Page 17 of Kitty Season
“This is Brady, how can I help you?” I say, like a true fucking moron.
“Hi, Brady. This is Noah, friend and all-round studly superstar.”
Fuck.
I’m sure more cocky rubbish is being uttered, but the self-declared super-stud is laughing too hard for me to understand any of it. Eventually a slow, deep breath calms him enough to speak, and my wish that he just moves on dies a quick death. “Why the fuck are you answering the phone like you’re running a bank help desk?”
“Um, maybe because it’s past midnight, and I was asleep?”
“Orbecause you were lying in bed moping over the loss, obsessing over a certain coach’s daughter, and her Bulldog boyfriend’s photos?”
I play dumb. “What?”
“Troye, Brades. Troye’s photo. Quinn’s face. You, pining.”
“I’m not pining over Quinn.”
“Sure, and I’m not lying here, dreaming about coming home to Lotte and her massive … heart.” He chuckles. “So tell me.What’s tonight’s pic, and why did you get pulled from the game?”
My stomach flips.Tonight’s pic.
“There is no pic,” I huff. “Just like there’s no explanation for what happened at the game, other than the bullshit one Troye fed Coach. And trust me, it was bullshit. Troye’s little note was just another way to fuck with me ‘cause he’s a fucking wanker.”
This time it’s Noah who drops an elongated, “What?”
I don’t want to go over this again, but Noah does have a weird ability to be able to read people and situations. It’s what made him a great captain, and an even better person. “You watched the game, right? You know I got benched, you’ve seen what happened?”
“Only caught the last period after my game, which was awesome thanks for asking. But yeah. I saw your noggin taking a flogging. You okay?”
I’m not. Not at all. But if I admit that, Lotte, or Noah’s sister Claire, will be here within the hour, with soup, a crocheted blanket, and God knows what else. To be honest, that doesn’t sound too bad, but still. “That prick Becker gave me a concussion, then flipped Coach a note claiming he was trying to protect me from Pollard. Reckons he ordered him to do it.”
There’s silence on the other end of the phone, but I can clearly picture Noah’s brow rising as he ponders. “What did Coach think?” he eventually asks, his tone devoid of its usual humor. “I’m pretty sure Pollard retired at the end of Coach’s rookie year, so they would have played together. If Coach thinks he’s a good guy incapable of this shit, there’s no way Troye, of all people, could convince him otherwise.”
“What is it with you captains? That’s what Shane said, when I tried to storm the Bulldogs bus and get Troye.”
“And what exactly would you have done had you got him, Big D? Give him the frowning of a lifetime?”
“No,” I snap. “I would have punched his stupid face in like I did Ryan’s that time.” At the memory of a former team mate, now inmate, the incessant thud in my head goes from annoying to crippling. Alongside killing team spirit with sprinklings of homophobia, violence, and borderline sexual assault, Ryan vandalized Green Line Ice; the rink owned by Conte’s ice tech, Marty.
Ryan sucks … even more than Troye.
“Oh, yeah.” Noah’s sternness disappears in a fit of laughter. “I forgot about that …Killer.You really went to town on that clown.”
“I was defending your now fiancee. You should be kissing my ass, not pissing your pants.”
“You’re right,” he huffs, breathing deep to stem his giggles. “I’m very sorry and eternally grateful to you, Mr. Grumpy Pants. Now, before you hop on a flight and beat the shit out of me too, stop moping and tell me what’s happening to Pollard.”
“Ugh, I’m not …” I stop, ‘cause I am kind of moping. “I dunno. Coach just insisted I rest, and leave it with him.”
“Well in that case, you better go and get your beauty sleep, Killer.”
“And you better shut up.”
Once again I lack the ability to join in on the giggles I hear before the line goes dead.
That fitful kindof sleep where you’re not sure if you’ve been up all night, or just dreamed that you were, ends when Quinn’s melodic voice jolts me from bed. At least I think it’s Quinn. It’s a woman for sure, one who’s pounding against the front door.In my eagerness to see her pretty face, I leap to my feet like a bull at a gate and suffer the room-spinning, vomit-rising, vision-blurring consequences.
This is not my first concussion, but it’s easily my worst, forcing me to lean against the wall beside my door as I open it. “Hi Quinnaaahhhprofessorplum?” I’m not sure if it’s shock or the brain injury that slurs my words. Maybe it’s a bit of both. “What are you doing here? How’d you know where I live?”
