Page 23 of Kitty Season
I look down and attempt to wriggle my toes. “Not dead, but not working.”
“So …” Her voice trails off as something out of the window catches her attention, a small smile curling the corners of her mouth. “So if Brady was standing by the door, hand raised to ring the door bell, you couldn’t possibly—” I’m up on my feet before the DING has the chance to DONG. “It’s a miracle not on ice!” Declares Lotte, proudly chuckling to herself.
“Yes, yes, now please don’t say anything ‘bout the stalking-I mean, investigating.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
Running my fingers through my hair as I go, I hobble to the door, swinging it open just as Brady prepares to ring the bell again.
“Hey, Bra—” Almost knocking me off my feet, Brady strides inside, his strong, calloused, but somehow soft hands cradling my cheeks.
“Quinn, are you okay? I swear I had nothing to do with it. I detest the guy, but I never said a word, I swear.”
As much as I‘m enjoying the affectionate touch of a man who is not my boyfriend, I have to ask. “Nothing to do with what?”
Confusion crosses Brady’s face as his touch falls away, my skin tingling in its wake. “Troye didn’t tell you?”
“Tell me what?”
I should not be wastingtears on a boy who holds me in such little regard, that his life-altering news is not worthy of a fucking phone call.
Yet here I am.
“Can they even do that?” I sniffle, accepting the Kleenex Brady passes me from the now near-empty box. “Doesn’t he need to face a tribunal, or board, or a vote or something?”
Brady’s shoulders hit his ears as he shrugs, a whoosh of air following their equally rapid descent. “Dunno. Guess not.”
“If he doesn’t play, he’ll lose his scholarship. How is that fair?”
“It’s not, Quinny, but itisthe rules. The same would happen to me if I lost my spot on your dad’s team.”
Dad’s team.
The reminder of why I could never be with Brady, of why I first turned to the boy now breaking my heart, feels like a fresh slap to a raw face.
Uncertain as to what to say or do, I succumb to the doldrums that had me take to my bed, while my visitor drifts into the background, hovering by the door. “Do you want me to go?” he asks eventually.
l tap the cold, empty space beside me. “Lay with me for a bit? Just till I fall asleep.”
“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea, Quinn. Troye?—”
“Troye’s not here. You are.”
“Should I be though?” The awkwardness on his handsome face loosens every tight, rigid muscle within me, freeing a deafening laugh that makes Brady jump.
“You most definitely should, and have. I’m sure I can be trusted not to ravish you.”
Only just.
“Now come. Sit at least. We’re friends after all, right?”
“Right,” Brady repeats, visibly squirming. But, bit by bit, my father’s goalie inches towards my bed like the sheets are aflame. When his knees bump against the mattress, he drops in increments, his movements stiff , nothing like his gracefulness on the ice.
“Do you think he’s already been kicked out of the dorms?”
“Maybe,” his almost-whisper comes with his back turned to me, the door he was hesitant to leave the most interesting thing in the room. “When Ryan was booted from our team, he hung around like a bad smell for a week before he finally left, but I dunno if he was on a scholarship. Also, Troye’s …” He pauses, head angled toward me that I can see the burning red glow of his cheeks. “Doesn’t matter.”
Sitting up, I place my pinkie beneath his chin, turning his face until his big blue eyes meet my hazel. “It matters to me, Brady. Say what you’re thinking. I trust your opinion.”
