Page 19 of Kitty Season
“Quinn, yes. Um, what are you doing here? I mean why? How are you—wait. Did you say Brady is in the shower?”
Beside me Troye snorts and mutters something that sounds a lot like, ‘go Skip.’ I don’t wait for an invitation before barging past, and should I accidentally crush her petite foot with my own clown-sized version, so be it.
“I did,” she replies as Troye crowds behind me. “He wasn’t feeling well after we ate breakfast, so I suggested he shower before I leave. That way if anything happened I could step in and assist. One shouldn’t be alone with a concussion, you know.”
“Yes I know. My father. He … I … I’ve dealt with more concussions than you’ve had—” Fillers. Botox. “Breakfasts with students. Did I mention my very large and influential father? He’s Brady’s coach … and my father. My dad.”
“I find most fathers are dads.” Plum replies flatly without taking her eyes off Troye who she’s intensely studying. “I believe the young, smirking man beside you is the supplier of said concussion.”
“Troye,” he says, commandeering her hand, and looking way too enthused about this predatory cougar being in Brady’s room. “Pleasure to meet you.”
“Wish I could say the same,” I mutter. It’s rude AF but, hey, at least I was softly spoken, and didn’t scream ‘why are you here, you whore?’ in the woman’s face.
“Quinn?” Brady calls. “Is that you?”
Huh. Maybe it wasn’t the whisper I imagined.
The already fraught energy in the room quadruples when the bathroom door flings open, releasing a burst of humid steam, and an only-towel wearing Brady.
“This just keeps getting better.” Troye earns an elbow in the stomach for that, but he pays it no attention. He’s too entertained.
“What are you doing here?” Brady asks, cheeks ablaze, eyes darting between his three guests.
“That seems to be a popular question this morning.” That was Plum, who’s managing to coordinate replyingandogling a man almost half her age.
Not that I can blame her. I’ve slept in the same room as Brady on several occasions, but he’s never been shirtless, or pant-less,or back lit in a golden glow with rivulets of water cascading down his chiseled body.
Not that I noticed.
“Troye wanted to apologize,” I blurt while twisting my fingers into the arm of his BU tee and slinging him in front of me. “He feels really bad about what happened, and wanted to check in on you. Right, Troye?”
Stifling a laugh, Troye gives a nonchalant shrug. “Sure, if you say so.”
“I’m sorry, young man, but I don’t believe that’s genuine. Not in the slightest.” Professor Plum scolds before I can. “Actions have consequences, you know? From what I’ve seen of the incident your behavior was tantamount to thuggery.”
“Thuggery? We’re playing hockey out there, lady. Not croquet. As you can see, Brady is a big boy that’s quite capable of looking after himself.”
“You’re right. I am,” Brady interjects, face crimson as he fiddles with a knot in the towel. “Which makes me even more curious as to why you gave Coach Harris that note. It was bullshit, wasn’t it, mate? No one was gunning for me. You just made it all up so you didn’t get ejected or suspended.”
“What note?” Plum and I ask in tandem, only to both be ignored. Troye’s body is rigid, shoulders hunched as he steps into Brady’s space and pokes his finger into his bare chest.
“No,mate.Pollard is as dirty as my fucking mouth is. He wants BC out of Frozen Four contention, and he knows deducting you from the equation equals a win to us. Now you can call me a lot of things, trash, carny, Sideshow fucking Troye like your mate Lotte, but I will not be called a cheat.”
“Prove it,” Brady retorts, slapping Troye’s hand away. “Show me one piece of evidence. You got any? I bet you don’t ‘cause this is just like the photos. Just another one of your fucked up little games.”
“What photos?” Again in unison, Plum and I try to involve ourselves with zero effect, other than pissing each other off.
“Don’t tell me you don’t love them. That they don’t put a little fire in your belly and make you want to win if only to shut me up. You get off on those photos, I know you do. Just like you do my girl.”
Every shade of red ever catalogued colors Brady’s cheeks throughout Troye’s rant, but with those two words,my girl, all of it drains. He’s now as white as the fluffy towel precariously covering his nudity, and staring at me, eyes wide as pucks.
“That’s not true, Quinn. You’re my friend. I wouldn’t?—”
“Wouldn’t what, Skip? Slap the salami. Wallop the weasel. Pleasure the platypus?”
“That’s enough.” The one true adult in the room makes her presence felt, standing between the three of us like the Tri-state marker that my dad made us hold hands over for an hour when I was ten. “I’m not sure about everything you’re referring to, but it doesn’t matter. Brady shouldn’t be getting this worked up. Troye, Quinn, I think it’s best you leave.”
I’m a split second from telling Plum where to shove it, when Troye’s fingers circle my wrist. “Fine with us. Let’s go, Kitty.”
