by the usual dicks, a smattering of snickers breakout beside me, while Chris and I remain silent and stony-faced.
